Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  Picturing Alasdair and his three grown brothers washing dishes made Bridget smile. Their large, strong hands were more fitted to the hilt of a claymore than a fine china cup. Joanna actually used bone china, which was a surprise considering how fractious all the men were. Interestingly, Bridget hadn’t seen a chip or crack on anything.

  She looked around the chamber she’d been given. Simply furnished with a sturdy four-poster bed, it had a large armoire on one wall and a small writing desk and dresser on the other side. All the pieces, including two chairs that sat close to a brazier, were of sturdy oak. The counterpane and curtains were dark blue, the walls a pale yellow. A serviceable room with no frills. Bridget liked it.

  She had loosened her hair to comb it when a knock on her door made her nearly drop the brush. Would Alasdair not observe propriety and seek to speak to her in her chamber? He did have the room next to hers. Bridget felt that strange flutter in her stomach again, as though a bevy of quail had been startled.

  Before she could reach the door, it opened and Margaret stuck her head through. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” Bridget laid the brush down and turned away from the mirror. The girl had taken off the muddy boots and replaced them with satin slippers that seemed incongruous with the breeches and shirt she was still wearing. Bridget gestured to the other chair in the room. “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank ye,” Margaret said as she shut the door and plopped down in the armchair close to the unlit brazier. “I figure if I stay in here talking to you, Alasdair will give up trying to corner me.”

  Bridget doubted that Alasdair would give up on anything once he put his mind to it. Still, she smiled. “He wants to ask about your beau?”

  Margaret’s cheeks turned pink, which surprised Bridget, considering how vehement the girl had been about calling the man an idiot earlier. Perhaps Alasdair’s sister did harbour a liking for the eejit after all. Bridget had no personal experience with such feelings since she’d never had the opportunity to be smitten, but she’d seen that same blush on her sisters’ faces when they’d talked of their future husbands.

  “Would your brother disprove of the young man?”

  Margaret shrugged. “John is the farrier’s son. I doona even ken if I like him that much. He just says nice things to me, unlike my brothers.”

  “Brothers can be annoying sometimes,” Bridget replied. “I have two bossy ones myself.”

  Margaret gave her a wry look. “Try ten.”

  “Ye have me there,” Bridget said. “Two are bad enough when they start trying to order me about.”

  Margaret’s brows rose. “Try? They doona succeed?”

  Bridget smiled again. “Nae often.”

  “How do ye do it? Tell me.”

  “’Tis hard to explain. I doona ken if there is any one specific thing unless it is that I am as stubborn as they are.” Bridget paused. “I always ken they care though, even when we fight.”

  “Och, aye.” Margaret said. “I ken my brothers do too, even the oafs. I just want to make my own decisions.”

  “As do many women,” Bridget answered, “although we are nae usually given the chance.”

  “’Tis nae fair!” Margaret thrust her chin out. “I am six-and-ten. Alasdair will probably find a proper husband for me in a year or two.”

  “Nae John, the farrier’s son?”

  Margaret shook her head. “John is but a year older than me. Since Alasdair’s begun kelp farming on Skye, he will probably seek an alliance with the MacKinnons, or maybe the MacDonnels or MacKenzies.”

  Bridget could sympathize since her own marriage to a Cameron had been for such an alliance. Of course, neither her father nor Brodie’s had had an inkling of the secret Brodie had shared with her. “Sometimes such things are nae all that bad.”

  “Perhaps nae, but I would like to see Glasgow first. And Edinburgh. Maybe even London. My mother went there when she was young and told of beautiful balls and parties.”

  Bridget doubted London was ready for Margaret. For certain, Society’s ton was not. According to Jillian, women were to have no opinions or, if they did, they were not to express them in public. Bridget could imagine the reaction of the ultra-proper matrons if Margaret walked into a fancy ballroom dressed as she was. More than likely, the floor would be littered with swooning ladies.

  “Do ye think ye would like such things?”

  “I doona ken. I just want to see a bit of the world.”

  Bridget couldn’t fault the girl for that. Didn’t she want exactly the same thing? “Perhaps ye will get a chance. I ken Robert goes to Glasgow to see to his ships.”

  “Aye. So does Alasdair, but they never take me.”

  “Mmmm.” Glasgow. An idea was beginning to form in Bridget’s mind, although she thought it better not to share it with Margaret just yet. “Perhaps we can change their minds.”

  Margaret brightened. “Really? How?”

  “Let me think on it,” Bridget answered. “Let me think on it.”

  * * * * *

  Alasdair entered the marine building the next morning, said hello to the harbour master, and went into the small office Robert rented. Alasdair had no real reason to be there this morning since no ships were anchored in the loch, but staying at the house and spending the day in Bridget’s presence might just drive him barmy.

  He raked a hand through his hair as he sat down at the desk. He’d had the devil of a time getting to sleep last night knowing she was in the room next to his. He’d been sorely tempted to knock on Bridget’s door to inquire if her chamber was adequate, but he knew that was just an excuse. He should never have given her that room, idiot that he was. Even though lustful thoughts were inappropriate, he had to be honest with himself. He wanted to see Bridget in her night rail with her hair loose. Hell, he wanted to see her naked with her hair loose. When he had finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams had been filled with images of the flame-haired woman with eyes the color of fine whisky looking at him in wild abandonment. Thankfully, there was no adjoining door between the rooms or he might have given in to temptation.

  Damnation. What in the world was wrong with him? What had happened to the ironclad willpower his brothers admired him for having? He was nearly thirty and he’d had his share of women. None of them had ever caused him sleepless nights, nor had they given him fantasies he wanted to fulfill.

  By the saints, he remembered how his cock had stirred when Bridget had stitched his wound last spring and she’d leaned so close to his shaft. He’d used his willpower to put the incident out of his mind, knowing she was a married woman.

  She was a widow now.

  Alasdair shook his head, picked up some loose papers and stacked them together. Bridget had only been widowed a few months. She had said she needed a change. That’s why she had come to Arisaig. Obviously, she needed time to grieve. He would not be loutish and infringe on that. Perhaps a trip to Glasgow to slack his lust would be good once Robert returned. He could use the excuse that he needed to see how the displaced crofters who were now working with the soda ash production were doing.

  For now, he would stay away from the house as much as he could. Seeing Bridget at supper would be hard enough. He didn’t even want to think about another sleepless night.

  The door to the small office opened. Alasdair looked up and nearly dropped the papers. Bridget stood in the doorway. Had he somehow conjured her?

  She looked equally surprised to see him. “What are ye doing here?”

  “I came to check to see if any paperwork needed tending while Robert is away,” he said. “Why are ye here?”

  “For the same reason.”

  Alasdair wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but then maybe it was her slightly spicy scent that had distracted him. “The same reason?”

  “Aye.” Bridget closed the door and crossed over to the desk. “
I ken Shauna helps Robert with the books. I plan to take that over for her until the bairn is born.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Might I see those?”

  He looked at her hand, not small and delicate or soft and lily white. Hers was a strong hand with long fingers. He noticed a callus on the thumb. Unbidden, the thought crept into his mind of how easily Bridget could wrap those long fingers completely around his shaft and rub her thumb across his tip, the callus providing good friction.

  She wiggled her fingers impatiently, and he blinked, his wayward mind snapping back to reality. Alasdair handed her the stack, allowing his hand to brush against those long, lovely fingers. A pleasant shock rippled through his arm, and he thought Bridget made a strangled sound, but she looked serene as she took the papers.

  He dropped his hand. What the hell was he doing? He must be losing his bloody mind. “Ye really doona need to work in the office. When Aiden—he’s the second oldest of us—returns with Robert, he can handle the office.”

  “Nonsense,” Bridget said briskly and propped herself up on the desk to read the invoices. “I cannae simply sit around doing nothing.”

  Alasdair really wished she wasn’t sitting on top of the desk right now. He could see the curve of her thigh where the muslin of her gown was pulled tight. Her curvy bottom was much too close to where his hand rested. He had the strongest urge to trace that curve.

  He jerked his hand back abruptly. Had Bridget bedeviled him somehow? The MacLeod clan believed they were descended from a faerie queen, even keeping what they called a faerie flag at Dunvegan on Skye. Were the Fae somehow tampering with him? Having a bit of sport?

  The sound of a female voice speaking to the harbour master broke into his thoughts. He heard footsteps and the office door opened.

  “Your mother said you would be here,” the young woman said and then stopped and narrowed her eyes at the sight of Bridget still perched on the desk. “Who are you?”

  “This is Bridget MacLeod, Shauna’s sister. She’s come to visit,” Alasdair said and then turned to Bridget. “Meet Isobel Howard, the parson’s daughter.”

  Chapter Four

  Although Isobel said a proper hello to the introduction Alasdair made in the office, Bridget didn’t think it sounded all that friendly. The girl had an English accent, which surprised Bridget, but it could account for the tone. To Highlanders, the English always sounded as though they had a toothache.

  Isobel was attractive in a delicate sort of way with light blonde hair, pale blue eyes, a porcelain complexion, and looked to be in her early twenties. By English standards, she would be close to spinsterhood, but the Scots didn’t give much substance to such drivel.

  Bridget handed the invoices back to Alasdair and slipped off the desk to go to a small bookcase that held ledgers on the top shelf. “I would like to look at these.”

  Isobel arched a brow. “You are concerning yourself with shipping business?”

  “Aye. Shauna helps Robert, but she willnae be able to much longer since she is with child. I have done accounts for my brother, Ian, so I thought I would help out here until Shauna is recovered.”

  “That will be months.”

  “Aye, it might.” Isobel didn’t sound pleased to hear that, but it could be the haughty tone the English used. Bridget decided to change the subject since Alasdair was looking none too happy either. She hoped he wasn’t going to argue about her working in the office. Bridget smiled at Isobel. “Ye sound English. What brought ye and your father to Arisaig?”

  “My father is Scot. My mother was English.” She lifted her chin slightly. “I was educated in England.”

  That explained the accent then. “I have two sisters by marriage who are from London, as well as a cousin by marriage.”

  “I have visited London with my mother,” Isobel said.

  “Life is much simpler here. Did it take your mother long to adjust to the Highlands?” Bridget asked.

  Isobel hesitated. “My mother never saw the Highlands. We lived in Glasgow.”

  “Isobel and her father came here a year ago, after her mother passed away,” Alasdair said.

  “Och, I am sorry I asked,” Bridget replied, feeling sympathy for the girl. “I tend to be a wee bit nosy sometimes.”

  “She had been quite ill.”

  “I am sorry,” Bridget said again. “I hope ye like it here.”

  “Actually, I had thought to return to Glasgow once my father was settled. I have an aunt there. However—” Isobel smiled at Alasdair, “—Mr. MacDonald has been very helpful in acquainting me with Scottish life.”

  Bridget glanced at Alasdair, but he didn’t meet her eye. She thought she saw the faintest trace of pink brush across his cheekbones.

  “Truthfully, ye might say my brothers were equally helpful,” he said.

  “Of course they were,” Isobel said quickly, “but you have gone out of your way to explain things to me.”

  Bridget glanced at Alasdair again. That was a trace of pink touching Alasdair’s cheeks. Did the man have a personal interest in Isobel? An odd spark of something Bridget couldn’t identify flashed through her. She remembered the pleasant jolt she’d felt when Alasdair’s hand had brushed hers just minutes ago. She’d never experienced such a sensation from a mere touch. It had intrigued her so much that she’d perched on the edge of the desk close to his hand just to see if she might feel it again.

  “We were all glad when your da agreed to come here,” Alasdair said. “I wanted to make sure ye were comfortable.”

  Isobel looked disconcerted and then smiled brightly. “Well, you have done that. In fact, Papa sent me to remind you of the church picnic this Sunday.”

  Alasdair nodded. “My mither wrote it down. We will be there.”

  “I have instructed our cook to prepare a chicken the way you like it,” Isobel said.

  “Thank ye.”

  Isobel lowered her lashes and gave Alasdair a sideways look. “I will save you a place beside me then.”

  Bridget opened one of the ledgers as Alasdair muttered some pleasantry. How foolish she was to have gotten affected over a touch of his hand. She wasn’t a silly school girl. He had probably not even given it a thought since it was obvious that Isobel Howard had set her cap for him.

  Alasdair sensed the moment Bridget withdrew from him, not that she had moved from her location near the bookcase. Nor had her facial expression changed. The woman would make a good faro player—or maybe that American game of poker that Robert had taught them—since she kept her face impassive. What Alasdair felt was a sudden chill in the air as though someone had left a door open on a blustery, winter day even though it was July.

  He thanked Isobel for her invitation and escorted her to the door. “My brothers and I will see you at the picnic,” he said before she could brook another topic of conversation. She didn’t look pleased about leaving, but English manners won out. At least this time.

  Alasdair closed the door and turned toward Bridget. “Why don’t ye bring the ledger to the desk? I can go over some of the entries with ye.”

  She turned a page without looking up. “I can understand the figures.”

  “But—”

  “I have done accounts before.”

  Damnation. He hadn’t meant to insult her. Why was Bridget being so prickly? He was tempted to stomp over, take the book out of her hands, and carry it to the desk himself. Instead, he walked slowly toward her, stopping when he was a hair’s breadth from her. He stood much too close for propriety, but it was if a magnet had propelled him. Alasdair reached around Bridget to remove the other ledgers, his arm bumping hers as he did. He felt that pleasant shock ripple through him again, but this time no sound escaped her. She didn’t move, rigid as a marble statue. Even her breathing had stilled. He caught the scent wafting from her hair that reminded him of baked cinnamon apples. Its warmth a contrast to the coolness of th
e air surrounding her.

  He stepped back and returned to the desk, putting the ledgers down. “Each of these represents one of the kelp farms on Skye. Ye will want to acquaint yourself with them.”

  “Thank ye. I will,” she said and turned another page.

  Alasdair studied Bridget since she wasn’t looking at him. No book—certainly not one filled with columns of debits and credits—could be that interesting. She was upset about something. He thought back to the conversation with Isobel. The picnic… Alasdair brightened, pretty sure he knew why Bridget was upset.

  “Consider yourself invited to the church picnic. Everyone is. Ye will enjoy it.”

  Bridget gazed intently at a page. “I doona care to impose.”

  “Ye are nae imposing. Ye will come with me.”

  She looked up, one brow slightly arched. “I think Miss Howard is expecting ye to sit with her.”

  Alasdair shrugged. “Ye can sit on my other side.”

  “Nae.”

  “Nae?”

  Bridget shook her head. “The lass is interested in ye.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it, not sure how to respond. Isobel was interested in him, but lasses always were interested in him and his brothers. It was just the way of it, although he could hardly say that without sounding like an arrogant braggart. “’Tis nae only me. She likes my brothers too.”

  Bridget’s eyebrow rose higher. “She said ye, nae your brothers, was helpful in acquainting her to Scottish life.”

  If Bridget were not using such a matter-of-fact tone, or if her expression were anything but bland, Alasdair might think she was jealous. He squelched the thought. Bridget had given him no reason to think she was jealous, although the idea made him feel a bit smug.

  “Robert’s father—my stepfather—was the one who convinced Reverend Howard to come here from Glasgow,” Alasdair said. “As the eldest of our branch of the clan, I took it upon myself to help the lass understand Highland life is different from the lowlands, nae to mention the nearest city is Glasgow, several days ride from here.”