MacGregor's Bride

by Barbara Dan

  Before she could pop the fudge in her mouth, Robert Harris grabbed her hand. To her annoyance, he began playing with the rolls of fat on her hand, patting and smoothing it like the lump of pliable dough he wanted her to be.

  "What if he had a wife to manage the place?" he said.

  Beatrice smacked his impertinent hand away. "Isn't that up to Captain MacGregor to decide?"

  "Take a ride out there some time, Mrs. Rafferty. The house is beautiful now! The Widow Masters is a bonnie good housekeeper, an' I figure the pair might do each other a world of good."

  "So you're playin' cupid, Mr. Harris," she chided, the fudge finally finding its rightful destination. She smacked her lips. "Shame on you, sir!"

  "Face it, woman. He can't make love to a ghost. I just think Bruce needs a little push in the right direction."

  "I want no part of this scheme of yours." Being a good woman, she frowned disapprovingly and wiped her lips thoughtfully on her lace handkerchief. "I admit he did show an interest in Mrs. Masters about the time she moved, asking questions and all. But I had no idea at the time where she had gone. You know how close-mouthed she is."

  "Aye, 'tis a good trait in a woman. An' she's done a fine job runnin' his house."

  "I don't think she'd take kindly to any hanky-panky, Mr. Harris." If Mrs. Rafferty had doubts about the merchant's crafty nature before, she had none now. "Besides, you must have an ulterior motive for tryin' to get them matched up."

  "I knew her husband, and perhaps more aboot his habits than most. One thing I know for certain: It wasn't a happy marriage. I think she deserves better."

  The landlady blushed to her eyeballs. Such bold talk nearly took her breath away.

  "How many happy marriages do you know of?" she asked evasively. "And don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, Mr. Harris. You're not the sort to go to all this trouble unless your pocketbook's involved."

  "Ah, dear lady, you see right through me! 'Tis true. I'm hopin' Bruce will show his gratitude if he's pleased with her."

  She eyed him critically. "He's already made you a wealthy man."

  "Aye, an' I stand to make a great deal more by continuin' to do business with the man."

  "Then why do you need to manipulate poor Mrs. Masters?"

  Harris set aside his cup and saucer; he wasn't sure how much to tell Mrs. Rafferty. After all, she might prove a turncoat and spill everything to Bruce. He studied her, sitting on her worn settee, and decided to lay his cards on the table.

  "May I be candid, dear lady?"

  "It would be a refreshing change!" she said, in high dudgeon.

  "Well, now. I lost a lot of money when the Silver Dolphin went down. And I stand to lose even more, since Mrs. Masters will ne'er be able to pay her husband's debts."

  The light at the end of the tunnel began to beam into her consciousness. "A fine friend you are, wantin' Bruce MacGregor to pick up the balance of those debts."

  "Try to see it from my point of view, will ye? The woman is proud. Stiff-necked as the very devil. She hasn't asked a pennyworth of wages since she started work. Settin' it all aside to pay her dead husband's bills. But at this rate, we'll all be long dead an' buried before she pays off her husband's creditors."

  "The house and furniture didn't bring enough?"

  "No." He rolled his sad eyes. "Lawyer Bradshaw still needs to raise eight thousand, not countin' Masters' gamblin' debts."

  "Surely such wicked debts should not be paid."

  "That's what I argue, but it doesn't sit well wi' the bloke involved."

  "Have you discussed this with her?" Mrs. Rafferty wavered between compassion for Lydia and disgust for Mr. Harris's mercenary soul.

  "Dear lady, what good would it do?" Harris gave his hostess a sad look. "Poor lass, she hasn't the money. But soon everyone will be lookin' to me to settle her husband's accounts."

  "If you were any kind of a Christian, sir," said the old lady, "you'd pay it and let the young lady get on with her life."

  "I've already resigned meself to payin' off all legitimate debts connected with the voyage. But gamblin' debts? Never!"

  "So you want Captain MacGregor to buy a pig-in-a-poke, if he falls for Mrs. Masters' charms." Mrs. Rafferty gave him a scathing look. "I won't help you do this to him, Mr. Harris."

  His smile was all roguish charm. "I'm not askin' ye to do a thing, Mrs. Rafferty. In fact, I'm willin' to pay ye to do absolutely nothing!"

  "And what's this little nothing you'd be havin' me do?" she inquired.

  "When he comes home, just tell him you're full up with boarders an' suggest he go spend the night at his own place for a change." He winked. "We'll let nature take its course."

  Mrs. Rafferty nearly choked on her tea. When she was sufficiently recovered to speak, she glared at the wily rascal. "I hate to take your money for nothing, Mr. Harris, but in this particular case, I think it will teach you a lesson not to meddle in other people's business."

  "You may be right," Harris chuckled slyly. "But, on the other hand, Mrs. Masters may present the kind of challenge that a man like Bruce MacGregor can't resist."

  Chapter Six

  The first thing Brun did when he came through the front door was lift his leg on the door jamb. The second thing he did was go flying out the back door.

  Screeching her displeasure, Lydia followed close behind, whaling on his furry grey and white body with her broom. As she connected with his backside, Brun yelped and disappeared into the bushes.

  Wayne and Carter came running out to see what was causing all the excitement.

  "Here now, Mrs. Masters, are you all right?" Wayne asked.

  She pivoted, breathing hard. "No wonder Mr. Harris was willing to part with him," she stormed. "I thought he was housebroken!"

  "That's just his way of makin' himself to home," Joe said, ducking back in the house to escape her wrath.

  "Thunderation!" Too angry to worry about the dog's injured pride, and half hoping he would lope on down the road to where he came from, Lydia stomped back into her kitchen. She set down the broom, poured hot water in a pail, adding vinegar and soap.

  Dropping to her knees, she vigorously scrubbed the woodwork and floor, not stopping until her anger dissipated. Then she rose and carried the dirty water outside. The furry brute crawled out of the bushes on his belly, his plumed tail waving madly in apology.

  "Get out of here," she growled and threw the pail's contents into the shrubbery, barely missing him.

  As Lydia bent to pick up kindling for the house, Brun suddenly appeared at her feet. He rolled onto his back, paws in the air, and whined. The look in his tawny brown eyes melted her heart, though she continued to ignore him, until he stood and nuzzled her hand. His tail never ceased its friendly wag as he pressed his petition. Finally, exasperated, she threw a piece of wood to get rid of him and started up the back steps.

  In a flash the big collie appeared with the kindling in his jaws.

  "Oh, all right," she said grudgingly. "But mind your manners, Brun." She opened the door, and they walked into the kitchen together and set their burdens in the wood box. Then Brun went outside and retrieved another scrap of lumber.

  Impressed by his desire to please, she knelt and took his head in her hands. Something told her he had adopted her and the place already. Running her fingers through his long dark mane, she found it impossible not to forgive him. His intelligent face told her he wouldn't be hard to train. Besides, she reminded herself, she could use the company.

  "Brun, what a big bear you are." She smiled, fluffing his rough coat. "Come on, let me get you some water." He launched himself at her, and before she could fend him off, his tongue gave her cheek a quick slurp. His tail beat happily in tempo with his friendly heart.

  After she set a pot of vegetable soup on the fire, Lydia returned her attention to the partition doors in the parlor and dining room. Fortunately, Mr. Fenton had completed the most difficult work before she dismissed him. Joe and Wayne expected to finish up by late afterno
on.

  The house sparkled from top to bottom. Any day now, she was convinced, an intelligent buyer would happen along and snap it up. It was a bargain, at any price.

  With the more grueling tasks behind her, she planned to spend the next few days relaxing and reading at the beach. And, of course, she would take Brun. The exercise would do them both good. Soon enough, All Hallow's Eve would blow in, bringing a cold snap. But even the prospect of winter and being housebound didn't dampen her spirits. How lovely it would be to toast her toes before a nice roaring fire, or simply sew, read, and daydream. Indeed, she was having such a pleasant time, she almost hoped she never woke up.

  The gallant collie sat beside her when she drove into town to shop in the days to follow, and he stood guard over her parcels while she paid a quick call on Mr. Harris, or visited with her former neighbor, Mrs. Rafferty, in her tiny parlor.

  "You look wonderful!" exclaimed Mrs. Rafferty one bleak November afternoon as they sat together over tea.

  "I am quite content," Lydia conceded with a faint smile. "I am alone out there, except for my dog Brun, of course, but I manage to keep very busy."

  "A young woman has to think of her future," Bea Rafferty hinted.

  "I am," she confided. "If you hear of any housekeeping positions opening up around the first of the year, I hope you will let me know."

  "So you expect to leave your present position soon?" Mrs. Rafferty asked, innocently enough. Robert Harris would have to work fast. Lydia Masters would never willingly cooperate, if she knew what the crafty old Scotsman Harris had up his sleeve.

  Lydia stirred another spoonful of sugar into her tea, savoring the aroma before raising the cup to her lips. "The house should have no difficulty attracting a buyer, now that it's all fixed up." Her cheeks glowed with pleasure. "It's time I started looking about for a permanent post."

  "A pretty widow like yourself should be thinking about finding a husband. You do like children, I presume?"

  Lydia sighed. "Mrs. Rafferty, marriage is the last thing I have in mind. I'm quite happy where I am, but I can hardly expect this position to last forever, now can I?"

  By the time Lydia left for the "Castle," as she fondly called it, Mrs. Rafferty felt as if she'd run up against a stone wall. She knew no more about Lydia's plans than she did before their visit.

  What am I going to tell Mr. Harris? she fretted. Fie! Let the old rascal devise his own intrigues. 'Twas a lost cause anyway, this scheme of his.

  * * *

  The warmth of Brun pressed against Lydia's side was comforting on the way home. Putting her arm around his ruff, she hugged him briefly, and he crooned a peculiar canine love song in her ear, while his long plumed tail beat time.

  "Oh, Brun," she laughed softly. "Imagine Mrs. Rafferty hinting around about marriage! Why, you're all the company I need. I just hope I can keep you with me always."

  When she reached the house, she drove around to the carriage house, unharnessed and released her horse into the pasture. Once she got upstairs, the evening would be hers. No interruptions, nothing but relaxing beside a cozy fire with the new volume of poetry she had purchased in town. It was the only real luxury she allowed herself, and she could hardly wait to indulge. A harmless diversion at the end of a long day.

  Dressed in her favorite nightgown, Lydia stretched and felt a delicious warmth steal over her. With Brun guarding the foot of her bed, she let her mind drift to a world of chivalry and tender romance. She turned the pages, her reverie accented by the occasional pop of the fire on the hearth and the wind whispering outside her latticed window.

  Halfway through her reading, she came upon the work of John Wilmot, an English aristocrat:

  "Naked she lay; clasped in my longing arms,

  I filled with love, and she all over charms;

  Both equally inspired with eager fire,

  Melting through kindness to flaming desire."

  Lydia smiled and turned the page, only to encounter words so incendiary in nature that she nearly closed the book. Only curiosity and a strange hunger overrode her reticence, as she focused guiltily on words of erotic pleasure. When she came to the end, she snapped the book shut.

  True love—bah! The poet made a mockery of love. How could love even exist, when men were such insensitive beasts? Long ago she had been forced to accept the fact that her husband was totally incapable of loving her. As a consequence, she had turned to this private world of poetic fantasy, seeking a measure of solace and hope, which her marriage never could provide.

  Her husband was dead now, but the impact of eight long years of neglect was not so easily ignored. She felt tired, and cynical enough without the Earl of Rochester teasing her senses with the promise of "liquid raptures," whatever that meant! And what unmitigated gall, to liken love to something as base as a hog's "grunt"! Wilmot's words left the taste of bitterest gall in her mouth. Did men truly prefer carnal sex without the tenderness of true love? If that were so, what chance did a decent woman have to find true happiness?

  Oh, if only there was some way to ease the ache in her heart, someone to whom she could confide. But she was alone as always, with no one to whom she could entrust her secret yearnings. With an angry sob, Lydia ripped the offending pages from her book. She wadded them up and pitched them toward the logs burning in the fireplace. Blowing out the candle on her nightstand, she buried her face in her pillow. Feeling a cold muzzle against her cheek, she rolled, still weeping, and buried her face in Brun's soft ruff. Tail wagging, he raised his chest and forepaws up onto the counterpane and, crooning softly, licked the salty tears from her face. He kept vigil long after the embers died out on the hearth.

  * * *

  Lydia wakened in the morning to Brun's fierce trumpeting in her ear. Slipping into a robe, she followed her noisy companion down the stairs. He dashed through the house and hurled himself at the locked kitchen door, barking loudly.

  "Brun! What on earth?" She stared past him at three young men foraging in the garden. Grabbing the musket from the wall, she flung open the door and rushed forward with Brun to confront the scavengers, who were already trying to slip away into the woods.

  "Stop where you are," she shouted, "or I'll blow your heads off!"

  How she expected to fell all three with such a slow firing piece fortunately never entered their minds, or hers, or she would have been terrified.

  Still holding the tubers they had stolen from the frozen ground, they stopped and raised their arms in the air. All three were in their teens and more frightened than she. They wore the garb of common sailors in the British navy, and she immediately saw that they were deserters. That enemy ships lurked offshore close enough for them to escape worried her considerably. What if British troops had already landed? They might appear on her doorstep, looking for these three pathetic specimens.

  Although Lydia's sympathies lay entirely with the Americans, these three looked so hungry and cold that she couldn't in good conscience turn them from her door. What a sorry lot, suffering from exposure, fear and weakness, she observed. No one would question her loyalties, just because she fed three gaunt prisoners.

  She menaced them with her musket barrel. They would not question her authority!

  "So you're hungry enough to steal," she said sternly.

  "Please don't shoot us, ma'am," one boy managed to croak. The other two merely gaped, their teeth chattering.

  "Fetch me some firewood." Lydia prodded the tallest one, and they scrambled over each other, getting to the woodpile. "I'll fill your bellies, and in exchange you will give me a day's work. Fair enough?" She paused for their answer, her expression warning that she would use the gun if they gave the slightest provocation. "Well?" she challenged.

  They gulped and nodded, still speechless.

  "Be quick about it then! You can wash up when you come in."

  "Yes, ma'am!"

  While they loaded each other's arms with wood, Lydia spun around and marched back inside, toting her gun.

 
Following her usual habit, she always laid wood for the morning fire the night before. Setting aside her musket, she struck the flint, and soon the kitchen was warm with a cheery blaze crackling on the hearth and water on the hob for tea. By the time they came in, laughing and shoving each other, she had a stack of pancakes ready.

  Busily frying thick slices of bacon, Lydia handed one of them a knife and gestured toward a large loaf on the bread board. "Start cutting slices," she instructed.

  All three stomachs growled, overwhelmed by the aroma of the first decent food they had seen in days. Secretly amused, Lydia watched them jump to perform their tasks. One set the table, another sliced the bread, and the third fetched syrup and jam from the pantry.

  One of the boys made a grab for the pancakes, and she smacked his hand with her spatula. "Mind your manners!"

  All three looked at her as if they found her as intimidating as the naval commander whose ship they'd jumped.

  "Sorry, ma'am," the young towhead gulped. "It's just that I'm so hungry."

  "Then say grace, and be quick about it." She clasped her hands and lowered her head for prayer.

  "Thank you, gracious Father," the boy gulped, "for saving us from Captain Monk and for this wonderful lady's kindness. Amen."

  Lydia suppressed a smile. While she sipped her tea, she watched the ravenous trio wolf down an enormous breakfast. They were ill clad for the cold, and one boy's shirt was blood-stained. "Are you hurt?" she inquired at last.

  The boy's freckles stood out on his pale face. "I received forty stripes shortly before jumping ship, ma'am."

  "I shall look at your back after breakfast." She paused, studying them carefully; they seemed a decent sort. "None of you seems overly eager to rejoin your crew, even if you could," she observed. "If you wish, you can work for me for a few days, while I decide what's to be done with you."

  'Are you going to turn us in?"

  "I suppose I should. Technically you are my prisoners."