Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “I heard a sound and wanted to make sure ye were all right,” Bridget said as she sat down. “I wanted to apologize for upsetting ye at supper.”

  “Ye dinnae,” Margaret said as she took the other chair. “’Tis my brothers who make me mad.”

  Bridget knew the feeling all too well. She had no experience with young men trying to woo her, but she’d seen the results of young bucks taking advantage of maids whose bellies soon increased.

  “Ye mentioned earlier ye dinnae ken if ye cared for John, but ye liked he gave ye compliments. Aye?”

  “Aye. What is the harm in that?”

  “’Tis nae harm in the words,” Bridget answered, “but sometimes a lad wants to do more than just talk.”

  “I will cuff his ears if he tries to handle me.”

  Bridget hid a smile. No doubt Margaret would do just that. “’Tis your reputation your brothers are concerned about.”

  Margaret narrowed her eyes. “Are ye on their side?”

  “Nae so much. ’Tis just sometimes what is an innocent act, like walking to the hills, is seen differently by some.”

  “By the gossips, ye mean.”

  “Aye, but remember it does nae take much talking for people to start to wonder if there is truth in what is said. Ye are young. Do ye want to be forced into a marriage with a lad ye doona even ken if ye like to save your reputation? Would ye rather nae see a wee bit of the world first?” Bridget hoped she didn’t sound wistful.

  Margaret contemplated what Bridget said. “I guess I had nae thought of it like that.”

  “’Tis important for ye to ken how to act if ye want to visit Glasgow or Edinburgh.”

  “Oh, I do.” Margaret’s face smoothed and she leaned forward. “Can ye teach me the way of it?”

  The irony of the request was not lost on Bridget. If her sisters—or her sisters-by-marriage—could have heard this request for correct manners, they would be given to fits of hysterical laughter. First, because Bridget had never been in the position of acting like a proper Society lady, and second, because she had no desire to. Still, Jillian had spoken often of the necessity to observe good etiquette in society. Her sister-by-marriage had even managed to persuade Ian that accepting the English title of earl wasn’t all that terrible. “I will be happy to share what I ken.”

  “Thank ye.” Margaret smiled. “Mayhap ye can teach me how to keep Alasdair from ordering me about as well.”

  Bridget stood up to leave. “Let’s take one wee step at a time.” She doubted Alasdair was capable of not giving orders any more than her brothers were. The girl might as well have asked for a leprechaun to hop across the sea to Scotland with a pot of gold. That would be an easier feat to accomplish. “I will see ye in the morning.”

  Bridget slipped out the door, glancing behind her to smile at Margaret. She closed the door, turned, and bumped into a wall.

  A wall that suddenly moved and was warm. Startled, she looked up at Alasdair. He must have washed in the bathing room at the end of the hall since he was barefoot and shirtless with the top button of his breeches undone. Good Lord. With his shirt off, he was more heavily muscled than she realized. She’d seen his bulging biceps before, but now… Sculpted shoulders sloped into a chiseled chest and three rows of hard ridges that rippled across his belly. A faint dusting of dark hair, so fine that it might feel like silk if she touched it, wove a thin line down his stomach to disappear inside the waistband of his pants. Bridget wondered how far down that line went.

  Then she blinked. What in the world was she doing wondering about something like that? Or wanting to touch the man? She tore her gaze from his torso to look into his face, which was a mistake. Eyes, green as a cat’s and equally predatory, stared back at her.

  God in heaven. Or maybe it was the demons of hell that had placed Bridget in his path only half-dressed. That he was similarly unclad escaped him for the moment. He could only stare at her.

  Her flannel wrapper was open and the fine linen of her night rail did little to hide the mounds of her breasts with their coral nipples before she quickly brought the material together. Nipples that formed taut peaks as he looked at them. Alasdair’s mouth watered as he resisted the urge to push the wrapper back and lean down and suck on one of them through the thin layer of cloth. He forced his attention to Bridget’s face. Her unbound hair, long and thick and curly, framed her face and shoulders like a fiery halo. Her eyes darkened to the color of cognac and her chin rose defiantly, reminding him of the warrior queen Boudicca.

  “I dinna expect to find ye in the hall half-naked,” she said.

  He thought her voice sounded a little more husky than usual. He was tempted to say the same of her, but that would probably get his face slapped. “I live here.”

  Bridget shook her head. “I doona mean that. I mean, why are ye nae dressed?”

  Alasdair couldn’t resist just a small taunt. “Why are ye interested in my state of dress…or undress?”

  Her cheeks flared pink and her eyes sparked like sharp daggers. He wouldn’t have been altogether surprised if her hair burst into flames.

  “If I had known ye were lurking in the hall, I would have stayed in my chamber.”

  Even though her words were clipped, she looked rattled. The memory of her nipples beading was all too clear. Her body had reacted to his gaze, even if her mind didn’t. “I was nae lurking.”

  She raised one of her eyebrows but said nothing.

  Well, maybe he had taken a little more time than usual to walk down the hall. And maybe he hadn’t put his shirt on like he usually did in hopes her door would be open. Damnation. He should not be having thoughts of seducing a recently widowed woman. Alasdair shrugged into the shirt he’d been carrying. “Is this better?”

  Several expressions flitted across Bridget’s face all too swiftly for him to accurately read any of them, but he did notice her eyes lingered for a split-second on his chest where the shirt hung open.

  “Aye. Thank ye.”

  She didn’t look especially thankful, particularly when he reached for the buttons. Alasdair tucked the thought away to be considered later. “For your information, I wash regularly each night. I doona like to go to bed with the day’s dirt on me.”

  Bridget nodded and moved past him to open the door to her own room. “Thank ye for the warning,” she said as she stepped inside and closed the door.

  Alasdair stared at the few inches of wood separating them. Perhaps he was the one who should be warned. He had the feeling Bridget MacLeod was about to turn his orderly world upside down.

  Chapter Six

  When Bridget arrived at Robert’s office the next morning, she found Alasdair already seated at the desk and working. Dawn had broken only an hour ago. Most of the MacDonalds had been breaking their fast when she’d left. What time did Alasdair get up anyhow?

  Not that she should be concerned about what time he arose. That only let her mind drift to his being abed…and probably naked if he wandered around the house only semi-dressed to begin with. She had tossed and turned, unable to sleep because images of Alasdair, barefoot and shirtless, had kept niggling at her senses.

  What in the world was wrong with her? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen her brothers and cousin—all braw and brawny men—without their shirts on. Brodie had been muscular too, but she’d never been left breathless at the sight of him.

  “Are ye planning to enter?”

  At the sound of Alasdair’s voice, she realized she’d been standing in the doorway, one hand on the knob. “Aye.” Bridget stepped inside and quickly went over to the bookcase that held the ledgers. She hoped she hadn’t been standing there gaping as though moonstruck. Alasdair sat back in his chair and watched her, his expression unreadable. She picked up a ledger. “I dinnae have a chance to finish looking at these the other day.”

  “As fascinating as ye found them, I thoug
ht ye’d have scrutinized every line.”

  She’d only done so because she didn’t want to make a fool of herself after realizing he was attracted to Isobel. Bridget bit back the retort. She certainly didn’t want to have Alasdair think she was jealous. Instead, she looked around the room. The office was small, not much bigger than a pantry. Besides the bookcase and desk, there was only one other chair in the room. “Where shall I put this?”

  Alasdair held her gaze a moment and then slowly moved a stack of papers he’d been working on aside. “Ye can use part of the desk.”

  Bridget walked over and set the ledger down. Had Alasdair hesitated because he didn’t want to share the desk? There was plenty of space on its top. Maybe he was reluctant to have them sit together in case Isobel decided to stop by. He needn’t worry that Bridget was going to use feminine wiles on him. Still, appearances were important. She retrieved the other chair and placed it on the opposite side from him, then pulled the ledger toward her.

  Alasdair observed her movements, his eyes now intent on watching her open the book and slip her fingers between several pages. Why was he looking at her hands? She felt a slight tremble and steadied it. That was strange. Her hands never shook.

  She forced herself to look at the ledger, although she couldn’t seem to concentrate under his scrutiny. The neatly filled columns all blurred together. Debits. Credits. Accounts Receivable and Payable. Finally, she looked up. “There seems to be a lot of activity.”

  Alasdair nodded and tapped the papers he’d been working on. “These are orders. Several for the States, two for France, another for Spain.”

  “I had nae idea kelp farming was so profitable.”

  “Aye. When the English lifted the Embargo, trade with the States picked up. Then, with Napoleon’s defeat, the Continent opened as well.”

  “So that’s why Robert started farms on Skye?”

  Alasdair nodded. “Even though the seaweed grows rapidly, when it’s reduced to burnt ash for glass production and soap, a lot of it is required. Robert and his father are thinking to expand to Kintyre, Islay, and perhaps Jura.”

  Bridget gave him a sharp look. “Half of Jura is MacLean land.”

  Alasdair tightened his mouth. “Aye, but half is MacDonald.”

  Watching his jaw set, she had to smile. “Are ye still holding memories of a long ago feud?”

  “Ye mean the sixteenth century feud that took place on Jura when the MacDonald of Sleat landed on the part of Jura that belonged to the MacLeans and camped there?” Alasdair asked. “Lachlan MacLean and his clan attacked and sixty MacDonalds were killed. Nae. I have nae forgotten.”

  “And nae a decade earlier, MacDonalds trapped unsuspecting MacLeods in a church and burnt it,” Bridget said. “The MacLeods retaliated by killing all the MacDonalds involved in that massacre. That memory still lives strong with some MacLeods, even though it happened so long ago.”

  Bridget sighed. Probably the only reason the clans weren’t still fighting was because of their united hatred of English rule. Better to change the subject. “My cousin, Shane, has expressed an interested in the kelp business. He keeps an office in Glasgow as well.”

  “Aye,” Alasdair replied. “The more industrialized Britain and the States become, the more demand there will be. ’Tis one reason some of my brothers went with Robert to Skye. They will be able to set up the farms on the other isles and mayhap take a lot of displaced crofters with them.”

  “’Tis a pity the Clearances have deprived so many of their livelihood.”

  “I wish that could have been prevented.” Alasdair grimaced again. “With so many textile mills being built, there’s more money to be had in sheep than farming.”

  “I cannae believe the Countess of Sutherland could turn on her own kinsmen like she did, burning them out of their homes in the dead of winter,” Bridget said.

  “Greed drives some of those who have wealth and status,” Alasdair said. “The countess favors London over the Highlands. ’Tis said she acts more English than Scots.”

  “My uncles call her a traitor,” Bridget said. “They even plotted to capture her when she attempted to come north two years ago.”

  Alasdair raised an eyebrow. “I had nae heard of that.”

  “Luckily, the weather turned her back,” Bridget said, “or we might have had the Redcoats marching on us again.”

  Alasdair frowned. “Your brother would have lost his lands.”

  “Aye. Ian was livid when he found out.” She looked at Alasdair. “English rule ’tis a fact of life after Culloden. We may have to bend a little like a tree in a storm, but we willnae break.”

  A grim look crossed Alasdair’s face. “We willnae break.”

  * * * * *

  The morning passed quickly. Alasdair was amazed at how easily Bridget assimilated the numbers and figured the profit margin for several accounts. She also asked intelligent questions about how their shipping business was conducted in Glasgow, since it was the main port they used. Alasdair found himself developing an appreciation for Bridget’s quick mind, although another part of him was mesmerized like a halfwit at the agility of her fingers handling the papers. Fingers that he kept imagining spreading wide across his shoulders, then trailing down his chest and over his belly and down…

  He startled when the office door opened. Bridget gave him a surprised look, blessedly unaware of his lustful thoughts, then turned to Gavin and Niall who came in.

  “What are the two of ye doing here?” Alasdair asked.

  “I came to escort Bridget back to the house for the midday meal,” Niall replied. “I figured ye would nae look at the time.”

  Alasdair glanced over at the brass mariner’s clock attached to the wall. Unlike the big grandfather clock at the house, this one didn’t gong. The hour was well past noon, yet Bridget had given no indication she was hungry. He closed his ledger. “We will all go back and eat.”

  “Ye might want to see this first.” Gavin laid an envelope down on the desk. “It came by post this morning.”

  It bore the address of Simon Trevor, a Glasgow solicitor who handled their stepfather’s legal matters. Alasdair took note that the envelope had already been slit open. He looked at Gavin and Niall. “Ye have read this?”

  They both nodded, and Gavin took the chair Bridget had vacated. From the look on his face, Alasdair knew he wanted to talk. Reluctantly, he nodded to Bridget. “Go have lunch.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue but decided against it. As she turned to leave with Niall, he offered his arm, a gesture that made Alasdair scowl and utter an oath under his breath. He jerked the slip of paper out, read it, and tossed it down.

  “The textile weavers are refusing to work again because they haven’t been paid. While I sympathize, we are nae directly involved in the textile trade.”

  “This time, other workers are standing by them,” Gavin said. “Some of our kelp burners have stopped processing the ash, although Simon thinks ’tis only temporary.”

  “I read that,” Alasdair said. “Our workers ken they get paid well. They willnae abandon the kelp for long.”

  “Ye are probably right,” Gavin said and took another piece of paper from his pocket and handed it across the desk to Alasdair. “Simon also included this.”

  He unfolded the newspaper clipping, scanned it, and then frowned. “What is this about a secret committee forming? What do they think to do? Take over Glasgow?”

  Gavin shrugged. “Read the comment.”

  Alasdair tilted his head to read what the solicitor had written on the side and then shook his head. “Strikes across all of Scotland? The English willnae stand for it. They depend too much on our wool.”

  “I think that was Simon’s point without his saying it.”

  “Are they all barmy?” Alasdair thought about Bridget’s comment of her uncles waylaying the Countess of Su
therland. “We will have Redcoats swarming our hills like locusts.”

  “Aye.” Gavin stood. “I hope Robert or his father return soon so we can council.”

  Alasdair tucked the letters into a desk drawer and stood as well. “I wish we kenned more details.”

  “I doona think Simon wants to put it in writing. We cannae do much at the moment. Meanwhile, Mither will have our meal waiting.”

  “Ye go on ahead,” Alasdair said as they walked outside. “I need to think on this. A hike in the hills always clears my head.”

  “Doona be gone too long,” Gavin said. “Niall may win your lass’s hand if ye linger.”

  Alasdair glared at his brother. “What are ye talking about?”

  Gavin grinned. “Ye practically turn green around the gills when Niall pays attention to Bridget.”

  “I doona.”

  “Ye do. I would say ye have a problem to ponder on.” Gavin pointed toward the village buildings where Isobel could be seen walking past the public house toward them. “And there is the other half of it.”

  Alasdair groaned. “Waylay Isobel for me, will ye?” He didn’t wait to hear Gavin’s answer, walked quickly in the other direction, and rounded the building’s corner.

  The last person he wanted to see right now was Isobel…and the last person he needed to be thinking about was Bridget.

  Maybe he’d dunk his head under the cold water in the burn that ran through the hills and clear the thoughts he shouldn’t be having.

  * * * * *

  Isobel stopped on the street and narrowed her eyes as she scanned the corner of the marine office Alasdair had rounded. Where was he going? More importantly, she was almost certain he’d seen her since Gavin had pointed toward her. That meant Alasdair had deliberately turned away. Anger seethed through her. Men didn’t walk away from her. Yet Alasdair had done it twice. First, at the picnic, and just now.

  She caught a glimpse of him crossing the sandy shore and walking toward the hills. Was he going to meet that MacLeod woman up there for a tryst? Isobel ground her teeth. Alasdair wouldn’t stroll with her to the hills, but he’d pant after Bridget MacLeod like she was a bitch in heat? That wouldn’t do.