Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  She spoke the words slowly, as though addressing a halfwit, which might be appropriate at the moment since he was acting daft. Alasdair sighed. “Robert did nae say anything.”

  Bridget studied him. “Ye thought to lie to me?”

  He could almost see her hair start to bristle and it seemed to glow brighter, but that was probably the sun coming through the window. “Nae. I doona care for liars.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Alasdair met her steady, unflinching gaze. He suspected Bridget was the kind of woman that, if a man should be so foolish as to deceive her, the man would simply cease to exist in her eyes. He did not want to be that man. “I would nae lie to ye, Bridget. I mentioned to Robert that I would check on the ship and he just nodded and kept working.”

  She looked slightly mollified. “Now that Shauna is mending, I thought to put things in order here. I must do something to pay for my keep.”

  “Ye are Shauna’s sister. Robert does nae expect ye to pay for your keep, and neither does my mither.”

  Bridget managed a small smile. “I like to ken I can make my own way.” She slid the bill of lading toward him. “Perhaps, though, it would nae hurt to share some duties.”

  “Aye.” Alasdair leaned closer to turn the paper around. As he did, the door swung open to reveal Isobel standing there. Anger flashed across her face, replaced quickly with a smile so false and brittle it was a wonder her face didn’t crack.

  She wasn’t the only one angry. Alasdair was getting damn sick of her untimely interruptions. “What brings ye here, Isobel?”

  “When I brought lunch, you were not working. I was worried until Robert told me you had come here. I thought to keep you company.” She turned to Bridget. “Thank you for filling in for me. You may leave now.”

  Alasdair forced himself to keep a grip on his temper. “Bridget and I are working on the accounts. I willnae dismiss her.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth when he realized his error. Bridget would not take kindly to being dismissed by anyone. Already she was pushing away from the desk to stand. Bridget didn’t look at him, nor did she say one word to Isobel. She simply walked out the door, leaving Alasdair feeling like he was the one who had been dismissed, although he still sat in his chair.

  Damn it.

  * * * * *

  Isobel surveyed the table set for Sunday dinner. She’d had to change her plans for the picnic after yesterday’s nearly disastrous meeting at the marine office. Alasdair had been furious with her for telling Bridget MacLeod to leave. He’d told Isobel he wouldn’t be able to have a picnic today, that there was too much work. She’d begged prettily, telling him how disappointed she was. She’d cried. She’d wrapped her arms around him and pressed her breasts against his chest, rubbing herself against his crotch to no avail. The wiles that worked on other men seemed to have no effect on him, and she was beginning to think the man was made of stone. Only when she agreed to apologize to that MacLeod woman would Alasdair agree to Sunday dinner…at her father’s house.

  Isobel had chided herself for not using more diplomacy, not because she should have, but because her plan had been to befriend the woman. She had forgotten that when she’d opened the door and seen Alasdair hovering over that bitch like a dog in heat. Isobel needed Alasdair to be in that state with her, not the damn Scot. If that whore got herself with child before Isobel could, all would be lost.

  Alasdair was Isobel’s best chance of attaining status and power once they married and, more importantly, lived in London while Parliament was in session. The sooner the marriage took place, the better.

  Isobel looked around the dining area. She’d drawn the heavy drapes and added several drops of precious musk oil to the lamp in the foyer. She caught a whiff of the earthy scent drifting into the room. One of her lovers had insisted the smell aroused men. She’d also lit a candelabra to create a feeling of intimacy. The table held two place settings, If Alasdair wanted Sunday dinner at the vicarage because he thought the parson would be present, he’d have a surprise. Her father was sleeping off the laudanum she’d put in his tea after church services. She’d graciously given the cook the afternoon off once the chicken was done. It sat warming on top of the wood-burning stove, steeped in gravy that contained Isobel’s special herbs. She’d put more herbs in the wine she’d already poured. She knew the effects of the aphrodisiac quite well. Alasdair would not be leaving here without having planted his seed.

  He arrived promptly at one o’clock, although he didn’t look happy when she opened the door to invite him in.

  “Why is it so dark in here?”

  “Papa had a horrible headache. The light bothers him.”

  Alasdair looked toward the small parlor. “Is he in there?”

  “He had to lie down.” Isobel moved into the dining room. “He insisted I not cancel the dinner though, since the chicken is done.”

  Alasdair sniffed the air and then narrowed his eyes as he followed her. “Candles?”

  “I suppose I could have lit the chandelier, but it is difficult to get it down and then raise it again.”

  “Ye could open the drapes.” Alasdair moved to the window. “Allow me.”

  “No.”

  He turned. “Why nae?”

  Isobel felt like screaming at him, but she managed to give him her most plying smile. “I wanted this dinner to be special to make up for my bad behavior yesterday.”

  “Have ye apologized to Bridget then?”

  Isobel bit back her frustration. Did his every thought and word have to be centered around that blasted strumpet? Isobel didn’t care one whit what Alasdair’s feelings were, but she was getting mightily tired of being in second place when she was the one betrothed to him. A fact he would be remembering once this afternoon was done. She arranged a demure, docile expression on her face and nodded. “Yes, I apologized this morning after church.”

  Alasdair dropped the curtain cord and came back to the table. “Thank ye.”

  “Of course. I was quite rude.” Isobel had indeed apologized, managing to dab at tears thanks to her acting skills. She’d gone on about how hard it was to control her jealousy over Alasdair because she cared so much for him and she’d misinterpreted what she saw. She’d added that hopefully Bridget understood, since she’d been married to a man she loved very much. Isobel had finished with saying how much she anticipated being married to Alasdair and given a small, girlish giggle for dramatic effect.

  Bridget had studied her and then nodded before linking arms with Shauna and moving on. Isobel had wanted to knock the bitch over the head with something hard, but she remembered in time that her plan was to befriend, not kill. At least, not yet.

  “Please sit down,” she said to Alasdair. “I will bring the plates in.”

  “Can I help ye?”

  Isobel blinked in surprise. She’d never had a man offer to help with bringing food in. Her various lovers always expected to be waited on. Even her father did, although the cook was usually the one who served. “No, thank you. Please sit.” She wanted to make sure she got plenty of the gravy on his portion of chicken. “It will not take me a minute to fill the plates.”

  Unfortunately, he followed her into the kitchen, so Isobel courteously allowed him to carve the chicken while she put the potatoes and bread on the plates.

  “It smells verra good.”

  “Thank you,” Isobel said and picked up the ladle. “You must try some of this gravy. Our cook came up with a special recipe.”

  “’Tis enough,” he said after the first scoop.

  Isobel added one more. “The chicken tastes even better soaked with it.”

  They carried their plates into the dining room and Alasdair pulled her chair. She acknowledged with a small smile like she’d seen the aristocratic ladies do. Once Alasdair became a member of Parliament and she took her place in Society, she woul
d be treated like this always.

  Isobel lifted her wine glass. “A toast.”

  Alasdair looked wary, but he lifted his glass as well.

  She wanted to say to our future, but she didn’t want to scare him off. Not now when her seduction seemed to be working. “To finishing Robert’s house in a timely manner.”

  Alasdair’s expression changed to relief. “Aye,” he said as he took a big swallow. “To finishing the project.”

  “Yes, to finishing the project,” Isobel agreed. Alasdair just didn’t know which project she really referred to. “Let us drink to Robert and Shauna then.”

  “To Robert and Shauna,” Alasdair said and drank more wine.

  Isobel smiled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alasdair heard a female voice, the words incoherent as though coming from a distance through swirls of thick fog, and he mumbled something in response, although he wasn’t sure what it was. Then he felt himself shake…no…he was being shaken. He flailed an arm and heard a decided thump.

  He opened his eyes, feeling as groggy as if he’d spent a night and the better part of a day swilling rotgut liquor. Maybe he had since he was lying on his back staring at a ceiling. Not a tavern. Not his house either. Alasdair moved his eyes slowly from side to side, taking in the room. The parson’s parlor. He was on the sofa in the parson’s parlor. What in hell?

  Beside him, on the floor, Isobel sat up. The thump must have been her landing. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of her. Her hair was mussed and half-undone, the bodice of her day dress was open and had slipped down her arms to reveal shoulders and large breasts, and her skirts were hiked up to her hips.

  Alasdair sat up, ignoring the dizzy sensation of the room spinning around him. “Why are ye undressed?”

  Isobel purred like a kitten. “You should ask yourself the same question.”

  “What?” As the room stabilized, he looked down. He wasn’t wearing his shirt and his breeches were open and pulled down, exposing his shaft and ballocks. He shifted his hips and pulled his breeches up to cover himself. “What the—”

  “We made love,” Isobel said.

  “Nae.” Alasdair shook his head. “I would remember that.”

  “You were quite overcome by passion and you passed out.” Isobel heaved a contented sigh. “I had no idea a man could soar to such heights.” She smiled at him. “And you were so gentle. You did not even hurt me.”

  Alasdair frowned. Was the woman mad? “I did nae touch ye.”

  “You did more than touch me.” Isobel pushed aside her skirts. “See for yourself.”

  He stared at the streaks of blood between her thighs. Virgin blood. What in the hell had he done? And why couldn’t he remember… Alasdair narrowed his eyes. The wine had tasted too sweet and the chicken gravy had an unusual flavor, although he hadn’t said anything because he didn’t want to insult the cook. But the cook had been gone. Isobel had sent her home.

  “Ye put a potion in the food and drink.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” Isobel began to cry. “I thought you wanted me. You said you did. You said you could not wait for the wedding.”

  The wedding. Damnation. If he’d gotten Isobel with child…

  “What is the meaning of this?” The parson stood in the doorway, gaping at them.

  Isobel clutched her bodice and began to button it quickly. “Oh, Papa. We have sinned.”

  The parson turned his gaze away from his daughter’s state of undress and focused on Alasdair. “What have you done to my daughter?” He held up a hand before Alasdair could speak. “Don’t answer that. It is quite obvious what you have done. I thought you had more restraint than this.”

  He did have restraint, damn it. What was obvious to Alasdair, as his head cleared, was he’d been put in a stupor. He could vaguely recall bits and pieces of what happened. Isobel insisting on his finishing the chicken, then pouring him more wine. He remembered her taking his hand and leading him into the parlor. He thought he had said something about getting back to work, but she’d insisted he sit for a minute and let dinner settle. It had settled all right. He didn’t remember a blasted thing after that.

  “Given what took place this afternoon, I assume you will not object to setting a wedding date soon?” Isobel’s father asked. “My daughter could already be carrying your child.”

  As if Alasdair needed reminding of that. He picked his shirt up from the floor, shrugging into it as he stood. “If her courses do not come within six weeks, I will agree to that.”

  Isobel’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You are going to make me wait?”

  Alasdair gave her an apprising look. What he wanted to do was tell her father that Isobel had tricked him and he didn’t have the faintest idea of what had actually occurred. Even though Alasdair thought Isobel lacked character, only a weak, sniveling sort of bastard would tell her father she was a conniver. “I would nae want to deny Isobel a lavish wedding.”

  Isobel narrowed her eyes and her lips thinned. Alasdair held his gaze steady. He’d just thrown down the gauntlet. He could almost feel her mind churning over whether to accept it. Finally, she tossed her head. “Very well then.”

  Alasdair gave her a slight bow, nodded to her father, and turned toward the door. He may have won this particular skirmish, but he had a feeling he was waging a war that had just begun.

  * * * * *

  Isobel shut the door to her bedroom, tempted to slam it hard enough to break the hinges. If women could gather wealth and command power in their own names, she swore she’d never have another thing to do with a man. They were all bloody fools.

  She’d spent the last half hour forced to listen to her father lecturing about allowing Alasdair to have his way with her. “Proper girls made a betrothed wait for the wedding night. Proper girls hung on to their virtues. Proper girls…” She’d stopped listening after that. As if she cared what proper girls did. She needed the right husband to get ahead and she might have to bear a child to solidify her relationship to the man. She certainly wasn’t gong to settle for a simple working man.

  Isobel knew, from her very improper relationships, that the wives of her aristocratic lovers had full staffs of servants to wait on them. They planned soirees and balls and attended the theatre dressed in the latest fashions and frivolously spent their husbands’ money.

  Nobility married nobility. She recognized that. Becoming some lord’s mistress was the most a parson’s daughter could achieve. She’d considered that, but when someone younger and prettier came along, she’d be dismissed with a small pittance—if she were lucky.

  She wanted more. She wanted status and wealth, enough that she could look down her nose on those snooty Society ladies. After the peerage, the men who held the most power in Britain were members of Parliament. They were decision makers. Law makers. Even the nobility had to obey laws, which made the men of Parliament powerful.

  It wouldn’t take much to convince Alasdair to pursue that course, given his feelings that his countrymen had been turned out and left to starve with the Clearances. All Isobel needed to do was play on his sympathy to persuade him he could help the crofters most by making laws to protect them. She’d already mentioned the possibility to some of the villagers and they’d agreed. He’d listen to them, if not to her.

  While she still had her looks and relative youth, she could convince her titled lovers in Glasgow to make membership happen for Alasdair. Wealthy landowners practically owned the votes in their districts. And then, slowly and carefully, she would ingratiate herself with her husband until he thought her opinions and ideas were his own. The seed of the poppy could help with that as well.

  Isobel cursed silently, lest her father hear. She’d overdone the herbs at dinner causing Alasdair to pass out before he could plant his seed. The next time she was in Glasgow, she would visit the witch woman to find ou
t the right amounts to use. With Alasdair’s size, Isobel had wanted to make sure the herbs worked. How was she to have known too much would have the opposite effect? She’d barely managed to get him to the sofa. He’d been dead weight as she’d undressed him. Still, after she’d arranged her own state of undress, she crawled on top of him, hoping when she shook him awake, he’d think they’d been joined. She didn’t expect to be tossed to the floor.

  At least she’d prepared herself. She walked over to the basin on her dresser, dabbed a washcloth into the water and lifted her skirts to wipe the chicken’s blood she’d saved this morning from her thighs. It was a clever trick she’d learned from a courtesan. Men paid more if they thought a girl was a virgin. It only took a small nick from a razor to her backside to have enough blood to smear between her legs afterwards when the man was satiated and not paying attention. Never take your garters off, the courtesan had said. Men didn’t care if you left them on and they provided a place to conceal the razor. But the chicken blood had saved her from having to cut herself again.

  After she rinsed the cloth out, Isobel dumped the pinkish water into the chamber pot. She had hoped with her father finding Alasdair and her—thank goodness she hadn’t put too much laudanum in her father’s tea—that Alasdair would agree to a fast wedding. Instead, he’d bartered for six weeks. Which meant six weeks of watching him like a hawk and trying to keep him separated from that Scottish bitch.

  Although she would have preferred making Bridget MacLeod a houseguest at the vicarage where she could keep a true eye on her, Isobel didn’t worry too much about an actual coupling taking place in Alasdair’s home. From what she’d gleaned, Bridget was sharing a room with Margaret, which would make things awkward, to say the least. What Isobel had to watch for were walks to the hills, like they’d attempted before. She’d follow them and expose Bridget for the tramp she was. Isobel wasn’t about to let her ambitions be shattered because two people lusted after each other. Fools.

  She sank into her throne chair. Briefly, she contemplated a tryst with another man to impregnate herself and insure Alasdair didn’t escape her marriage plans, but the village was far too small for such a liaison. Then she straightened and smiled. Alasdair took pride in being honorable.