MacGregor's Bride

by Barbara Dan

  Jaw set with determination, he gave her back glare for glare, as he forced her to her knees in front of him. "Pick up those clams and put them in the bucket, madam, now!"

  She tried to shake his hand loose. When he wouldn't relent, she tried to rise, only to find she could not. "How dare you!" she raged, and took a swipe at him with her open hand.

  He caught her wrist and going down on one knee, flattened her till her belly was on the ground. Letting go of her hand, he planted one bare foot on her buttocks and repeated the order.

  She looked up through her straggly blond hair. Her expression of shock and disbelief almost made him forget and laugh.

  "You can't be serious," she said.

  "Try me. I've had all the rudeness I'm going to take, Mrs. Masters. Pick up those clams!"

  "And if I refuse?" Bending one elbow, she rested her chin on one hand.

  "I'm a patient man. And stubborn as yourself. We can spend the rest of the day out here, arguing, or you can do what I say."

  She sighed. "Oh, all right. But I can do it faster, if you take your foot off me."

  "That's more like it." He removed his foot, expecting, as she came up in a half-crouch, that she would quickly reload the pail and be on her way.

  Head bent, she reached for the bucket. He had no way of seeing the gleam in her eye. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, swinging the pail with all her might. He was such a large man, she fully intended to punish him before he could react. Being tiny and quick, she thought to land a few good whacks on his head and reach her carriage before he ever knew what hit him.

  In this, she underestimated her opponent.

  Dodging quickly with a surprised oath, Bruce grabbed her around the waist, flipped her upside down, and shook her till she was forced to drop her weapon. In a flurry of petticoats and shrieks she landed in a saltbush.

  "You monster!" she screeched. Freeing herself from the prickers, she launched herself at him, fists flailing. Forgotten was any notion of the three D's—decorum, dignity and discretion. She was out for blood—his blood! Like some wild thing pursuing its prey up a tree, she went up his back. Clinging to his shoulders, she landed a series of frantic blows wherever she could reach. She would teach this scoundrel a lesson! She concentrated so completely on her objective that it took her a minute to realize how adroitly he was shrugging off her attack.

  Finally, laughing at the ridiculousness of her trying to inflict any real damage, Bruce shook her loose. Instantly, she tried to bolt, but he pulled her to him, wrapping his long arms around her.

  Her face pressed against the short springy curls on his chest, Lydia struggled and sputtered in vain. Swallowed up in his embrace, she found the warmth almost welcome in the cold breeze. She heard the low rumble of his laugh, as they went to their knees again. His powerful arm came around her waist, and he started tossing clams into her pail.

  "Aren't you going to help me?" he asked, his shoulders shaking with laughter.

  "You animal!" she said hotly, but she stopped fighting his arm.

  "You vixen," he returned. "So you won't help? Then I propose an even worse punishment: You can cook them for me."

  Lydia sat back on her heels, regarding him crossly. He winked at her and continued gathering up the unhappy clams. With his body pressed close to hers, she felt every movement of his chest muscles against her breast, but his face was only good natured. Sensing that he had nothing sinister in mind, she decided to play along with his suggestion.

  "If I agreed, would you let me go?"

  He paused to brush sand off her nose. "Of course."

  "Very well. I agree."

  To her relief, he stood up and immediately released her. Looking up at him, she smiled with satisfaction. He was a mess, with sand and salty brine all over him, in his hair, his ears, his chest hair, and even in his thick black lashes.

  "Mrs. Masters, you're a strange woman," his voice was kind. "I still don't know what got you so all fired mad, but I intend to find out."

  "I don't like being under any man's foot."

  "No, I meant before that." He regarded her quizzically, as he handed her the bucket, blanket and picnic basket. "You'd best hurry home. Clams don't like being out of water."

  Shielding her eyes against the sun, Lydia gave him a peevish look through her tumbled haystack of hair. "Good! Maybe a little suffering is just what they need."

  He grinned, unperturbed. "Have ye no pity, dear lady?" he teased, using his thick burr. "Those wee clams are out of their element. They'll drown without water."

  "Aren't you out of your element, Captain? Why don't you go soak your head in the ocean?" she suggested sweetly.

  "You'd be wise to clam up yourself, Mrs. Masters, before I make that impudent backside of yours smart."

  "I'm going, Captain. Nothing would give me greater pleasure."

  Reaching her carriage, she threw her belongings inside and swung into the seat. Without a backward glance, she clucked to her horse and took off at a bone-jarring pace down the dirt road.

  Bruce watched her go. Then, shaking his head, he scanned the scene of battle, deep in thought. One hapless clam had escaped the pail.

  As he bent to pick it up, his eye caught the fluttering pages of Mrs. Masters' book of poetry in a patch of wild flowers beside the path. He picked up the slender volume, weighing it carefully in his hand.

  Aye, he chuckled. He would have to return it to her.

  Chapter Four

  By the time Lydia reached her house, she was humming. Returning with a pail of clams and her person intact made her jubilant. She had actually come out on top in her skirmish with the handsome brute. Slightly breathless with her success, she paused to fill her bucket at the well in her backyard, and soon she had the clams in water.

  To insure their happiness, she added salt brine from her pantry and sloshed them about. Periodically through the remaining daylight hours, she changed their water while the clams cleansed themselves of sand and other debris. Oh, she would have clam chowder, all right, and enjoy it all the more for having escaped the wicked Captain MacGregor.

  Because her own appearance was no better than her bedraggled adversary at the beach, Lydia hauled out the tub and set it before the kitchen fire. Along with steaming the clams, frying salt pork, and chopping up vegetables for her chowder, she heated water for a refreshing bath.

  The house was quiet except for the clock chiming on the quarter hour. She stirred the chowder and put a pan of corn bread in the hot brick oven. Soon the kitchen was filled with heavenly sells that filled her with drowsy contentment.

  From her bedroom she collected her favorite soft pink robe and her satin mules, her hairbrush and comb, and wandered through the house, still smiling over her encounter with Captain MacGregor. While she waited for her bath water to heat, she gathered soft flannel towels and a jar of rose petals from her chest of linens. She sprinkled the rose petals, dropped a bar of her finest English scented soap in the tub, and added another kettle of steaming water to her bath. The bursting aroma was delicious.

  Suddenly the lid covering her chowder began to chatter, drawing her attention back to supper. Ready at last! She removed the pot from the fire, setting it over a few glowing coals on the hearth, while she rescued the golden corn bread.

  The room was filled with smells she loved best, good wholesome food and her rose garden. Then she had to choose. Would she bathe or eat first? Why not? she thought. I shall do both at the same time! There was no reason on earth why she couldn't do exactly as she pleased.

  And since she was in the mood to pamper herself, she might as well read a good book. She fished around in the picnic basket, but the volume of poetry was gone. Drat that man! She must have left it at the beach. She went to the parlor and found a slender volume.

  Back to her cozy kitchen she strolled. She dished up a bowl of piping hot chowder, spread a chunk of corn bread with creamy butter, and set them on a chair beside the tub. Now she was ready for an evening of total self-indulgence.
/>   With a relaxed sigh, she unfastened her soiled dress and stripped. Casually kicking petticoats, chemise and outer clothing into a corner, she pulled out the pins that held her hair in place. She had rinsed out the sand under the pump earlier, and it was still damp.

  Turning up the lantern on the table so that she could read, she slipped into the tub, feeling the velvety petals caress her skin. Sliding deeper, she tipped back her head and let her hair float among the rose petals. Ah! The water was as hot as she could stand, and would take longer before it cooled and she had to get out.

  As she reclined in her fragrant pond, indulging the poetic fancies of her soul, she nibbled corn bread and spooned thick creamy chowder into her mouth, savoring every sensuous bite. The standing clock in the parlor chimed the quarter hour before eight o'clock. Still she drowsed amidst verdant fields of fancy created by the Bard of Stratford-on-Avon.

  Her stomach and soul were so full of beautiful things, she would have been content to remain in this secret world of hers forever . . .

  By the time he reached the kitchen door, Bruce knew that either Lydia Masters had forgotten her invitation to share clam chowder, or she had welshed on the deal. He had knocked politely at the front door—and again, no response, although the light clearly shone, indicating that the lady was at home.

  As he peered through the back window, with a bottle of sparkling wine tucked under his arm, the sight of Lydia Masters instantly captivated and intrigued him. With pink toes propped on the rim of a tub and her mermaid tresses floating about her, she was totally absorbed in a book. What a thoroughly saucy, unconventional creature!

  Never much of a peeping Tom, he tapped, expecting to see her flustered, but never expecting the mermaid to react in such a remarkable way.

  His knock at the kitchen door concluded her passive love affair with the Bard. Looking up, Lydia saw her caller through her back door window, and she correctly surmised that if she could see him, he could see her.

  Oh, help! What was she to do? She couldn't get up without revealing all. And from the outrageous grin on his face, she wasn't at all sure he would leave if she simply ignored him. She couldn't very well move, but what did a lady do when she wasn't dressed to receive callers?

  Lydia scrunched down until only the top of her hair and her flaming hot face were visible. The water was cooling fast, but she wasn't about to budge until he was gone. It could freeze and she could turn blue, before she let him see her in the altogether!

  This was the second time today that Captain MacGregor had disturbed her peace. Lydia snaked a hand over the side of the deep tub and set down her book. Then, both hands clutching the tub, she raised her chin above the rim and squeaked, "Go away!"

  Outrageous! He had the temerity to pretend he couldn't hear! She watched in horror as he slowly opened the door and without entering, poked his head around the corner of the door.

  "You called, Mrs. Masters?"

  At this juncture, Lydia submerged completely, including her head. She would hold her breath as long as it took—or longer! She could only hope and pray he would dematerialize.

  Oh, damn! she thought from the bottom of the tub. "Why did I forget to lock the back door?"

  Because you never lock the back door, silly, she scolded herself.

  Well, I shall in the future, she vowed.

  But that doesn't solve my problem right now, she lamented, as her lungs began to crave air. Holding out as long as she could, she finally rose to the surface, gasping.

  Fascinating, Bruce thought, his nautical eye studying the beauty in the bathtub with the same intensity that a man lost at sea takes a fix on the North Star. The instant her head submerged and she tried to make herself invisible, a most luscious part of her anatomy surfaced, just as a dolphin's dorsal fin and tail crest, when its head disappears below the waves. A slight disturbance upon the surface of her flower-strewn pond, followed by a gleaming show of rump.

  Not exactly the reception he had anticipated, but then, the widow was full of surprises.

  Having been without feminine company since his wife's death, Bruce, being a mere human, was perhaps a little more prone to temptation. He didn't want to take advantage exactly, but he wasn't above poking a little fun.

  "I wondered when you'd be coming up for air," he drawled politely.

  "You're still here!" she wailed, looking truly desperate.

  "Should I have disappeared?" He leaned his buttocks against the kitchen table and folded his arms. "I recall you told me to go soak my head. Does that mean I should jump in with you, lass?" Chuckling, he made as if to remove his jacket.

  "Captain MacGregor!" she snapped, hoping the rose petals and her arms crossed over her breasts afforded some protection from his bold eyes. "Will you kindly remove your great hulk from my kitchen, so I can get out?"

  "Got yourself in a bit of a pickle, have you now?" Not wanting to carry the joke too far, Bruce moved to the cupboard, keeping his back to her. "Where do you keep your stemware, Mrs. Masters?" he asked.

  "In the cupboard to the left. Why?" She clapped a wet hand over her mouth, instantly regretting her mistake. What she wanted was for him to leave.

  He readily found two goblets and turned. "Aren't you coming out? Or are you a cold water sea mammal?" he teased, dipping a finger in the cool water and touching her nose.

  Lydia panicked. One false move from this sun-bronzed radical, and she wouldn't care if half the neighborhood saw her streaking naked down the block. Her face flaming with embarrassment, she lay low in the water and glared up at him.

  "Tell you what, ma'am," he said, ever so politely. "I'll retreat to the parlor, while you retrieve your dignity. I believe you invited me to dinner?"

  "I did not!"

  "Nay, lady, I distinctly remember. You agreed to make me some clam chowder."

  "I only agreed in order to get away from you."

  "I keep my promises, and I expect the same from others." Though good natured, his wink did little to reassure her. "Five minutes in the parlor. Now hurry, woman. I've a ragin' hunger in me. You wouldna want to keep a man waitin', now would you?"

  Lydia waited a full two minutes before she sneaked out of the tub, wrapping a flannel towel around herself. How could he expect her to be decent in such a short time? Especially when her gowns were upstairs. Drying off the best she could, she slipped into her robe and wrapped a towel around her hair.

  Intent upon escaping through her workroom, she jumped back, bumping into the table, when he walked back in. Thoroughly spooked, she clutched her robe at the neck and leaned away from him.

  Ouch! Bruce thought. Does she think I intend to make her the main course, instead of the chowder? Even so, with her lips softly parted and her cheeks rosy with excitement, he had to admit it would be difficult to keep his mind on dinner.

  "I-I'm not dressed. I need more time."

  "You're decent. And I'm too hungry to wait any longer for my supper." Besides, his eyes liked what he saw. Why give her time to skin back her hair and get herself all rigged out in whalebone? No, 'twas best to keep her slightly off balance, he decided.

  Lydia shifted back and forth from one daintily muled foot to the other, not sure how to maneuver this giant out of her kitchen and out of her house. Just looking at him made her dizzy. She had nothing on beneath the soft silk, and she didn't like the way he was looking at her.

  "I'll cut the corn bread," he offered. "Since you're dressed informally, I assume we'll eat here in the kitchen?"

  "I've already eaten," she gulped, staring up at him.

  His brown eyes swept over her figure like warm melted chocolate. "You could stand another helping. Now start dishin' it up, Mrs. Masters."

  "Do it yourself," she said and turned to pick up her own dishes from the chair.

  As she bent over, she received a gentle smack on her rump.

  She whirled to face him, and her motion flashed a glimpse of shapely calves. "Captain MacGregor, don't you dare lay a hand on my person!"

 
"I'm a desperate man," he laughed down at her. "Feed me, and I'm tame."

  Lydia backed against the cupboard. Without looking, her trembling fingers found a bowl. Her breasts were heaving against the thin silk, despite efforts to remain calm.

  "That's all you're going to get," she said slowly, not daring to take her eyes off him. She fished around in the drawer for a knife and spoon.

  Bruce threw back his head and laughed at her skittishness. Obviously she wasn't comfortable with her feminine sexuality. His Angela, now, had been quite the opposite, even the aggressor on occasion. Oh, well, he sighed, at least this woman could cook, judging by the aroma wafting past his nostrils when she lifted the lid on the pot sitting over the coals. He hadn't come expecting more than a full belly anyway.

  She moved past him, the towel still wrapped around her hair, a red petal caught behind her ear. Without thinking, he reached out and plucked it from her hair.

  "Don't touch me!" She swore softly, shrinking back.

  He tossed the petal on the table with a shrug. "Sorry. I didn't think," he murmured. What the hell was he doing here anyway? Oh, yes, now he remembered. He had her book.

  "Actually, this is the real reason I came by tonight," he said, pulling the tiny volume from his breast pocket.

  "Thank you," she said primly and placed it on the table. "Won't you sit down?"

  He considered her a moment. "If it won't frighten you too much," he said quietly.

  "You might as well eat," she said evasively. She cut him a generous chunk of corn bread, seated herself primly across from him, and watched him dip his spoon into the steaming chowder.

  "Aren't you going to have some?" He took a contemplative sample of creamy clams and vegetables into his mouth, savoring it carefully.

  She smiled. "You do that as if you were tasting a new wine."

  "Good food is to the palate what good se—" He opened his eyes and realized that what he had nearly said wouldn't go over well in present company. "Aye, well, enjoyment of good food starts in the mouth, and it doesn't talk back when it gets down here." He patted his diaphragm.