Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  Isobel turned, moving out of sight of Gavin, and began following Alasdair. She wasn’t about to let anyone get in the way of her plans.

  * * * * *

  Gavin returned to the house just as everyone was sitting down for the noon meal. Alasdair was not with him. Bridget wanted to ask where he was, but she was a guest in his house and didn’t want anyone to think she was too interested. She had enjoyed Alasdair’s company this morning. He had asked her opinions and listened to what she said. Not once did he belittle her thoughts because she was a woman. That was all there was to it.

  Her unspoken question was answered when Joanna looked askance at Gavin and he shrugged. “Alasdair said he needed to be alone. He went to the hills.”

  Joanna didn’t look especially perturbed as she started passing the bowl of potatoes. Bridget wondered if Alasdair often went to the hills. He’d taken his almost-betrothed Sally there. Did he revisit where they had gone? Or did he go to the edge of the cliff and look down? Joanna had said he knew Sally and he did not suit, but that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from mourning her death. Bridget felt much the same about Brodie. He had been a good man, despite the lack of passion in their marriage.

  Then again, maybe the contents of the letter had been disturbing. Niall had not mentioned it on their walk back to the house, and Gavin hadn’t brought it up since he returned either. Alasdair had not expressed surprise over it, so Bridget had thought it was business related. Not that it was her business.

  She helped Joanna and Margaret remove the dishes after they ate. When the kitchen was tidy again, Bridget decided to go back to the marine office and finish studying the accounts. She’d gotten as far as the stables when she saw Alasdair walking toward the office. His hair was wet and slicked back, his damp shirt clinging to his shoulders like second skin, revealing the chiseled contours of his shoulders and chest.

  Bridget stopped. Having seen Alasdair half-naked in the hallway last night, she wasn’t sure sitting across from him with his shirt doing little to hide all those muscles would be a good thing. All morning she’d had the urge to reach out and touch him as though he harbored an inner magnet that drew her to him. Having him nearly shirtless might be her undoing.

  She turned away. She’d been curious about the cliff where Sally’s body had been found. Since Alasdair would be in the office this afternoon, this would be a good time to explore without anyone knowing.

  It took just a few minutes to reach the hills, or more accurately, the foothills that were gentle slopes before the steep, rocky incline of the mountains themselves. The hills were not densely forested, allowing sunlight to filter through the foliage and leave a dappled effect on the ground of the narrow trail. Still, as Bridget walked farther along, the sights and sounds of the village vanished.

  Bridget followed the sound of gurgling water and soon came to a small glade where the burn rushed over medium-sized rocks. A larger boulder jutted out over the water, making a perfect spot to sit or even lie down on. Was this where Alasdair had come? She could see how peaceful it would be.

  She hesitated a moment, then bent to remove her shoes and stockings. Stepping into the burn, she let the water wash over her feet. Had Alasdair dunked his head here? It wasn’t as icy as the burns at Glenfinnan, but the cold still had a numbing effect. Bridget didn’t linger long. She climbed up on the boulder heated by the sun and let her toes warm.

  A twig snapped behind her. Bridget turned, wondering if this area had wild boar roaming. She saw nothing. She listened but heard only the water. Bridget turned back, but the peaceful feeling of the glade was gone. She felt as though she was being watched. Reluctantly, she slipped her stockings and shoes back on. If she was going to follow the burn to the cliff, she might as well get on with it.

  Bridget had not gotten very far when she heard another twig snap. It was ridiculous to think someone was stalking her. Arisaig was a small village. Everyone knew everyone. There were no ships anchored in the harbour that might allow sailors on shore. She wasn’t in danger. It was probably only the training her brothers had instilled in their sisters that made her alert and uneasy, although she wished now she’d strapped her sgian dubh to her leg.

  She continued on a few more yards when she heard a footfall. She hesitated. Another football, this one closer. Then two more in close succession as though running toward her now. Bridget picked up a rock and whirled around to face whoever—or whatever—it was.

  Chapter Seven

  Isobel peered from behind a tree trunk to watch Bridget take off her stockings and shoes to perch on the boulder and sniggered silently. If the bitch was undressing for her tryst with Alasdair, she was going to have a long wait. He’d already left.

  Her self-satisfied mirth turned to a frown and she almost snarled. Isobel had followed Alasdair to the hills not quite an hour ago. She’d been careful to stay hidden, dirtying her skirt in the process, while he sat on the very same rock. From the way he’d kept looking back at the trail, she’d fully expected the MacLeod woman to join him. When more than a half hour passed and she didn’t appear, Isobel had been happy. Maybe Alasdair hadn’t arranged a meeting after all. Maybe he’d just come up here to think. That fool Sally had told her once Alasdair liked to get away by himself sometimes. When he finally left, Isobel almost intercepted him but then had second thoughts. She might need to spy on him again. Now she was glad she’d stayed behind.

  The MacLeod harridan had showed up after all.

  Isobel moved slightly to get a better vantage point and a twig snapped under her foot. She dipped behind the trunk again and held her breath. Had she been heard? For a moment, there was only the sound of the water, then she heard scraping sounds as Bridget moved off the rock. Would the woman find her? Isobel flexed her hands. Bridget was taller and stronger than Sally had been. Would a second body at the bottom of the cliff raise too many questions? Perhaps not, since Bridget was new to these parts and the burn turned into a waterfall rather abruptly. Unlike Sally, who had been easy to dupe, Isobel knew Bridget would put up a fight.

  As she listened, the footsteps receded. Isobel smiled. If the bitch was following the burn, it would be easy to stay behind her. Then, one strong push at the top of the cliff would do it. Isobel stepped out from her hiding place, careful to keep behind shrubs, and began to follow.

  Another twig snapped and Isobel froze. She hadn’t stepped on anything. Then she heard the footsteps. Was Alasdair returning? No, the footsteps were too light for a man. Isobel darted behind another tree as Margaret came into the small glade.

  Damn her luck. She couldn’t let the girl see her. She waited until she could no longer hear Margaret and then she turned, cursing when her sleeve caught. Isobel ripped it loose and slunk away.

  Margaret stopped so fast she nearly tumbled forward. Her eyes widened as Bridget stood poised to throw a rock.

  Bridget lowered her hand quickly, chiding herself for being so jumpy. “I dinnae ken it was ye who were following me.”

  “I wasnae following ye,” Margaret said. “Mither asked me to come find Alasdair.”

  “I saw him going toward the marine office a little while ago,” Bridget replied. “I thought I’d take a wee walk.”

  Margaret nodded. “My brother likes to come here. He says the sound of the water helps him think.”

  “Aye. ’Tis soothing.”

  “Are ye troubled about something?”

  Besides thinking she was being followed? Margaret would think the idea preposterous. Besides, the feeling of being watched had faded. On the other hand, Bridget couldn’t tell Alasdair’s sister she’d come here to sort out her thoughts about him.

  She shook her head and smiled. “Nae troubled. I just wanted to explore a bit.”

  “Well,” Margaret said as she came to Bridget’s side and they began to walk companionably, “ye have to be careful.”

  Bridget looked over at her. “Are there wild a
nimals about?”

  Margaret giggled. “Only if ye count my brothers.”

  Wasn’t that the truth? They were a rowdy bunch. Although Alasdair seemed to be the calm one, or at least the one who kept the others somewhat reined in, something about him made Bridget think he probably was the most untamable of the bunch. She could picture him at Culloden in kilt with claymore.

  “What is the danger then?”

  Margaret lost her smile. “The waterfall up ahead. ’Tis where Sally fell.”

  Sally. Did Alasdair come here to think about her? Did he feel guilty? “Ye think she fell? Nae jumped?”

  “Sally would nae jump,” Margaret said, her tone firm.

  “Nae even if she was heartbroken?”

  Margaret gave an unladylike snort. “The marriage was her father’s idea. Sally always did what he told her to do.”

  Bridget knew she shouldn’t pry, but it was as though an imp had taken over her speech. “Did she like Alasdair?”

  “Aye, well enough, I suppose.” Margaret shrugged. “She told me once that all my brothers scared her, even Alasdair.”

  Bridget stopped. “She thought he’d hurt her?”

  “Nae that. Sally told me once when he asked her thoughts she couldnae think what to say. When he asked her what she wanted to do, she dinnae ken. She always said it was up to Alasdair and he would get annoyed.”

  It sounded to Bridget like Sally had been a very biddable lass, the kind that would probably drive her brothers barmy as well. She recalled quite clearly how Alasdair had asked for her thoughts and opinions just this morning. “So Sally had nae reason to jump off the cliff?”

  Margaret shook her head. “She fell. Ye will see why I think so in a minute.”

  The sound of the water grew louder and Bridget could hear splashing just before they rounded a group of large rocks and she could see where the burn rushed over the cliff. Only a few yards of grass separated them from the edge.

  “Do nae go farther,” Margaret said. “The grass is slippery here.”

  Bridget nodded. “I can see that. Why would Sally come this far?”

  “I doona ken,” Margaret answered. “Nobody does. ’Tis a mystery.”

  A mystery, Bridget thought as she and Margaret turned around to walk back to the house. Was that why Alasdair came here? To solve it?

  * * * * *

  Alasdair shoved the papers on the desk aside, unable to concentrate, and ran a hand through his hair. His stomach growled and he felt like growling in unison with the sound. Not only had he missed the noon meal, but spending time in the glade hadn’t done a damn thing to clear his head. Nor had he given a thought to the growing problem in Glasgow that Simon had alluded to. All Alasdair could think of was a fiery-haired woman whom, he suspected, had fiery passions smoldering just beneath her calm and practical bearing.

  He looked at the time. Thirty past four o’clock. Bridget wasn’t coming back to the office this afternoon. Hell, how could he miss someone who, just a few days ago, he thought would make a thorough mess of things in the office? The only thing that was a mess was himself.

  That Bridget understood numbers didn’t surprise him, since her sister had the same ability. Evidently, the MacLeod clan believed in educating their girls as well as the lads. That Bridget was neat and organized didn’t surprise him either. She had run the household at Glenfinnan like a commander ordering the troops. What might be regarded as a sharp tongue to some, he considered quick wit. Bridget’s mind was honed sharp as a dagger and she didn’t hesitate to give her opinion—another trait that a lot of men found undesirable. Alasdair much liked knowing what a woman was thinking, rather than having to ferret out her true thoughts beneath glib murmurings of acquiescence. He’d never been able to get Sally to do more than nod amiably and agree.

  Nor did Bridget flirt or fawn or flutter her eyelashes like Isobel did. Bridget’s total lack of vanity was another trait he admired. Alasdair didn’t think she had any idea of how naturally beautiful she was or that her body curved in all the right places. He suspected her breasts would fit perfectly into his palms. He wanted to run his hands down her sides to the indention of her narrow waist, then trace the flare of her hips, and finally cup her buttocks to pull her tightly against him. He wanted to feel her body melded with his. Like a sea siren, she called to him.

  And, if he heeded that call, his fate would be the same as many a ship lost at sea.

  Bridget had given him absolutely no reason to think she was attracted to him. If anything, she held herself aloof. Even this morning, she had placed the chair—the one he’d moved beside him when he returned—on the opposite side of the desk. She’d not come around to lean over his shoulder when he’d explained an account. Instead, she’d pulled the ledger toward her and turned it around. Their conversation had held no hint of intimacy, although he had felt the air practically sizzling with lust. His.

  Bridget was a widow still in mourning. He needed to remember that, but he could practically hear the siren singing to him.

  Another feminine voice—this was higher pitched and not alluring—broke into his thoughts. A moment later, the door opened without a knock, and Isobel walked in.

  Alasdair looked up warily. “What brings ye here, Isobel?”

  She smiled demurely, a dimple showing in one cheek as she tilted her chin slightly to gaze at him through her lashes. It was a gesture women used to be coy, a trait he didn’t like. It was also a gesture giving gentlemen time to offer a compliment, but Alasdair had never claimed to be a gentleman. He waited.

  The slightest of frowns creased Isobel’s brow, but she kept her smile in place. “Papa would like you to come to tea.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at his desk. “There is something he wishes to discuss with you.”

  Alasdair wished fervently he hadn’t pushed the papers to one side. He could have claimed he was too busy, but a bare desk proved that lie. His mither would probably be displeased if he turned down the parson’s offer as well. Reluctantly, Alasdair stood and walked to the door. ‘Do ye ken what your father wants to discuss?”

  “I do not know for sure,” Isobel said as they went outside. “I did mention how thoroughly I enjoyed our time at the picnic, and how I thought you had so many admirable qualities. Papa said something about honor and integrity being important in men.”

  Alasdair felt something akin to a lightning bolt cut through him. And like that flash of lightning, his mind swept the conversation at the picnic. Had he said something that would make Isobel think he had any kind of intentions that weren’t honorable? He even had refused to stroll with her, lest rumors start. With a sickening thud like a thunder clap, he recalled Isobel’s tripping and his catching her. Had she misinterpreted that? Had it looked more intimate than it had been? Her hands had lingered on him. Was that why her father wanted to talk about honor and integrity? Alasdair had always used caution to avoid being put in a compromising position. Too many of his friends had put their heads through the parson’s noose unwittingly.

  A parson’s noose. He’d always used the term figuratively. In this case, it could very well be literal.

  Was the parson going to attempt to get him to join those ranks?

  Chapter Eight

  Tea was an English custom Alasdair had never grown fond of. True, his mother kept a pot brewing and there were usually cakes or some other sweets to be had in the afternoon, but it was more to keep his brothers from raiding whatever was planned for supper than anything else.

  Tea was certainly not this formal arrangement of silver teapot and tray, fine china, and bits of bread with a green leaf on each that were referred to as sandwiches. From the way Isobel delicately poured the tea, filling only half the cup and asking if he cared for sugar or lemon, they might have been sitting in a London parlor instead of the parson’s small day room.

  “My d
aughter is an excellent hostess, is she not?” the parson asked.

  Alasdair had never given much thought to what a proper hostess was. His mother had taught him manners, but no one sat around to be waited on at their house. “Aye. Isobel is a fine hostess.” For some reason, that seemed to please both her and her father immensely.

  “My daughter is quite skilled at running a household as well.”

  The hair at Alasdair’s nape prickled. Why would he care if Isobel could run a household? “I am sure she is.”

  Isobel gave him a big smile and handed him the teacup. “Papa taught me how to be frugal with a budget as well.”

  “That is good to know, do you not agree?” the parson asked.

  The prickling at his nape grew stronger. Alasdair could almost feel his hair rise, like a cornered animal sensing danger. “I suppose it is.”

  “I have not spared her education. Isobel can read and write quite well. She has assisted me as my secretary.”

  Alasdair put down the cup he hadn’t drunk from and looked directly at the parson. “I am sure your daughter has excellent traits. Was there something you wished to discuss with me?”

  The parson sighed and placed his cup on the small table next to him. “My daughter does have excellent habits. Discretion is not one of them.”

  Alasdair frowned. “I doona understand.”

  “She allowed you to display too much affection at the picnic.”

  He had done no more than keep Isobel from falling. She was the one who had clung to him, not the other way around. To point that out, though, would make him sound like a complete arse. “I apologize for placing my hands on your daughter. I only thought to keep her from falling.”

  The parson waved his hand. “That was a bit of a spectacle, but it is not what I am referring to.”

  Alasdair tried to think of what else he’d done. “What do ye mean?”