Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  Shauna shrugged and took a sip of her tea. “More than I would like. Robert says I’m sleeping for two.”

  “That will change once the bairn arrives.”

  “I suspect so.” Shauna took another sip. “How long can ye stay?”

  At one time, Bridget would have said for as long as Shauna wanted her to, but now she wasn’t so sure. Alasdair and Isobel had not set a date for their wedding, but Bridget didn’t want to be here for that occasion. “I am nae sure.”

  “Can ye stay until the bairn is born?” Shauna asked. “I would like that. Joanna is wonderful, but having someone from my family here would be comforting.”

  “I will try. Do ye think ye will continue to help Robert at the marine office?”

  Shauna smiled. “Actually, I am nae helping much. Alasdair has been helping Robert. Two of his brothers went with us to Skye to learn the business as well, so there is nae much need for me.”

  There would not be much need for Bridget either, which was perhaps just as well. It would be difficult enough seeing Alasdair on the street in the next few months. She didn’t think she could bear sitting across a desk from him.

  The front door opened and a moment later, Robert walked into the parlor. He moved to the sofa and gave Shauna a kiss as he sat down, then he nodded to Bridget, not seeming surprised to find her here. But then Arisaig was a small village.

  “I can’t believe what I just heard,” Robert said. “Alasdair is going to marry the parson’s daughter.”

  “What?” Shauna gave him a puzzled look. “I dinnae ken they were courting.”

  “They were not.” Robert gave Bridget a curious look. “Funny, but I always thought Alasdair had a fancy for you.”

  Shauna’s eyes widened. “That’s right. Last year when Bridget stitched his thigh, he told her she was an angel.”

  Bridget felt her face warm. She recalled the scene all too well. “Nae one thinks of me as angel.”

  “Aye, we ken that, but Alasdair was smitten. He has asked about ye.” Shauna frowned and looked at her husband. “Now that Bridget is here, why would he agree to marry Isobel?”

  “The harbour master said something about the parson insisting on it after Isobel and Alasdair went to the hills.” Robert looked uncomfortable. “Forget I mentioned it. Maybe it isn’t true after all.”

  It was true all right. The betrothal had been announced in church. The wedding might be delayed, but it would take place. Knowing that Alasdair had actually asked after her only made things worse.

  As soon as the bairn was born, if not before, Bridget would have to leave. If she didn’t, she might be tempted to do something that would bring dishonor to both clans.

  Chapter Nine

  Alasdair stared out the parlor window at the empty street. The sky had turned overcast, the gloomy grey matching his rapidly deteriorating mood. He didn’t think this Sunday would ever end. More than anything, he wanted to stomp off to the hills to think, but for now, he wasn’t about to do anything that would move his damn impending nuptials closer.

  Church this morning had been hell. He had sat in the second pew with his family as he always did, but Isobel had managed to practically crawl over Margaret to wedge in beside him. He’d muttered an oath under his breath that had Braden giving him a sympathetic look. Lord Almighty. He couldn’t remember Braden ever commiserating with any of them. Bridget sat in the third pew at the other end with Niall. Alasdair wanted to curse that seating arrangement too, but he figured God would only allow so much blasphemy in His house before a lightning bolt struck him.

  He’d managed a quick glance over his shoulder at Bridget when the parson announced the betrothal, but she’d stared straight ahead, as rigid as she had been the night at the dinner table. Her face was pale, but her eyes were dark. Alasdair wondered if she were upset or ill. Damnation. He was in no position to ask her. Even if he did, she’d either think him completely barmy or the biggest sod-arse that ever walked the Highlands. His foul mood didn’t improve when Niall leaned closer to her and whispered something.

  By the time Alasdair had fielded congratulations—and inquisitive looks—Bridget had disappeared, along with his brother.

  Perhaps God punished him for his impiety after all, because Alasdair had to sit through the purgatory of Sunday dinner at the parson’s house. When he finally managed to escape and come home, Bridget was already gone.

  Hellfire and damnation. He couldn’t think straight. He—who had always prided himself on being the calm one in charge of his family—was as befuddled as a sot who’d emptied an entire whisky bottle. Alasdair felt as if his world had been smashed by shards of that same bottle, leaving him bleeding from bloodless wounds.

  He glowered at Niall when his brother strolled into the parlor late that afternoon. Niall looked around. “Where is everyone?”

  “Out. Fishing, I think.” He wasn’t sure his brothers had even ventured excuses once he’d gotten home. They’d all just removed themselves from his presence. Quickly.

  Niall raised an eyebrow. “There’s a storm coming.”

  A storm had already brewed. MacDonalds claimed Viking heritage, and for once, Alasdair would have liked to hold Thor’s legendary hammer and hurl it across the sky. “Where were you? Where is Bridget?”

  Niall gave him a steady look. “I took her to Robert’s house.”

  “Are ye daft? Why did ye allow her to go? Ye ken I doona want her staying alone.”

  “She is nae alone. Robert and Shauna returned this afternoon.”

  Robert was back? That Alasdair hadn’t even noticed a ship anchored in the loch was a statement to his near lunacy. “Our brothers have not come home.”

  “They remained on Skye for two more weeks to learn more of kelp farming,” Niall said.

  At least he hadn’t managed to miss his other four brothers traipsing through the house. Maybe he hadn’t completely lost his sanity.

  “’Tis best she is at her sister’s,” Niall said.

  “Best for whom? Ye? Ye think to visit her?”

  “I might.”

  Alasdair growled. “I’ll nae let ye trifle with her affections.”

  Niall raised his brow again. “Ye should speak for yourself, brother. Whether ye like it or nae, your betrothal was announced this morning.”

  “Ye doona have to remind me.”

  “Then I will say this. Ye willnae trifle with Bridget MacLeod’s affections either. I willnae allow it.”

  “Ye willnae allow it?” Alasdair frowned. “Do ye think to pay Bridget court?”

  “I doona ken yet, but I have appointed myself her guardian for now.”

  “Robert is her guardian.”

  “Perhaps.” Niall shrugged. “I plan to protect her from ye.” He walked to the door and then turned around. “Remember it.”

  Alasdair stared at the empty doorway as Niall’s footsteps retreated. What did his brother mean by that?

  “Hell fire and damnation,” he muttered and wasn’t at all surprised at the sudden flash of lightning outside the window or the clap of thunder that sounded like Thor’s hammer had come home.

  * * * * *

  The thunder rattled the parlor windows of Shauna’s house, the boom vibrating through Bridget’s body and setting her own rattled nerves on edge again. The sky had darkened, heralding a real gale. Oddly enough, the rain had held off, which made the air feel thick and heavy. She usually felt an affinity with storms. She liked sensing the force of nature and enjoyed the cleansed, fresh feel to the air when the storm passed. Today, though, the turbulence matched the troubled emotions that coursed through her. More than anything, she wanted to retreat to her bed chamber, but the evening meal had yet to be served, so solitude would have to wait.

  Robert got up from the sofa and walked to the window. “Looks like we got home just in time.”

  “I would nae want to b
e caught on the water in this,” Shauna said and smiled when Robert gave her an inquisitive look. “I ken the New Orleans is sea worthy. ’Tis me that is nae right now.”

  His expression turned to one of concern as he moved back to the sofa. “Do you still have the ache in your side?”

  “A little. I will be fine in the morning.”

  “Ye ache?” Bridget asked. “I thought ye said your stomach was queasy.”

  “’Tis. Food doesnae appeal.”

  Which partially explained why they hadn’t eaten yet. Bridget thought of the huge amounts of food that had laden the table at Alasdair’s home. Joanna’s home. Hers and Erik’s. Not Alasdair’s. Would Alasdair and Isobel live there? Or would his brothers help him build a cottage similar to Shauna and Roberts’s? How many rooms for bairns… Bridget closed her eyes and tried to close off her mind.

  She had to stop thinking about Alasdair and Isobel. Just because Shauna had said Alasdair was smitten didn’t mean that Bridget should react like a silly maiden and keep thinking about it. She shouldn’t, especially since Alasdair was now betrothed. Just…no one had ever been smitten with her before. Ever. Not that Alasdair was. Bridget had tended to enough wounds to know men thought any woman who nursed them was an angel. She even remembered Shauna teasing her about the incident later. Still, the idea of him being somewhat smitten gave Bridget a warm feeling that made her want to smile.

  Another heavy crash of thunder made her eyes pop open. “Good heavens! That sounded close.”

  “It did.” Robert walked back to the window and peered out. “I hope nothing was struck.”

  He had hardly finished the sentence when a blinding flash of lightning illuminated the room like noontime sunshine, accompanied by an instantaneous crack of thunder that shook the house. Bridget heard something splinter. A moment later, she heard a sizzle and then an acrid smell filled the air. Before her mind fully comprehended what was taking place, Robert had already leaped to the sofa, snatched Shauna, grabbed Bridget’s arm, and push them to the door.

  “Fire!”

  * * * * *

  The hair on Alasdair’s arms stood on end as the loud, thunderous clap reverberated through the dining room and jolted plates Joanna had just placed on the table. He pushed back his chair and rushed to the door, by some miraculous maneuver avoiding his brothers as they headed in the same direction.

  “Something’s been hit,” Gavin said.

  “Aye, I smell smoke,” Braden added.

  Alasdair flung open the front door and rushed outside. Even before he got down the walkway, he could see orange flames flickering near the end of the street. His eyes widened. “It’s Robert’s house! Gavin, get blankets. Braden, rouse the neighbors behind us. We’ll need all the water we can get. Niall, get the lads moving with pails from the kitchen.”

  They disappeared before he finished speaking. Alasdair ran down the street. The neighbors between the two houses were already outside, lugging pails of water to the site. Alasdair heard the emergency bell clanging from the marine office. The women in the village would be forming a fire brigade from the city well. The men would form a longer line from the loch, but he was more concerned with getting everyone out of the house. The fire was at the back, near the kitchen. Had they been eating? Had anyone been burned? Or worse, struck by the bolt?

  The distance between their homes was short, but Alasdair didn’t think he’d ever run a longer distance.

  The door to the front of Robert’s house was closed. Alasdair started to race up the walk when movement to his left caught his eye. Through the smoky haze, he saw Robert and Shauna shoveling sandy dirt with their hands while Bridget beat a wet tartan against the side of the house. He sprinted toward them and grabbed the wet tartan from Bridget. “I’ll do this. Go help with the water.”

  She gave him one quick look and then nodded.

  “Take Shauna with you,” Robert said.

  Alasdair’s brothers joined him as the women hurried toward the well. They’d brought blankets and soon all of them were beating back the curling edges of fire that threatened to spread along the side. The first buckets of water arrived, but it seemed a futile effort as the blaze leaped higher, consuming much of the back wall. If the fire reached the roof, the whole house would burn.

  “We need rain,” Gavin complained.

  “Aye, it would help if the clouds opened about now,” Braden said.

  Robert gave them a cursory glance, not stopping his movements. “We could all pray for it.”

  Pray. Alasdair remembered his cursing in church that morning. He wasn’t a superstitious sort, although any person who made their living by the sea held a few notions. He’d heard Robert’s father say more than once that while Scotland may be Christian, it was a wise sailor who didn’t anger Neptune. All gods sought retribution for wrongs.

  Maybe being forced to have the midday meal with the parson and Isobel hadn’t been enough penance. Was God punishing him for his blasphemy? Or maybe because he had agreed to a betrothal he didn’t want? Did that make it a lie? In Alasdair’s mind, a lie was the bigger sin. He started to curse again and then stopped.

  “What are ye muttering about?” Niall asked.

  “Nothing.” Alasdair didn’t realize he’d been speaking aloud. “Stop blethering. The fire is getting ahead of us.”

  “Ye are the one blethering,” Niall replied and reinforced his efforts.

  More men joined them now, the fire brigade fully functioning. Alasdair knew from previous practices that the lads capable of bailing water from the loch would be doing so and handing the buckets to the adult men who could carry them the distance. The same would hold true at the well. Younger girls would draw the water, giving the buckets to the older women. Alasdair caught glimpses of Bridget and Shauna tossing water onto the flames, but both of them hurried back to the well, not hesitating long enough for him to say something, and he couldn’t leave his position.

  Thankfully, the wind had abated, although thunder still rumbled and flashes of lightning silhouetted the rolling, billowing clouds. Ever so slowly, the odds began to favor the men. The water-soaked blankets had successfully put out the flares that had tried to spread. Alasdair’s brothers ran down to the loch to help with the brigade while Alasdair and Robert went to the back of the house.

  Someone with an ax had broken through the damaged back wall and Robert and he grabbed buckets from the nearest men and rushed through the opening to tackle places still trying to ignite. The smoke was thicker there and the air hazy. Both Alasdair and Robert pulled off their shirts, dunked them in the buckets, and wrapped them around their heads to breathe better. Alasdair thought he saw Bridget and Shauna peering through the opening in the wall once, but he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have time to think on it. Men were handing more and more buckets through the opening, and he and Robert doused as many of the flames as they could.

  Every breath became tortuous. Alasdair’s eyes stung and his throat felt raw. His brothers joined them at some point. How much time elapsed, Alasdair didn’t know, but finally—finally—sparks no longer leapt to new places and the flames subsided. Still, they didn’t stop until they were standing in sodden ashes with no possibility of something else catching.

  “We did it,” Robert said.

  “Aye.” Alasdair set his bucket down. His arms felt like rubber and he hoped his legs would carry him outside without wobbling. Glancing at his brothers, they seemed to be in the same condition, holding each other up.

  “Come on. Let’s get some fresh air,” Robert said.

  No one needed to be told twice. As they stepped through the hole and over the rubble, Alasdair felt a splash on his head. Turning his face upward, he felt several more splashes. It was going to rain now?

  As if in answer to his unspoken thought, the clouds split open. Rain pelted down, lashing furiously at the men and drenching everything.

  Alas
dair started to laugh at the irony and he sobered, not wanting to tempt any deity further.

  It seemed God—or Neptune—had a twisted sense of humor.

  Bridget bent over to set the empty bucket on the ground not far from the burnt house and placed her hands on her knees. She kept her head down, trying not to inhale too deeply of the smoke-filled air. She was soaked to the core and every muscle she possessed ached, but the pain was worth it. The fire was out.

  Strong hands took hold of her shoulders. “Are ye all right?”

  Alasdair’s voice was raspy. Bridget raised her head, which brought her eye-level to the hard ridges of his belly and close enough that if she tilted her head forward, she would make contact with his naked flesh. She felt her throat constrict.

  Alasdair tightened his grip and lifted her to a standing position. “Are ye all right, Bridget?”

  She nodded dumbly, not trusting her voice or herself at the moment. Alasdair’s broad chest seemed even more chiseled outlined in soot than it had in the hall by Margaret’s bedchamber. Bridget forced her gaze upward, which was a mistake. His face was covered in ash, darkening his angular features. His black hair hung in wet tangles to his bare shoulders and his eyes gleamed in the flickering light from a street lamp, giving him a dangerous, feral look. She had the strangest urge to wrap her arms around his neck and press against all that hard muscle.

  Her brain must not have gotten enough oxygen. What other explanation could there be for such an impulse or the fact that she stood staring at him mutely, like a mooncalf. She couldn’t seem to gather her senses. Instead, the desire to fling herself at Alasdair grew stronger. The foolishness of such a notion made her smile and then, without warning, a sense of giddiness overcame her and she began to laugh.

  “Bridget! Stop—”

  “I…I cannae,” she said, trying to quell a hysterical bubble from rising, but only laughing harder. “I—”

  Alasdair slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. Bridget gasped and then felt his mouth covering hers. He tasted of salt and smoke, his lips warm, gentle yet firm. Her compulsion to laugh disappeared, replaced with a desire for something more. Her lips parted as she clung to him. Briefly, Bridget felt the velvety softness of his tongue before he broke contact. Bringing his hands to her arms, Alasdair slid them down and stepped back.