Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Why ever would you want to go to that tiny island?” she asked.

  “Kelp. It has become a very lucrative trade. I’m always looking for successful business opportunities.”

  Isobel eyed him speculatively. “Are you an English businessman? Your accent sounds like you have spent time in London.”

  Owen smiled at her. “Very astute, Miss Howard. I went to boarding school north of London and then clerked for Nathan Rothschild in the city. I came back recently to extend my father’s holdings near Glenfinnan.”

  “So you intend to stay in these parts?”

  “I will probably be spending most of my time in Glasgow, setting up shipments with a line there.”

  “I absolutely love Glasgow,” Isobel said. “It is such a modern city.”

  Alasdair gave Isobel a sideways glance. Was she interested in Owen MacLean? She certainly asked a lot of questions, and Owen was acting attentive. Perhaps he should encourage their conversation.

  “I have to get over to Robert’s,” Alasdair said to Owen, “but you can wait inside the marine office until the boat is upright. Miss Howard sounds like she wants to hear more about Glasgow.”

  Isobel narrowed her eyes slightly and then quickly changed her expression to a smile.

  Owen cast a questioning look at Alasdair who managed to nod. “It does get a wee bit lonely out here for a city lass.”

  Owen raised an eyebrow in interest as he looked down at Isobel. “You are from Glasgow?”

  “Yes. I have some excellent social contacts there that might be of use to you.” Isobel showed a dimple. “If you have the time.”

  He gave her a slow and easy smile. “I have the time.”

  “I’ll be off then,” Alasdair said as he turned away, barely able to keep himself from grinning. If Owen MacLean took an interest in Isobel, he might prove useful after all.

  * * * * *

  Isobel watched Alasdair leave, not quite sure why he was being so agreeable. Perhaps he wanted her to find out more about Owen MacLean’s business aspects. They were rivals in a way, since they both were involved in the kelp industry. Maybe Owen had business contacts she could use—or more correctly, who would aid her in attaining a Parliament seat for Alasdair.

  Or maybe Alasdair was trying to shunt her off on to Owen. She knew there were no warm feelings between herself and Alasdair. Not that it mattered. Her goal was to attain status for herself, as well as a townhouse in Mayfair, but to do that the stubborn man had to marry her.

  She looked at Owen with renewed interest. She had met many men of his ilk…suave and sophisticated, smooth talking and sure of themselves, used to getting women into their beds.

  Perhaps she should act the part of a besotted girl. The sooner she got herself with child, the sooner she could convince Alasdair the baby was his. Then there would be no question about marrying her. She looked around. The villagers—the ones who weren’t actively working on the boat, were standing along the shore gawking. Alasdair and his brothers would be working on Robert’s house. Now was as good a time as any to try out her plan.

  Isobel linked her arm with Owen’s. “Instead of waiting here for the boat to be readied, would you like to take a walk in the hills?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Why does everyone keep following me around?” Margaret asked three days later as she and Bridget walked to the open market. “I willnae get lost in Arisaig.”

  “Not everyone is following ye,” Bridget replied. “’Tis only me today, and ye will need help carrying things back from the market.”

  Margaret halted. “Ye and Shauna have nae let me out of sight. Every time I leave the house, one of ye is with me. And doona think I doona see Rauri and Ewan skulking along behind as well.”

  Bridget sighed. She’d warned Shauna that Margaret was too smart not to figure things out. They’d agreed that warning Margaret about Owen would just pique her interest, so they’d tried to accompany her whenever she left the house. Bridget didn’t know if Alasdair had instructed the lads to follow or if they were simply trying to aggravate their sister. Whichever it was, the boys were aggravating her by complicating the situation.

  “Your brothers doona want trouble with the MacLeans.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Margaret drew her brows together. “The MacLeans seem nice, especially Owen.”

  Owen was the trouble, but how could Bridget say it? In just three days, he’d managed to captivate half the village girls, including the MacKenzie sisters, much to Gavin’s and Braden’s ire. While his vessel was being patched by its crew, Owen seemed to be everywhere. At the market, he was solicitous, carrying goods for the ladies to waiting wagons and helping their daughters to their seats on the wagon benches. Many of them managed to stumble, and Bridget didn’t think they were clumsy. At the small general store, Owen politely opened doors for townsfolk, bowing slightly with a slow smile at the girls, which in turn made them giggle. Careful not to offend the fathers, Owen bought rounds at the public house, although Niall reported the man didn’t indulge much himself. Owen was seen at the smithy and stables discussing horses, and at the small dock where the local fishermen brought in their catch. He engaged the crofters on possible improvements to their plots of land. He even made a donation at the vicarage, a fact that got him invited to Sunday dinner along with Alasdair.

  Now that was a dinner Bridget wished she had been privy to. She had half-expected Alasdair to return with bruised fists, but he had seemed surprisingly reticent when he’d returned.

  “Ye doona like Owen, do ye?” Margaret asked.

  Bridget sighed again. She didn’t consider liking him. She didn’t trust him. She sensed he was plotting something, but she wasn’t sure what. “Owen has spent most of his life in England—”

  “I ken that,” Margaret interrupted. “Mither says there is no reason to still hate the English.”

  “That is true. What I mean is he is used to living in London. People act differently there—”

  “I ken that too,” Margaret said. “’Tis why I want to talk with him. I want to ken what it’s like in other places.”

  Bridget doubted Owen’s lifestyle in London was anything Margaret needed to know about. Still, she could understand why Margaret would be curious. The girl was an adventurous person—but she didn’t need that kind of adventure. Bridget tried again.

  “Owen is used to having his own way. He expects to be in control.”

  Margaret laughed. “Like my brothers doona do that too?”

  “Owen tried to force Shauna to marry him, not because he cared about her, but because he wanted an alliance with the MacLeods—”

  “’Tis common enough,” Margaret said, not sounding like she was deterred in the least. “Besides, I doona want to marry the mon. I just want to spend some time talking to him.”

  Spending time talking to Owen might very well lead to a compromising position in which marriage was the only option whether Margaret wanted it or not. Had she not taken note of what had happened to Alasdair? Not that Bridget could comment on that without sounding plaintive. She tried a different tact.

  “Vying for Owen’s attention is just what he wants ye to do. Have ye nae noticed how he flirts?”

  “Well—”

  “Do ye want to look like the rest of the silly girls acting like mooncalves when they see him?” Bridget asked.

  Margaret frowned. “Nae.”

  “That is why,” Bridget said, hating to sound so harsh, “Shauna and I come with ye. We doona want Owen to think ye are following him around like a lost puppy.”

  “A lost puppy?” Margaret lifted her chin. “Nae man will ever call me a lost puppy.” She resumed walking toward the market. “Ever.”

  Bridget followed, deciding to be silent at this time was the wise thing to do.

  * * * * *

  How long could repairing a blasted p
atch to freeboard well above the waterline take anyway? Alasdair watched as the boat’s crew finished spreading pitch across outside seams. It wasn’t necessary since the tar on the inside of the hull would hold for the short trip up to Loch Morar, but the captain seemed to be extra diligent…or maybe Owen had told him to stall so Owen could have time to bedazzle the villagers.

  Jesu, but the man was everywhere. If Alasdair had to listen to one more crofter or fisherman tell him how Owen had made suggestions to improve profits, he might go stark raving mad. Not that Owen backed up his suggestions with offers to finance those ideas. Instead, the villagers hinted, not too subtly, that perhaps the MacDonalds would be willing to do so. Owen had them so enthralled they didn’t even notice most of their daughters were trailing after the man. They sounded like a gaggle of geese following him around and giggling at his compliments.

  Perhaps all of his actions were a cover to spend time with Isobel. Since the Sunday dinner, Owen had managed to find reasons to be at the vicarage about lunchtime. Even Alasdair had to admit the cook did make a tasty meal—if he could forget whatever Isobel had added to the chicken the day he’d been put in a stupor. Alasdair wasn’t sure if she had even mentioned being betrothed—he certainly hadn’t—but he doubted Owen would be stopped by that if he had an interest in Isobel. In fact, the man had studied Alasdair, much like a wolf might while sizing up a competitor at that Sunday dinner. Alasdair had come as close to laughing as he ever had in the vicarage…if MacLean only knew how gladly Alasdair would have welcomed his pursuit.

  Then there was Margaret. The first three days Owen had been in Arisaig, Alasdair had noticed his sister watching Owen when she saw him on the street or elsewhere. She didn’t join the gaggle of geese since either Shauna or Bridget accompanied her everywhere—and the lads were trailing her—but he sensed her interest. Alasdair hoped MacLean would have enough sense not to act on it, since hell would look welcoming after the MacDonalds got through with him.

  Then, surprisingly, Margaret’s demeanor had changed after she’d come home from the market yesterday with Bridget. Owen had stopped by their house last night to return the clothing his crew had borrowed and Margaret had acted aloof, barely nodding and saying hello. Alasdair had caught Bridget smiling and wondered what she’d said to his sister to cause a change in attitude. Whatever it was, Alasdair had been grateful…until he noticed Owen eyeing Margaret with renewed attention.

  Perhaps the sooner Owen and his crew left, the better.

  Alasdair started walking toward the marine office. He wasn’t sure if Bridget was working this afternoon, but if she was, it might be a good time to talk to her about Margaret.

  Before he had taken more than a few steps, he heard his name being called. He turned to see Isobel hurrying down the slope toward him. Exposed as he was on the open shore with nothing behind him, he couldn’t ignore her, although at the moment, he would have welcomed one of the mythical kelpies—half-horse, half-sea demon—rising from the surf to offer him a ride through the waves. Instead, Alasdair paused and plastered a smile on his face.

  “Did ye need something?”

  “Just you,” she said as came to his side and swept a glance at him through her eyelashes. “We do not seem to be spending much time together.”

  Alasdair forced himself not to grimace. “Ye ken we are busy with Robert’s house. The more hands that can be lent, the faster it will be repaired.”

  “I know that. I finally stopped bringing lunch because you hardly take the time to eat it.”

  Alasdair inclined his head. “We do your cook a disservice by rushing so. Besides, we cannae expect the woman to cook for your guests and us as well.”

  “Do you mean Owen?” Isobel smiled. “Are you jealous?”

  Alasdair almost choked. He couldn’t tell Isobel jealousy was the farthest thing from his mind, but he didn’t want to lie either. “I am glad to see ye so hospitable. Your father did say ye were a good hostess.”

  “Yes, I am quite capable of taking my place in Society.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Entertaining is an excellent quality in a wife, is it not?”

  If you wanted to be a part of Society, Alasdair thought. He hesitated. This might be a good time to point out that the villagers of Arisaig were not society. “We are simple folk here.”

  “Indeed. I am glad you brought that up,” Isobel said.

  Alasdair looked at her warily. “Ye are?”

  “Why, yes. Owen—Mr. MacLean—has been speaking to the villagers of ways to improve their lot.”

  No one needed to tell Alasdair that. “I ken. Some of what I heard requires a large amount of funds.”

  “But you have been concerned with the crofters who have been displaced also, have you not?”

  “Aye,” he said cautiously, wondering where this was leading. “Many of them have gotten jobs in Glasgow with the textile plants. We’ve employed as many as we can in the kelp-burning process.”

  “What if you could do more?”

  Alasdair raised a brow. “Like what?”

  “Mr. MacLean gave me the most brilliant idea.”

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear about any brilliant ideas from MacLean, but Isobel didn’t look like she was going to go anywhere until she’d been heard. Alasdair really wanted to check the office to see if Bridget was there and he also needed to get back to work, but he resigned himself to ask, “What kind of brilliant idea?”

  Isobel tilted her head and looked up at him. “Do you agree that the government should be doing more to help the crofters?”

  “The English do nae concern themselves with the welfare of Scots.”

  “I was not speaking of the English precisely.”

  “Ye are nae making much sense.”

  “I am talking about Scottish government. You could make a difference.”

  Alasdair frowned. “What are ye talking about? I grant ye, the MacDonalds once held the title Lord of the Isles, but King Henry revoked that in 1495. Since Culloden, even the lairdship has been banned.”

  “But Scots are represented in Britain’s Parliament.”

  “Aye, by the likes of them who were awarded English titles.”

  “Only in the House of Lords,” Isobel replied.

  His frown deepened. He had little time for riddles. “Speak plainly.”

  Her lower lip protruded in a pout, then she showed her dimples. “As you said, the MacDonalds were—are—a powerful clan, even if you cannot call yourselves that. Your name still bears weight. In talking to Owen—Mr. MacLean—it occurred to me how someone like you could influence the members of the House of Commons and provide funding and help for those poor people thrown off their lands by the Clearances.”

  “And how would I be doing that?”

  “By becoming a member of Parliament.”

  Had the woman gone daft? Alasdair laughed. “I live in Arisaig. Parliamnet does nae meet here.”

  “True,” Isobel continued as though he hadn’t laughed. “But Glasgow would be a good place to start campaigning. We can move there after we marry. I was…introduced…to a number of influential people that I am sure I can persuade to help. Owen—Mr. MacLean—also has business associates there.” She gave Alasdair another smile. “I can see you are skeptical, so I will leave you to think on it.” She rose on tiptoe to brush a kiss across his cheek. “Just remember what good you could do for all those poor people and the villagers here.” She paused. “Why not talk to them and see if they agree?”

  Alasdair stared after her as she walked away. Maybe he did have a duty to do more. Then he narrowed his eyes. If MacLean had a hand in this, exactly what were they plotting?

  * * * * *

  Isobel forced herself not to hurry as she walked up the small incline from the shore to the village proper. Her former lover, the colonel, had said one of the strategies to winning at diplomacy was not forcing the oppo
nent into action, but rather giving the person time to see the advantages and benefits to be gained. Not that the colonel had talked to her about strategies. She’d eavesdropped at the door to his inner office after he thought she’d already left. She’d gotten quite skilled at forgetting something in another room and offering to show herself out. She knew once her lovers sated their lust, they had no more immediate use for her and turned their attention to business or cronies who often waited for them in the parlor or library. The stupid swine didn’t consider that she might linger about—she’d also gotten good at hiding—and listen to their conversations.

  Isobel had amassed a large amount of crucial knowledge from those talks—enough to use blackmail, if she needed to. After all, how else was a woman to find out what was happening in the real world of status and power? And who held it?

  Isobel was quite proud of the amount of information she’d managed to get from Owen MacLean. Although she’d had to listen to a lot of drivel about past feuds between various clans and the long, tedious wars with the English—like she cared—she’d managed to wean out bits of knowledge she could use. Things like the MacLeod bitch’s brother, Ian, held the English title Earl of Cantford, while his wife was Marchioness of Newburn. A brother, Jamie, managed those estates in England, while another sister—how many of them were there anyhow?—had married an Irish earl who knew the Duke of Wellington, no less. And, to add clotted cream to strawberry jam atop a scone, cousin Shane MacLeod was actually friends with the Duke of Argyll.

  Robert was conveniently married to Shauna MacLeod, which meant he would have accessibility to all that nobility. With those kinds of references and as his stepbrother, Alasdair should have no problem winning a seat in Parliament. And, as his wife, not only would she have status, she would make sure they socialized in London’s elite circles as well.

  For now, it might bode well to continue to befriend Bridget MacLeod even though she despised her.

  * * * * *

  Alasdair entered the harbour master’s office and looked at the closed door of Robert’s room. “Is Bridget working on the books?”