Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  Bridget gaped at him, all of the sensations of his kiss spiraling in every direction throughout her body. She wasn’t sure she could command her limbs to move. Her breasts felt swollen and her lips tingled. Suddenly aware that her mouth was still open, she closed it. She couldn’t think of a word to say.

  “Forgive me,” Alasdair said. “I should nae have done that.”

  She blinked. Did he think she was angry? She might be barmy at the moment, but she wasn’t angry. Then she remembered his betrothal. Strange how such a thing could completely slip her mind. Bridget took a deep breath.

  “’Tis my fault as much as yours. I doona ken what came over me.”

  “Ye were becoming hysterical.”

  Bridget frowned. “I doona give in to hysterics.”

  Alasdair smiled and raised a hand to touch her cheek and then quickly dropped it. “Do ye put out fires every night?”

  She knew he meant the house fire, but she couldn’t help thinking about a different kind of fire that had been kindled. “Nae. ’Tis my first fire.” Then she felt her face flame. She hadn’t meant that as it sounded. Had Alasdair taken it wrong? She looked at him quickly, but in the darkness she couldn’t decipher any change in his expression. She needed to leave.

  “I had better go find Shauna.”

  “I thought she was with Robert.”

  Bridget looked behind Alasdair to where Robert was still stomping on cinders along with a few other men. “I doona see her.”

  Alasdair turned too. “That’s odd. I thought the two of ye had stayed together.”

  “We did, but Shauna said she wanted to go back to the well to thank the young lasses for helping.”

  “I will go with ye then.”

  She started to tell him he didn’t need to. She could take care of herself and Alasdair could never be her man. Then Bridget pressed her lips together and nodded. Maybe a lightning bolt had flashed too close to her and her brain was still addled, but for just a little while, it would feel good to have him at her side.

  They were skirting some shrubbery near an alley that led to the well when Bridget heard a moan. She and Alasdair halted of one accord. His chin lifted, his gaze sharpened and Bridget could practically feel him sniffing the air as if scenting.

  “What—”

  “Shhh.”

  The moan came again, softer this time. Alasdair parted the shrubbery, but there was nothing there. He peered over it into the darkened alley. “Ye stay here.”

  “Help.” The voice was feeble, barely audible.

  “’Tis a woman,” Bridget said and rushed past him, ignoring the muffled curse as he followed her. In her haste, she practically stumbled over a body and then knelt down quickly.

  “Shauna? What happened?”

  ”Hurt. Hurt so much,” she whispered.

  “Doona talk.” Alasdair bent down and scooped Shauna into his arms. “We will get ye home.”

  Bridget clapped a hand over her mouth as Alasdair strode away.

  Shauna had been lying in a pool of blood.

  Chapter Ten

  Minutes later, Bridget found herself back in the bedchamber she’d occupied in Alasdair’s home just yesterday, only tonight it was Shauna who lay on the bed. He’d carried her sister directly to his house where Joanna, still wet from helping in the fire brigade, clucked over Shauna like a hen with a single chick. Margaret, also drenched, had run for the physician. Alasdair had gone to inform Robert.

  Bridget ignored her own wet clothes and took Shauna’s cold, clammy hand. Her sister’s eyelids fluttered and then remained closed. Her face was drained of color, leaving it chalky white and contrasting grotesquely with the bright red blood that smeared the front of her dress as well as the hem.

  “I wish she could tell us what happened,” Bridget said.

  “In time we will ken.” Joanna dipped a cloth into the basin of hot water she’d brought up from the kitchen and wiped Shauna’s face, cleaning dirt from the purpling abrasion on her cheek and gently touching the side of Shauna’s head. “She’s got a lump here from when she fell.”

  Robert burst into the room. “How is she?” So much wet soot covered his face, matted hair, and clothing that he looked like a menacing, black demon approaching the bed, but Shauna managed to open her eyes and attempt a smile. A smile that turned to a grimace even as Robert sat on the other side of the bed and very gently gathered her to him.

  “Hurt…”

  “What happened, my love? Were you attacked? Do you know who—”

  “Hold your questions, Robert,” Bridget said. “It will do nae good to make Shauna strain herself with answers.”

  He looked stricken. “Forgive me,” he said to Shauna. “I didn’t think.” Then he looked at Bridget. “Where the hell is the doctor?”

  “On his way,” Joanna said. “It will be better for Shauna if ye remain calm.”

  “Right.” Robert drew Shauna closer and started to stroke her head, only to drop his hand quickly when she moaned in pain. “Can nothing be done?”

  Besides the anger, Bridget heard both the pain and panic in his voice. Her brother, Ian, had reacted the same way when Jillian had been taken hostage by a madman and Jamie had done the same when his wife Mauri went missing in a Highland blizzard. Braw and brave as they all were, they felt helpless at times like these.

  Robert’s eyes drifted to the red stains on Shauna’s skirt. “Where is that blood coming from? Have you tended the wound? Does she bleed still?”

  Bridget bit her lip, not wanting to voice her own fear. “She no longer bleeds.”

  Robert looked from her to Joanna, then to his wife, and back to Bridget. “The babe?”

  She had hoped he wouldn’t ask.

  “We doona ken,” Joanna said quietly.

  A clamoring on the steps saved them from further conversation. Margaret tromped into the room, tugging the middle-aged physician behind her. “I had a devil of a time finding him,” she announced, “but I did.”

  When she released his arm, he took a moment to straighten his jacket, even though it was wet. “I was checking if anyone else was hurt,” he said and moved toward the bed to set his leather bag down. “Now everyone, except Joanna, out.”

  “I am staying,” Robert said resolutely as he stood.

  “I have nae time to argue with ye,” the doctor said as he began taking items from his bag, “but I have found men do nae have the stomach for the examination and probably the procedure I am going to have to do.” He looked up and frowned at Robert. “I doona need to have two patients.”

  “I have seen my share—”

  The doctor shook his head. “Out.”

  “Come with me,” Bridget said, grasping Robert’s arm. “’Tis true what the mon says. Ye will be of nae help to Shauna if ye end up banging your head on the floor.”

  “I don’t intend to faint.”

  “Aye. Neither did my brothers,” Bridget replied. “Yet they went weak as bairns.”

  “If the doctor is to save Shauna’s life, time is of the essence,” Joanna said. “Ye are wasting that time, Robert.”

  His eyes widened, and beneath the soot, Bridget saw Robert’s face pale and felt his arm tremble. For a moment, she thought he would swoon right then and there. She widened her stance, prepared to ease his fall, but Robert pulled himself together enough to bend over and press a kiss on his now unconscious wife’s lips.

  Then he bolted from the room, but not before Bridget saw the tears welling in his eyes.

  Tears welled in her own as she quietly shut the door behind them.

  * * * * *

  Alasdair and his brothers were waiting in the parlor by the time Bridget, Robert, and Margaret came down the stairs. An assortment of villagers had gathered outside as word spread of Shauna.

  “How is she?” Niall asked.

  Before
Bridget could answer, the front door opened and two sets of footsteps crossed the foyer. A moment later, the parson and Isobel appeared in the doorway. “We came as soon as we heard,” Isobel’s father said.

  Isobel rushed over to where Alasdair was standing by the window. “Are you all right?” she gushed as she placed a hand on his arm. “Oh my goodness. You are still wet.”

  Bridget kept her face immobile. The men had all changed into clean clothes, but Alasdair’s damp shirt clung to him, defining chest and arm muscles. She tried not to think of their earlier encounter or their kiss.

  “How brave of you to fight the fire,” Isobel practically cooed.

  Obviously, Isobel had taken no part in the effort. The girl’s hair was dry and curled, her gown clean, and she reeked of some cloying, flowery scent. Bridget exchanged a look with Margaret.

  “I was not the only one fighting the fire,” Alasdair said.

  Margaret spoke up. “We all fought the fire.” She paused. “Even the women.”

  Isobel waved a hand as she might to get rid of a pesky fly. “Why, yes. I did see some women on the street.” She viewed Bridget, allowing her gaze to travel up and down. “You must have been one of them. You are quite dirty.”

  Bridget glanced down at her clothes. Her dress had streaks of soot on the skirt and the hem had clumps of mud. One sleeve had been torn from carrying buckets and there was a small rip in the bodice as well. Her hair had come loose from its braid and hung in long, wet strands down her back. Her face probably looked as dark as Robert’s.

  “We should not criticize those who try to help,” the parson said.

  “Of course not, Papa.” Isobel smiled sweetly at him. “I just do not think Alasdair’s mother would care to have her furniture and carpets ruined.”

  “That would be the least of our mother’s concerns,” Niall said and rose from where he had been sitting to offer Bridget the chair. “Please.”

  Bridget shook her head. “Miss Howard is right. I am filthy.”

  “So am I.” Margaret stepped next to Bridget. “My mither willnae care.”

  Bridget wondered if she even had any other clothing left. Her trunk hadn’t been moved from where Niall had put it. Had it survived the fire? At least Margaret would have clean clothing to change into later.

  Robert began to pace. “What is taking so long?”

  “’Tis just a few minutes since we left the doctor,” Margaret said.

  He strode to the stairs. “I can’t just stand here and wait.”

  “Ye willnae get in,” Margaret called after him.

  “We’ll see about that,” he answered and stomped up the steps.

  “Perhaps I should accompany him,” the parson said and followed him. “Sometimes a few minutes can seem like an eternity.”

  Amen to that, Bridget thought. It seemed like it had been at least an hour, but maybe that was because Isobel stood practically pressed against Alasdair. Although he didn’t look especially pleased, he hadn’t moved away either. Bridget didn’t want to stand here watching them.

  “I think I will get us all something to eat,” she said and started to the kitchen.

  “We’ve still food on the table, though ’tis cold,” Margaret said, falling into step with her.

  “We can reheat it,” Bridget replied, glad to have something to do.

  “Aye.” Margaret paused and turned to Isobel. “Do ye want to help us?”

  Isobel smiled. “A kitchen can have too many cooks. You go on ahead. I will stay with Alasdair.”

  Bridget gave him one quick glance. To his credit, he grimaced. She turned and hurried down the hall before she said something she would regret.

  Alasdair managed to keep from following Bridget into the kitchen, but his gaze lingered on her. Filthy her dress might be, but it was also still wet, which made it cling to her hips. Her quick pace accentuated swaying, luscious curves and made him remember how her body had felt melded into his not that long ago. However, the stiffness of her shoulders told him she was upset. Even her mouth had tightened into a straight line…a mouth that he also remembered as not only soft and moist, but responsive.

  So responsive he almost forgot he had kissed Bridget to stop the hysterics. It had taken all his willpower to break the kiss after the sweet taste of her tongue. He frowned. He didn’t need to be thinking about that now…not with the hellish nightmare of what had taken place this evening surrounding them.

  Not that he wasn’t in his own circle of hell…lusting for a woman he could not have and burdened with a woman he did not want.

  “Why are you sighing?” Isobel asked.

  “I didn’t realize I was,” Alasdair said.

  “And you are frowning,” Isobel added, narrowing her eyes as she watched Bridget retreat down the hall.

  He managed to shake his arm loose from Isobel’s hold and ran a hand through his hair. “Tonight has been difficult. I doona feel like smiling.”

  “I doona think any of us does,” Braden said.

  Gavin nodded. “’Tis nae a social situation.”

  “I did not mean to imply it was,” Isobel said. “Alasdair looked upset. I was trying to comfort my betrothed.”

  “How thoughtful.” Niall arched a brow at Alasdair.

  Alasdair glared at him. Niall knew damn well he didn’t need or want comforting from Isobel.

  “Perhaps Bridget is the one to be comforted since Shauna is her sister,” Niall continued, impervious to the glare, and then moved toward the doorway. “I think I will check on things in the kitchen.”

  Alasdair could have throttled him. Niall had sent him a not-so-subtle reminder that he’d appointed himself protector of Bridget, at least where Alasdair was concerned.

  Bridget didn’t need protection from him, damn it. Or did she?

  He began to pace, not wanting to think of Niall comforting Bridget in the kitchen. Moving also kept Isobel from grabbing onto him again, although he might well wear holes in his mother’s carpet by the time this evening was over.

  He looked at the stairs as the parson came back down. Robert wasn’t with him. Alasdair hadn’t heard the door splinter, so the doctor must have allowed Robert inside.

  “Is there any news?”

  The parson shook his head. “We just have to wait.”

  Margaret appeared. “Bridget said for ye to come and eat.”

  Alasdair tried not to appear too much in a hurry. Bridget had to be worried about Shauna, although he knew from personal experience that keeping busy was better than sitting and fashing. Still, he wanted to be the one to lend support, not his brother.

  And Bridget had kept busy. When they entered the dining room off the kitchen, the table was set. Slices of cheese and bread had been put out and platters of mutton and vegetables warmed. His brothers and Margaret took their usual seats, and Alasdair noted that Isobel had taken his mother’s place at the end of the table. Bridget had returned to the kitchen.

  After the parson said grace, his brothers took only small portions of food, a sure sign they were simply biding time for news. Only Isobel and her father filled their plates.

  “Are you not going to eat?” she asked Alasdair when he remained standing.

  He shook his head. He had no appetite. Bridget had not come back from the kitchen either. “I will see if Bridget needs any help,” he said, ignoring Niall’s frown as he left and made his way down the short hall.

  Bridget stood by the sink, her back to him, looking out the window into the dark night. Alasdair hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to disturb her. Sometimes people needed time alone. He was about to turn away when he saw her shoulders shake. She was crying.

  He crossed the room in four strides. “Are ye all right?”

  Bridget started and swiped at her face with her hands, not turning around. “I am fine.”

  “Nae.” Alasdair
wanted nothing more than to gather her into his arms and hold her close, but when he put his hands on her shoulders, he felt her resistance. She didn’t want him to see her tears. Alasdair understood pride. Instead of trying to turn her around, he stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders gently.

  She didn’t say anything, and neither did he. Sometimes words did not suffice. Gradually, he felt the tension lessening and her sniffles stopped. He would have been content to stay just where there were for hours, except Niall interrupted them.

  Alasdair turned slowly, fully expecting his brother’s wrathful glare, but instead Niall’s face was blank.

  “The doctor is in the parlor waiting to speak to us.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Bridget took a deep breath to steady her nerves at Niall’s announcement but continued to stare out the kitchen window a moment longer. Whether she wanted to forestall the doctor’s news or simply prolong Alasdair’s ministrations, she didn’t know. His touch soothed her and she felt his silent strength seep through her. She didn’t even know why she’d cried. The last time she remembered crying was years ago at the news her father had been killed. Even at Brodie’s funeral, her eyes had only slightly misted over. She was the strong one. People counted on her. She took another deep breath and slowly turned around as Alasdair stepped aside.

  “Did the doctor give any indication?” she asked.

  “Nae,” Niall answered and offered his arm.

  Bridget would have preferred to hold on to Alasdair, but as soon as they entered the parlor and she felt the invisible daggers Isobel sent her way, she was glad Niall was escorting her. At least the girl had not come into the kitchen where the knives were real.

  Not that Bridget cared at that particular time. She sank down beside Margaret on the sofa. Isobel had taken one of the wingchairs across the room with her father standing by her. Her mouth turned to a pout when Alasdair stayed clustered with his brothers behind the sofa. She sent another petulant look in Bridget’s direction.