Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  He could have kicked himself for not realizing how this whole situation would affect Bridget by bringing her own loss back to the surface. Maybe he should just haul Niall back and invite him to administer the kick. His brother probably wouldn’t even ask why. Then again, Niall might, given how he seemed to wedge himself between Alasdair and Bridget at every opportunity.

  Alasdair frowned as he watched Niall put his hand protectively at Bridget’s waist as they made their way out the door and down the steps. Was that part of his self-appointed guardianship, or was his brother thinking about courting Bridget? Alasdair deepened his frown. Hell, maybe Niall was the one who needed a kick in the arse. Bridget was still a grieving widow, a fact Alasdair seemed to keep forgetting, and one that Niall needed reminding of.

  At least Isobel was not in sight. She must have gone back to the vicarage. Alasdair fought the urge to push his herd of brothers past it and hurry them along, but Shauna couldn’t walk fast. He sighed. The one fact no one needed reminding about was his betrothal…or the other unfortunate fact that Isobel didn’t arouse him at all. Even her coy suggestion to meet his needs did nothing to stir him, although he did wonder how a parson’s daughter had learned to flirt so well.

  He would have to endure the picnic, whether he wanted to or not. Sunday dinners were expected of every man who courted a woman. Those who were betrothed usually spent part of every day together, but Robert’s house fire had provided Alasdair with an excuse not to do so. While he didn’t like to think of himself as taking advantage of another’s misfortune, he realized something opportune had fallen his way.

  Bridget would be living in his house, at least for a while. He grimaced as he remembered the answer she’d given Mrs. Macgilly. I have nae had time to decide how long I will be here. What had she meant by that?

  He felt someone tug on his sleeve and looked down to see Margaret. He hadn’t even noticed she’d dropped back from the pack. “What?” he nearly growled.

  “Ye doona have to bark at me.” Margaret slapped his shoulder. “I saw ye back here scowling at no one. Why?”

  Alasdair adjusted his tone to avoid another slap. “Maybe ye should nae ask.”

  Margaret ignored his hint. “’Tis Bridget?”

  “Nae.”

  “Aye, ’tis. Ye like her.”

  “Of course I like her. We all do.”

  This time Margaret poked him. “Ye ken what I mean. I’ve seen ye watch her.”

  Alasdair huffed a breath. Once his sister had taken an idea into her head, she was as tenacious as a terrier at a rabbit hole. “Maybe I watch to see how much Shauna’s loss affects Bridget.”

  Margaret gave an unladylike snort. “I meant before Robert and Shauna even came home. Ye and Niall argued about Bridget…” She stopped in midsentence and her eyes went wide. “Ye are jealous of Niall.”

  Alasdair somehow managed to keep from growling again. “I am nae jealous.”

  “Ye are.” Margaret gave him a wicked grin. “That’s why ye have been scowling. Niall is walking with Bridget.”

  His little sister was becoming all too astute, and Alasdair had no intention of carrying this conversation on any further. “I saw young John sitting behind ye during the service. What was it he said when he leaned forward to speak to ye? Did ye want ye to meet him later?”

  Margaret’s grin faded. Her face turned red and then paled. Alasdair raised a brow. His remark had been intended to deflect her curiosity, but perhaps it had been more dead-on target than he realized. He certainly didn’t want Margaret giving truth to Isobel’s claim by disappearing with John again. “Where does he want ye to meet him?”

  “Ah…nowhere.” She looked around a bit wildly. “I think Mither needs me up ahead.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, and bolted like a scared filly out of a paddock’s open gate. Alasdair stared after her, his frown in place for a different reason this time. Had he been so immersed in his own lustful thoughts that he’d been oblivious to his sister?

  What in the hell had Margaret been up to?

  * * * * *

  When Shauna appeared at the breakfast table the next morning, Bridget felt as though a huge weight had been taken off her shoulders. Not that she minded sitting with Shauna for as long as was needed, but staying cloistered inside four walls for days on end didn’t do anyone any good.

  Joanna must have felt the same way since she only said she was glad Shauna had decided to join them and told her to help herself to the chafing dishes still warm on the sideboard. Bridget watched her sister covertly to see if she needed help, but Shauna took a small portion of shirred eggs along with an oatcake and came to the table, her walk steady. A slight noise by the entrance to the dining area drew Bridget’s attention and she turned to see Margaret poking her head around the corner of the door.

  “Are ye hiding?”

  Margaret’s gaze swept the room as though she half-expected something to leap out at her before stepping inside. “Nae.” She went to the sideboard to examine the dishes. “My brothers have already eaten?”

  “Aye,” Joanna replied. “They ate early so they could get to work on Robert’s house.”

  Bridget thought she saw a fleeting look of relief on Margaret’s face, but then it was gone. She wondered if it had something to do with Alasdair. Margaret had seemed quite put out with him at supper last night, and Bridget had caught him watching his sister with the intentness of a shepherd’s dog with only one sheep to guard. She’d meant to ask Margaret about it, but Robert had been in discussion with the MacDonalds regarding rebuilding and hadn’t gotten upstairs until late. By the time Bridget had returned to the room she shared with Margaret, the girl had been asleep. Or maybe pretending to be since she hadn’t stirred this morning either when Bridget left the room. She gave Margaret a brief look. If the girl didn’t want to talk, Bridget would not pry. She remembered only too well that when her brothers had tried to wheedle information from her, she’d only hardened her resolve not to say a word.

  “Would you like to go for a short walk later?” she asked Shauna. “Maybe to see the house?”

  Shauna shook her head. “I doona think I am ready to see the damage.”

  “Och, I should have thought. We can walk in the other direction. The fresh air would do ye good.”

  “Or I could get the carriage from the stables,” Margaret said. “That way, ye would nae strain yourself, but still be outside.”

  “Our carriage has nae been used in months,” Joanna said, eyeing her daughter. “’Twould take young John an hour to clean it.”

  “I could help him.”

  Bridget gave Margaret a sideways glance, an inkling of suspicion beginning to form. Young John, the ferrier’s son, had sat behind them in church yesterday and had said something to Margaret before they’d left. She’d slipped out the kitchen door yesterday afternoon, telling Joanna and Bridget she was going to take a walk. Bridget hadn’t thought much about it at the time since her attention had been focused on Shauna. Hmmm.

  Some things were beginning to make sense.

  “Do nae go to the trouble,” Shauna said. “I will just sit in Joanna’s garden a wee bit and feel the sun on my face.”

  Margaret looked disappointed. “But I—”

  “And Margaret can keep ye company,” Joanna said firmly. “Ye can tell her about your trip to Skye.”

  Shauna turned to Margaret. “Do ye want to hear of it?”

  For a moment, Bridget thought the girl might say no, but good manners—or Joanna’s clearing her throat—made her say yes. Within minutes, both of them were sitting on a stone bench near a trellis of roses.

  Bridget helped Joanna clear the dishes and then found herself with nothing to do for the first time since the fire. Maybe she was the one who needed fresh air.

  “I’m going to take a walk to the hills,” Bridget told Joanna.

  The
other woman nodded. “Just doona go too far.”

  “I willnae,” Bridget answered and took her shawl from a peg near the back door and walked outside.

  The glade was such a peaceful place, just what she needed to clear her head.

  * * * * *

  Bridget had to pass Robert’s house as she walked toward the end of the street and the sand-packed ground dotted with sea grass that led to the foothills. She wondered briefly if Alasdair would see her and send the younger boys to escort her like he’d done to Margaret. Not that Bridget was planning to meet anyone.

  For a quiet side street, there were a fair number of people about. Most of them were younger women Bridget recognized from the bucket brigade on Sunday. They were all carrying covered baskets. Bridget frowned. This was Thursday. Market day was Saturday. What were they doing?

  One of the girls bumped into her as she approached Robert’s house and Bridget caught a whiff of freshly baked bread. The other girls passed by, elbowing each other, and now Bridget caught other delicious-smelling scents. The girl who’d bumped into her hurried after the lot, a determined look on her face.

  Food. The village girls were taking food to Robert and Alasdair and his brothers, which wasn’t surprising since Scots always helped their neighbors in times of crisis. Bridget started to smile as she followed them. Shauna would be pleased to know how much Robert was respected. Bridget knew the men had all eaten a hearty breakfast, but no doubt they wouldn’t turn the offerings away. It would be inhospitable. She wondered why the young women didn’t wait for noontime, though, to deliver the food.

  As Bridget rounded the corner toward the back of the house, her smile faded and she stopped so abruptly she almost toppled forward. Now she understood. She stepped back behind part of the hedge that remained.

  The village girls were blatantly eyeing the men. Shirtless men whose bodies were bronzed from the sun. Sweat glistened on brawny arms and broad shoulders as they wielded axes and swung hammers. Even Rauri and Ewan had sinewy forms that would develop into heavy muscles one day. Robert’s blond hair stood out from the dark heads of the MacDonalds, but Bridget had no difficulty distinguishing Alasdair from his brothers, even though he had his back to her.

  Bridget sucked in her breath. It had been bad enough running into Alasdair half-naked in his hallway, but he looked even more powerful working, the hard ridges of his belly rippling and his arm muscles bulging with effort as he lifted a burned beam and tossed it on a pile.

  She looked back at the girls. They were spreading clothes on a patch of lawn not scorched from the fire. Had they been bringing food every day? Probably. Bridget had been too occupied in Shauna’s room to notice much of anything.

  Not that she blamed the girls. Every one of the MacDonalds was a braw, handsome man. Bridget was surprised that Isobel wasn’t among the girls, but then everyone knew Alasdair was betrothed. The village girls wouldn’t flirt with him anymore than they would Robert.

  The thought had no more than left Bridget’s mind when an open carriage came down the street, the parson’s cook’s husband driving. Isobel sat inside, wearing a blue bonnet with a huge brim to shield her skin from the sun. A lacy white shawl covered exposed shoulders from a dress that looked far too fancy to be worn this early in the day.

  Bridget could see several large baskets on the seat beside Isobel. If she brought food every morning, that explained why the village girls arrived so early. Bridget wasn’t sure whether Isobel did it to deter anyone from flirting with Alasdair—not even a horse could consume that amount—or whether she wanted to boast that food was plentiful in the parson’s household.

  The noise from the hammering and chopping stopped, perhaps because the men had heard the carriage or perhaps because the smells had wafted over to them. Bridget stepped farther into the shadows of the house. She didn’t want to be seen. Even though Alasdair and the rest had pulled shirts on, the image of his bare chest was all too vivid in her mind, and the last thing she wanted to do was watch Isobel fawning on him.

  Isobel descended from the carriage, giving orders to the driver to bring the baskets. She gave the village girls a smirk as she headed toward Alasdair.

  Bridget turned and went back the way she’d come. There was another path to the hills, it would just take longer, but that was all right, since she really didn’t want to see anyone right now.

  Her hopes were dashed when she reached the glade where she’d sat on the rock and dangled her feet in the water. A hunched-over old woman with straggly white hair was digging at something near the root of an oak tree. She turned at Bridget’s approach.

  As wrinkled as her face was, her eyes were surprising clear and sharp. Their darkness contrasted with the white hair. “Doona mind me,” she said. “I was looking for acorns.” She glanced at the burn. “Did ye come to see your future in the water?”

  Bridget shook her head. “I doona have such skill.”

  The hag nodded. “Nae many people do, although young lasses sometimes think they can see the future.”

  “I am nae so young.”

  “Ye are nae so old as me,” the woman said and held up an acorn. “Nor so old as this.”

  “Did that nae just fall from the tree?”

  The crone gave her a toothy smile. “Aye, but before this grows, the tree has stood for many a year. I like to keep one in my pocket. ’Tis a reminder to be patient if ye want to persevere.” She tottered toward Bridget. As she pressed the acorn in her hand, Bridget felt strength in those gnarled fingers and wondered if the old woman had had to survive on her own. “Thank ye,” she said.

  “Ye are welcome, lass,” the woman said and began down the path Bridget had just come from. “Sometimes, when things seem hopeless, ye just have to wait.”

  Bridget tucked the acorn into a pocket and watched her go down the hill. Perhaps those were words to remember.

  * * * * *

  Alasdair told himself the only reason he was going to the marine office on a Saturday morning was because a ship had anchored in the bay and he wanted to make sure its cargo was not intended for Robert. Alasdair knew Robert didn’t want to leave overseeing the construction of his house, so he’d offered to check.

  He certainly wasn’t here because Bridget had walked this way this morning.

  As he approached the building, he paused with his hand on the doorknob. The last he’d seen of Bridget had been Thursday forenoon, when he’d caught a glimpse of her seemingly hiding around the corner of Robert’s house. He’d hoped she’d step out, but Isobel had arrived at the most inopportune moment. Still, Alasdair had allowed himself a bit of smugness to think perhaps Bridget had come to watch. His brothers had a running wager over which of them could attract the most women and made quite a production of flexing muscles and showing off their strength. Neither Robert nor Alasdair attempted to stop the exhibition since more work got done.

  However, Alasdair’s ego had been put to rights when Joanna mentioned later that Bridget had gone for a walk that morning but said she had a headache when she’d returned and taken a tray in her room for supper.

  He hadn’t seen her last night because they’d all worked late finishing a part of the roof to keep rain out. His mother had a big kettle of stew and fresh bread waiting, but Bridget had retired by the time he’d come in.

  Now that Shauna was up and about, there really was no reason for Bridget to be sequestered in her sister’s bedroom, nor was there a reason why she should be so tired she went to her own bed early. Was Bridget avoiding him? The idea stung.

  Alasdair opened the door and walked in. The harbour master jerked his head toward the smaller office that was Robert’s. “The MacLeod woman already took the bill of lading.”

  So the ship did have goods for Robert. Alasdair felt himself breathe a sigh of relief. At least now he had an excuse for being there. He gave a brief knock, not waiting for a response before he entered.


  Bridget looked up from the desk and frowned. “What are ye doing here?”

  Those weren’t the most welcoming words she could have used, but Alasdair chose to ignore the tone. “Robert wanted me to check on the ship.”

  One of Bridget’s eyebrows rose. “I told Robert this morning I would do that.”

  When had she seen Robert? Bridget hadn’t come downstairs for breakfast until they’d all left. “Well, I am here.” Alasdair dragged a chair over and sat beside her, close enough to catch the fresh scent of soap and slight smell of something spicy surrounding her. If he moved a bit closer, he’d be able to feel her body heat too. He willed himself to stay where he was. “Can I see the paperwork?”

  Bridget shifted in her chair, but she did not move away. Instead, she folded her hands over the slips of paper. “Does Robert nae think I can do this?”

  Alasdair didn’t want to get Robert into trouble. “He did nae say that.”

  Her brow went higher. “What exactly did he say?”

  Hell. Why had he even implied Robert wanted Alasdair’s help? He knew the answer. He didn’t want to admit he’d followed her so he could spend time with her. She stirred slightly and he caught the spicy scent wafting from her hair again. What was it exactly? Cinnamon? Cloves? Ginger? His mother made heather soap, but this was different.

  Bridget tapped her fingers impatiently and Alasdair’s attention was drawn to her hands. He really liked her hands. Liked watching how graceful yet how strong they were, much like Bridget herself. Her beautiful, long fingers could wrap around—

  “Well?” she asked, bringing him out of the beginning of a much-repeated fantasy.

  “Well?” he repeated, trying to remember what last had been said.

  Bridget took a deep breath, which made her breasts rise, a motion Alasdair didn’t especially need to see, given the train of his thoughts. The exasperation on her face reminded him the sigh had not been for his benefit.

  “What did Robert say?”