Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “You were seen walking to the hills earlier.”

  “Aye.” Alasdair frowned in confusion. “I do that often.”

  The parson raised an eyebrow in question. “Unfortunately, Isobel was seen following you.”

  Alasdair felt his eyes widen and he looked at Isobel. “Ye followed me?”

  Isobel looked down at her hands folded demurely in her lap. “We did mention a stroll at the picnic.”

  She had mentioned a stroll. He distinctly remembered turning it down. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of this stomach.

  “It is a lovely place. The glade, I mean. With the water bubbling over the rocks.”

  He tried not to stare at her. She had followed him, else she wouldn’t have known where he’d gone. The question was why. Before he could ask, she added a comment.

  “I told Papa nothing happened.”

  Of course nothing happened. He hadn’t even known she was there, for God’s sake, but at least she was not claiming he had taken advantage of her.

  The parson gave his daughter an apprising look. “Unfortunately, regardless of what Isobel might say did not happen, she was seen returning from the hills not long after you did. Her hair had come down, her clothing was disheveled and a sleeve torn.”

  His stomach now felt like he’d swallowed a lump of coal. Alasdair looked from her father to Isobel. She kept her eyes cast down. He was at a loss to explain why her clothing had been askew and torn or her hair mussed. Perhaps she’d gotten tangled in brush or bramble. He couldn’t offer that explanation though since he hadn’t even seen her. “I did nae ask to rendezvous with ye, Isobel.”

  She looked up then, tears in her eyes as she placed a shaky hand over her mouth. “You are angry with me because I would not let you have your way with me.”

  What the hell was she talking about? “I would nae…” He stopped as realization washed over him like a cold, rogue wave from the loch. Isobel had plotted this. The stroll she’d suggested at the picnic…when that didn’t work, the fall and then the swoon. She was lying through her teeth. Gavin had pointed her out this morning by the office, but Alasdair’s only thought had been to get away from her. He’d been an unsuspecting fool when he’d gone for the walk earlier, not thinking that she’d follow him. He clenched his jaw. “I would never take advantage of Isobel. Ye have my oath on that.”

  “That is good to hear,” the parson said. “Since I have your word, there is no need for a speedy wedding, especially since I know Isobel wants a lavish one.”

  The lump of coal in Alasdair’s stomach turned white-hot. “Wedding?”

  “Too many people witnessed the inappropriate display of affection at the picnic. Several people saw Isobel follow you to the hills and return with torn, dirty clothes. As a parson’s daughter, her reputation cannot be tainted. A betrothal is definitely in order.”

  Alasdair suspected it was the parson’s reputation the man didn’t want tarnished. If the man were not clergy, a dual could settle the matter of his daughter’s honor, even if the English had outlawed it. But Alasdair could hardly challenge the man.

  “May I remind you it was your stepfather who convinced us to come here?” the parson asked.

  He didn’t need to be reminded. The whole reason he had paid attention to Isobel in the first place was to help her adjust to village living after being used to a city. He’d felt obligated. He couldn’t very well point out that many a young couple went for walks unchaperoned—not after he’d taken Margaret to task for the very same thing.

  “I am surprised you do not want to take responsibility for your actions,” Isobel’s father said.

  Alasdair felt a muscle twitch in his jaw as he held onto his temper. He couldn’t remember a single time in his entire life that he had not accepted responsibility for what he’d done. The problem here was he had done nothing.

  Isobel dabbed at her tears with a linen handkerchief. “I thought you liked me.”

  He looked at her warily. “I like ye as well as any lass.”

  Her father lifted both brows. “Do you make a habit of breaking girls’ hearts?”

  “Nae.” His brothers maybe, but not him. He turned to Isobel. “If I have given ye any cause to believe—”

  “You did.” She started crying again. “You did.”

  Alasdair frowned. “When?”

  “You said…” Isobel started to sniffle. “At the picnic, you agreed we’d stroll in the hills another time.”

  Hell. He’d meant that as a dismissal, not a promise.

  “Do you think to trifle with my daughter’s affections?”

  “Nae—”

  “Are you going to do the proper thing and announce your betrothal?”

  A betrothal to a woman he didn’t want. “I would like to think on it.”

  “You should have thought on it before you took my daughter to the hills.”

  Damnation. He hadn’t taken Isobel to the hills. She’d followed him.

  “I have not heard a single piece of gossip, Reverend Howard. I doubt—”

  “Of course no one will gossip about you,” Isobel’s father said. “It is my daughter they will talk about behind her back. It is she who will be shamed.”

  “I will not be the only one though,” Isobel said softly. “Your sister will too.”

  Alasdair frowned. “What do ye mean?”

  “I saw her leave with the farrier’s son.”

  Damnation. He’d warned Margaret. “They went for a short walk. I have already spoken to my sister about that.”

  “They were gone for some time.” Isobel shrugged. “I think almost half an hour.”

  They couldn’t have been gone that long. One of his brothers would have noticed. But then, Alasdair remembered Gavin and Braden had gone off with the MacKenzie sisters, and the young lads had no doubt followed them. He had been focused on watching Niall with Bridget. “Margaret and John only walked to the glade.”

  “Does the walk take a half an hour?” the parson asked.

  The walk took all of five or six minutes. Alasdair drew his brows down. What was the man implying? A half hour was long enough to… Alasdair glanced at Isobel. He couldn’t ask such a blunt question in front of her. “I truly think if they’d been gone that long, someone would have said something.”

  “Perhaps I was the only one who saw them,” Isobel said. “Of course, I would never say anything about my future sister-by-marriage.”

  Alasdair looked at her, the hair at his nape prickling like lightning was about to strike. Isobel smiled at him, but her eyes were cold as glaciers.

  “It would be a shame for such information to get out,” her father added. “I understand the MacDonald clan take pride in their honor. Am I wrong?”

  Alasdair tightened his jaw again. He was all too aware of how quickly a young girl’s virtue could be sullied. If he defended Margaret against any rumors that Isobel might start, would it be counter-effective? Margaret had disappeared with John. Alasdair just didn’t know for how long. He could not allow Margaret to be dishonored. She was too young. In the future, he would have to keep a close eye on her lest she provide more fuel for the fire that Isobel wanted to light. For now, though, what choice did he have? He would do what he had to do. “As ye wish then. A betrothal.”

  * * * * *

  His family stared at him. Alasdair didn’t think he’d ever heard complete silence at the supper table, but he did now. Not only did they not speak, no one moved either. He had the bizarre feeling they had all been frozen in time, like Greek statues. For his own part, he felt cold as marble.

  Then his brothers all started talking at once.

  “Ye are getting married?” Rauri asked.

  “To an English lowlander?” Ewan exploded.

  “’Tis ridiculous,” Braden said.

  “The woman lies,” Gavin added. “Na
e one will believe her.”

  “Ye are nae planning to go through with this?” Niall asked.

  Alasdair took a deep breath. Margaret had an accusatory expression on her face, no doubt thinking he’d reprimanded her about strolling just yesterday. If she only knew what her strolling had just cost him. His mother looked concerned. Bridget…he didn’t want to look at her, yet he forced himself to. She sat across from him and toward the end of the table. One hand held the fork she had been about to use, the other hand he couldn’t see. She stared at the wall unblinking and held herself so stiffly that, had it not been for two spots of high color on her cheeks, he would have thought she’d expired. Why was Bridget not moving? Had his betrothal upset her because it reminded her of own marriage and the husband that was forever gone? She looked like a corpse sitting at the table. Or was it possible that Bridget might be upset because she was attracted to him? She’d been so aloof since Isobel showed up at the office…

  Hell, he didn’t need to be fantasizing along those lines. If he hadn’t been agonizing over the lustful thoughts he’d already had about Bridget, maybe he wouldn’t have gone hiking in the hills. Or, if his head—the one on his shoulders—had been halfway clear, he might have noticed he was being followed.

  Alasdair turned back to his brothers. “I doona ken I have much choice. Her father thinks her compromised.”

  Braden snorted. “Damn English.”

  “’Tis Scotland they’re in,” Gavin said. “We doona need chaperones to watch us. We have our honor.”

  “Aye,” Niall agreed. “Our Scottish lasses doona mewl like weak kittens every time a lad walks with them.”

  “Alasdair did nae even walk with her,” Rauri said.

  “Just tell her ye doona suit, like ye did with Sally,” Ewan added.

  “Sally agreed with me, lad,” Alasdair answered. “’Tis different.”

  “I think Ewan is right though,” Gavin said. “Nothing happened. The parson will have to understand.”

  He doubted it, given that the reverend had colluded with his daughter’s not-so-subtle blackmail. Alasdair couldn’t bring Margaret into this mess though. “The mon reminded me ’twas us who persuaded him to move here.” He glanced at his mother. “If I doona do this, I bring insult to the MacDonalds.”

  “Ye doona mean to go through with this?” Niall looked incredulous.

  “What would—”

  “We will see what my husband says when he returns.” Joanna let her gaze roam over each son before resting on Alasdair. “’Twas Erik who had dealings with the mon. Seems to me Erik mentioned something about the parson being only too glad to get his daughter away from Glasgow.”

  “Aye, the woman may be trouble,” Braden said.

  “Thank ye, Mither, but I am a grown mon. I doona expect Erik to fight my battles for me.” Alasdair sighed. He had to protect Margaret. “I cannae dishonor the clan.”

  Silence ensued again, the only sound the clanking of a utensil dropping to the floor. Alasdair didn’t need to look to know who dropped it.

  The clattering of her fork made Bridget finally blink. She stared at the nerveless fingers of her hand as if they were foreign objects and not part of her. Her toes felt numb as well, and she had the strange notion that she had somehow left her body and floated above the table, looking down at herself. The sudden silence felt loud, just like the cacophony of voices earlier had sounded distorted and distant, as though coming from far, far away. She felt cold, like her blood had stopped flowing in her veins.

  Bridget recalled she’d experienced this feeling once before when she was a child just before news had come that her father had been killed in a carriage accident. She’d been practicing archery and it had seemed like a dark cloud covered the sun although the sky remained blue. Her arms slacked, with no strength to draw, her fingers shook on release, and the arrow had skittered into the ground. She had felt so cold. It was as if she had known something bad was going to happen.

  She’d never told anyone of the incident, but the Crone of the Hills, an ancient healer who some thought Fae, had come to her and brought comfort.

  No old woman appeared now, not even in Bridget’s mind. But then, no one had died either. Bridget wrapped her hands around her arms to get warm.

  She didn’t know why Alasdair’s announcement would cause such a sensation in her, but it did. That Isobel would use lies and deceit to trap Alasdair angered Bridget, but it didn’t surprise her overmuch. Jillian and Mari had told countless stories of the tricks and wiles the girls of London’s ton used to put the parson’s noose around the neck of an unwitting or unwilling suitor.

  And yet Bridget understood all too well the importance of not dishonoring a clan. She had married Brodie for similar reasons.

  Alasdair would accept the betrothal. He would marry Isobel. A different sensation, sharp and hot as a flaming, tarred arrow point sliced through Bridget as she remembered the tingling pleasure of Alasdair’s touch. Isobel would share his bed, enjoy much more than just a touch, bear his bairns. Over time, Alasdair would accept the circumstances, just as Bridget had with Brodie.

  Bridget bent down to retrieve her fork and placed it on the table. Then she frowned at the utensil. Besides the new, uncomfortable feeling of jealousy, something else niggled at her. Brodie had been a good man, truthful and honest. He had shown her honor and respect, if not love. Did Isobel have any of those traits?

  The cold feeling of dread swept through Bridget again, and she wondered why the oil wicks in the lamps suddenly seemed so dim.

  * * * * *

  The betrothal was announced after church service on Sunday, and late Sunday afternoon, Robert and Shauna returned from Skye. Bridget didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to see anyone in her life as she was her sister. She couldn’t bear to spend another night in a bedchamber next to Alasdair’s.

  “We dinnae ken ye were coming,” Shauna said after she’d hugged Bridget and turned to Niall when he put Bridget’s trunk down just inside the front door. “Thank ye for taking my sister in.”

  “’Twas Alasdair’s idea,” Niall said as he cast a lingering glance at Bridget and gave a slight bow. “Let me ken if ye need anything.”

  Bridget managed a smile. “I will.”

  “Come in, come in,” Shauna said after Niall left. “Robert should be back shortly. He went down to the marine office to check on things. How long have ye been here?”

  Long enough to have developed feelings for a man who is now betrothed to someone else. Not that Bridget would ever admit that to anyone. “I arrived shortly after ye left for Skye.”

  “Your letter must have gotten lost,” Shauna said as she led them into her small front day room sparsely furnished with a beige horse-hair sofa, two well-padded arm chairs in a dark blue brocade and a low, round table in the middle that was within reach of each seat. The walls were bare save for a painting over the hearth depicting a square, two-story house with a railed front porch and colorful tropical plants blooming in front. Tall trees that looked similar to pine except their branches were set high and hanging with moss cast shade over the lush green lawn. Bridget turned to Shauna. “Is that Robert’s home?”

  Shauna nodded. “The Garden District in New Orleans. Pretty, isn’t it?” She gestured for Bridget to sit while she sank to the sofa. “I got a bit queasy on the ship. I will fix tea in a minute as soon as I get my land legs back.”

  “Doona fash about tea,” Bridget said. “I can fix some for both of us.”

  “That would be nice,” Shauna replied. “I tend to get tired easily these days.”

  Bridget took notice of a slight but distinct swelling to Shauna’s abdomen. “Jillian was tired too in the early stages,” Bridget said as she stood. “Let me fix the tea.”

  The kitchen, like the front room, was functional. Half of it was given over to dining—six straight-back chairs surrounded a simple rectangular
table hewn from oak. The other half, divided by a counter, had cupboards, a wood-burning stove, and a tin sink over which was a pump handle. A large wooden box by the back door held dried pieces of timber and twigs for kindling. On the other side of the door sat a crate, pieces of straw protruding from under its cover indicated it would hold ice when available.

  Bridget opened the cast-iron door below the stove top and placed several pieces of wood inside, interlaced with the kindling, and lit it with a match from the tinder box. Closing the door, she adjusted the fluke and then pumped water into a small tin kettle for heating.

  Looking for the tea leaves, she found Shauna’s Wedgewood tea service in one of the cupboards. The fine china seemed out of place with the austere furnishings, but then Joanna used bone china as well. Alasdair’s finger wouldn’t fit through the small opening in the handle, but his hand had wrapped around the delicate cup with a care that made Bridget wonder if that hand would be as gentle stroking her skin.

  She pushed the thought away. She didn’t want to think about Alasdair MacDonald.

  Closing the door, she opened another and took out two pewter cups instead. Much more sensible and practical, like the rest of the place. Of course, Shauna had not lived in this house long enough to have put many touches on it that would make it home. Bridget imagined when the bairn came, the place would be full of toys.

  Since neither she nor Shauna cared for sugar or cream, Bridged crushed tea leaves into the bottom of each cup, poured the nearly boiling water over them a short time later, and carried the steeping cups back to the living room.

  Her sister appeared to be sleeping. Bridget set the cups on the round table and studied Shauna. She looked pale and somewhat gaunt. Had the journey from Skye been that rough? Shauna enjoyed sailing, but perhaps being with child changed that. Gently, Bridget shook Shauna’s shoulder.

  “I’ve brought the tea.”

  “What?” Slowly, Shauna opened her eyes and then pulled herself upright in the chair. “Och, I must have fallen asleep again.”

  Bridget handed her a cup and sat in the other chair. “Do ye fall asleep often?”