Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “I’ve nae seen her today,” the harbour master answered. “Did she say she was coming here?”

  “Nae. I mean, I doona ken.”

  The harbour master shrugged. “No ship has come in, unless ye want to count the Alana out there, and she wasn’t bringing in cargo.” He thumbed through a small stack of papers. “The Sea Wolf is due in this week and so is Gunhilde, but for now, there is nothing that requires attention.”

  “Thank ye.” Alasdair hid his disappointment as he turned and left. Bridget was probably with Margaret, for which he should be grateful. The one thing he missed about Isobel’s bringing lunch each day was that Bridget had accompanied her, although he doubted by choice, now that he thought on it.

  As he walked back to Robert’s house, Alasdair’s thoughts turned to the odd proposition Isobel had mentioned.

  A member of Parliament. If he even mentioned it, his brothers would probably laugh him right out of the house. Or else they would seriously consider his mind had gone and he needed to be locked up somewhere. The young lads would probably jest that he wanted to be a lord. Margaret would probably remind him he was Scots, not English. What would Bridget say? Oddly enough, he valued her opinion more than his family’s. For now, though, it might be wise to keep the whole idea to himself. At least, until he could determine what part Owen MacLean played in this.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bridget let herself in through the kitchen door and hung her shawl on the wall hook. Joanna turned from the counter where she’d been kneading dough in a bowl. “It did nae take ye long to look at a boat.”

  “Och, well. I could see the crew was still working on the patch. Nae need to walk to the water’s edge for that.” She washed her hands in the basin Joanna kept handy, and then scooped up potatoes waiting to be sliced and moved to the table. There wasn’t any reason to say she’d turned back because she’d seen Isobel talking with Alasdair near the shore. Or that Isobel had been smiling and animated. Or that Alasdair had laughed too. Or that Isobel had reached up to kiss Alasdair, and he’d stared after her when she walked away.

  No reason to even think about what she’d seen. These strange feelings of jealousy irritated her. How many times did she have to remind herself that Alasdair was betrothed? She’d been reminded every day when Isobel had dragged her along with those box lunches to Robert’s house. Mercifully, those had stopped since Owen arrived, so perhaps he did serve a purpose after all.

  Bridget frowned. At first, when she’d heard Owen went to the vicarage for lunch every day, she’d felt a bit of hope, like charred ashes rekindling in a sudden breeze, that maybe Owen would be taken with Isobel. That maybe he would do something foolish like compromise her and Alasdair would be set free. It was a sinful wish. If she were Catholic, she’d no doubt be spending hours on her knees in penance. Bridget wondered if perhaps she truly was going barmy. She, who had always been logical, sensible, and calm under pressure, couldn’t stop her reaction to Alasdair’s presence. Her body heated, her breasts swelled, a newly found sensation pulsed between her thighs, and she tingled all over. She prayed no one would notice her agitated state. She had no right to want Alasdair like she did, yet she couldn’t stop her thoughts, nor could she stop wishing Owen would make just one small mistake that would render him the groom.

  But then Bridget knew Owen wasn’t stupid. He never had been. Given how glib he’d become, Bridget suspected he’d flattered the cook into insisting he come for her meals. Most likely, Reverend Howard took his meals with them. Why wouldn’t he? Bridget was just indulging herself with wild fantasies about what could be…and she couldn’t remember ever indulging herself in such. Ever. Not even when she’d read tales of mermaids and selkies and Nessie to her sisters when they were young. They’d wanted to know if the selkies—seal-like creatures who shed their fur to walk as human women along the shore on moonlit nights—would let them wear their coats or if they could ride Nessie as she plunged to the depths of the loch and then back up. Bridget had always smiled indulgently at how her sisters let their imaginations run wild. Now hers was doing the same, and she was not a child.

  What would she do next? Try and beckon the fairies and leprechauns that her sister Fiona insisted existed, but Bridget had never seen? Maybe ask for their help?

  “Are ye going to be cutting those potatoes?” Joanna asked.

  Bridget started. Good heavens. She’d been sitting there holding the potatoes and staring off into space like a featherbrain. “Aye.”

  “Then ye will need this,” Joanna said as she handed Bridget a paring knife.

  “Thank ye,” Bridget replied as she took the knife.

  “I’m going out to the garden to get some kale,” Joanna said.

  Bridget started slicing the potatoes. This was practical work, something that was useful, unlike entertaining silly notions of summoning the Fae. Once she finished the potatoes, she’d start on the other vegetables lying on the counter. She’d just concentrate on what was real instead of what was not.

  Bridget heard the sound of soft, feminine laughter and looked up, expecting to see Margaret or Shauna.

  But there was no one there.

  * * * * *

  I’m going to drive myself stark raving mad, Alasdair thought as he watched Bridget from across the dinner table that night. After days spent leaving the house early and lingering elsewhere well into the evening to avoid Bridget—or more honestly, his reaction to her—he found he couldn’t stay away any longer. She might have spent those lunch times talking more to his brothers than to him, but at least she’d been there. Like a besotted green lad, he’d basked in just the nearness of her. He found it soothing to watch her as she moved with lithe grace, to catch the faint smell of spice when the wind drifted her scent his way, to hear the sound of her laughter—Alasdair frowned. Hell, what did her brothers say to make Bridget laugh? He didn’t think they were all that funny.

  She laughed now, a light sound like the tinkling chimes his mother kept in the garden. Beside Bridget, Niall grinned like an idiot. Alasdair was sitting too far down to hear what had been said above the animated bickering of Margaret and the young lads, but he saw Niall lean over and whisper something that made Bridget laugh again. Alasdair’s scowl deepened.

  “Is something wrong with your food?” Margaret asked suddenly.

  “Nae. Why?”

  “Ye look like ye want to attack your mutton,” Margaret replied, “and ye are gripping your knife as though ye are nae sure the meat is dead.”

  Alasdair glanced at his hand, surprised to see he did have a death grip on the handle, holding it more like a weapon than an eating utensil, which just proved his suspicion that he was well on the road to madness. He relaxed his hand and shifted the knife. “Force of habit, lass.”

  “We have nae practiced knife throwing in a while,” Ewan said. “Mayhap ye could work with us tomorrow?”

  “Mayhap,” Alasdair replied, keeping his eyes riveted on his brother and Bridget. She was still smiling. What in the world were they talking about?

  “Aye, that would be fun,” Rauri said, oblivious to the fact that Alasdair was straining his ears to hear what was being said farther down the table.

  “We could make it a contest,” Ewan added.

  “Aye,” Alasdair said absently.

  “We could even challenge our brothers,” Rauri said.

  Margaret glared at them. “Doona forget about me!”

  “Ye throw like a girl,” Ewan teased.

  “Aye, ye’d lose for sure,” Rauri said.

  “We’ll add archery then,” Margaret retorted. “I shoot better than both of ye.”

  Damnation, could they not be quiet? Alasdair couldn’t catch a word of the other conversation, but it seemed to be growing more animated. Bridget actually patted Niall’s arm. What the…

  “Do ye think so?” Margaret tugged on his sleeve.

 
Alasdair looked at her. “What?”

  “Do ye agree to include archery?”

  “Archery?”

  “Along with the knife throwing,” Margaret said. “As part of the contest.”

  “Contest?”

  Margaret sighed. “I doona ken what is wrong with ye tonight, but ye are nae paying attention.”

  He was paying attention. Niall had just lathered butter on a warm bannock for Bridget. Had she suddenly hurt her hand that she couldn’t do for herself?

  “Alasdair!”

  He forced himself to refocus. Margaret was giving him the exasperated look she usually saved for Rauri and Ewan. She’d also spoken loudly enough for everyone else at the table to become silent. Even Niall and Bridget were looking his way. Perhaps he should thank Margaret for interrupting their little tête-à-tête.

  “Aye, lass?”

  Margaret drew a deep breath. “Rauri and Ewan want a knife-throwing contest. I want to add archery to it.”

  She spoke the words slowly as though addressing a child who had only minimal knowledge of language, which was a somewhat fitting description at the moment. Alasdair felt like his brain was addled.

  “It sounds good to me,” Gavin said.

  “’Twill give us a chance to sharpen the young lads’ skills,” Braden said.

  “Aye,” Niall added. “’Tis time for a wee break from work to have some fun.”

  His brother was already having fun if whatever he and Bridget were talking about was any clue. Then Alasdair began to smile. He had taught all his brothers how to throw a knife and shoot an arrow.

  He would make sure Niall got a good dressing down tomorrow night.

  * * * * *

  The Gunhilde dropped anchor overnight, bringing a midnight arrival of the rest of his brothers from Skye. Less than two hours later, Alasdair felt like a prisoner of war being interrogated by Napoleon himself. Except there were four Napoleons—Aidan, Lachlan, Carr, and Cory—who stood in front of his desk in the library all questioning him at once.

  “What do ye mean, ye are betrothed?”

  “How did a sassenach snare ye?”

  “Are ye daft?”

  “Ye cannae be thinking of going through with it.”

  Alasdair rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. He had gone over various scenarios—of which involved getting out of this mess somehow—to no avail. He saw no way of protecting Margaret if he refused to marry Isobel. Especially now, with Owen’s attentions, any slight slip could be disastrous for her. Isobel would be sure to use any such thing to her advantage. “I doona ken how I can prevent it.”

  “Ye told Sally the two of ye dinnae suit,” Aidan said. “Why nae just tell Isobel the same?”

  “If only it were that simple. There’s more to it.”

  Lachlan eyed him. “Like what?”

  “Isobel has threatened to ruin Margaret’s reputation as well.”

  “What?” Carr, one of the twenty-two-year-old twins, asked.

  “Why?” Cory, the other twin, asked almost in unison.

  Lachlan snorted. “English bitch.”

  Aiden looked thoughtful. “How would this woman do that?”

  Alasdair told them of the conversation he’d had with Isobel and the threat she’d made. “Worst of all, our sister did incriminate herself,” he finished.

  “Who would believe an Englishwoman over a MacDonald?” Carr asked incredulously.

  “Everyone kens MacDonalds are honorable,” Cory added.

  “Niall said the same when I told him,” Alasdair admitted. “But the facts remain the same.”

  “We will need to keep an eye on the lass though,” Lachlan said, “so she gets in no more trouble.”

  Aiden nodded. “Agreed. Meanwhile, we bide our time.”

  “I am afraid time may run out,” Alasdair answered.

  Aidan gave him a long look. “Ye think ye will be happy with the parson’s daughter with her English ways?”

  He would not. Alasdair already knew he didn’t enjoy her company. He sighed. “Just one more problem. Her father—and probably the whole village—thinks I compromised her.” And I may very well have done just that.

  “How?” Cory asked. “Ye said ye dinnae even see her in the woods that day.”

  “’Tis her word against yours,” Carr added.

  “Are ye forgetting that I may actually have compromised her? I doona remember what happened that afternoon that she claims I ruined her.”

  “She had nae bruises, did she?” Cory asked.

  “Nae.”

  “Ye were nae scratched or marked either, were ye?” Carr asked. “If the lass did nae want it, she would have fought.”

  “We ken ye would nae force her,” Aidan said.

  Lachlan snorted again. “None of us has a need to force a lass. There are any number willing to tumble with us. If one says nae, we move on to another.”

  “Aye, but our father always bid us be careful where we spill our seed.” Alasdair sighed. “I doona remember anything. She could very well be carrying my child. I willnae give up a bairn.”

  “Time will soon tell about that,” Aidan said.

  “’Tis hope I have her belly does nae increase,” Alasdair answered.

  “I cannae put a finger on it, but there is something about that lass I never have trusted,” Lachlan said.

  Alasdair raised one eyebrow. Lachlan was the risk taker of the bunch. If he’d lived in London, he probably would have visited the hellhole gambling dens there. He’d given their mother more grey hair than the rest of them put together, but his instincts were almost always dead-center, on target. “What do ye mean?”

  Lachlan shrugged. “She has a look in her eyes that does nae match her actions. She speaks what her father wants to hear, but there is a hard edge to her.”

  “Umm.” Aidan looked at his brothers. “I ken Robert’s father persuaded Reverend Howard to come here, but do we ken anything about what their circumstances were in Glasgow?”

  “I doona think anyone asked,” Alasdair replied, “other than Mrs. Howard died and we figured the reverend wanted a change.”

  “Perhaps a bit of investigation should be done before this marriage is finalized,” Aidan said. “We could contact Simon Trevor to put out some inquiries.”

  “I have a better idea.” Alasdair gave his brothers a genuine smile—the first he’d felt in a long time. “Our solicitor wrote us a letter not long ago about concerns with the weavers’ striking that affects our own workers in Glasgow. Now that ye have returned to help Robert with the house, I’ll go see Trevor. While I’m there, I’ll do a bit of investigating on my own.”

  “’Tis nearly a week’s ride,” Cory said. “Carr and I can ride with ye for safety.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “The more of ye who can help Robert with the house, the sooner he can get it finished. Besides, I doona want to create a commotion about this, else Isobel will want to go along. The Sea Wolf should be dropping anchor in a day or two. I can catch a ride on her and be out of here before anyone even kens I’m gone.” He sat back in his chair, liking the idea the more he thought about it.

  * * * * *

  Even with just a few hours of sleep, they made good progress on Robert’s house the next day with the extra hands. Anticipation for tonight’s knife and archery competition had been building all day even though heavy grey clouds lumbered across the sky, threatening rain. His brothers had been ribbing each other, each boasting he would win both events. They’d even poked at Alasdair, insinuating that maybe his skills had grown dull with the ripe age of thirty. He just grinned and told them they would find out soon enough.

  He was ready to take them all on. He’d felt like a caged bear these last few weeks since his unwanted betrothal to Isobel. A hungry bear, since his growing lust for the woman he wanted and couldn’t hav
e kept increasing. If the clans were still into reiving, he would have set up a raid. He’d even have welcomed a good fight with MacLean, except the man acted more like an English dandy than a Scot. So the competition tonight would give him a way to release his anger. Maybe he’d even be able to think straight again.

  Several hours later, after a hastily eaten dinner of stew—his mother was planning a welcome-home feast for the following evening—all of them crowded into the backyard. A misty drizzle had begun, but no one wanted to postpone the competition. Margaret had set up an archery target at the far end and placed a wood plank against a tree trunk for the knife throwing. Instead of joining her mother, Shauna, and Bridget on the stone bench by the garden, she stood waiting, her jaw set and her eyes sharp as the single-edge daggers she held in each hand.

  Alasdair suppressed a grin looking at his little sister. Dressed in breeches and one of the lads’ shirts with her hair pulled into a queue, she looked almost fierce. A warrior woman, like Boudicca taking on the Romans, only in this case it was her brothers.

  They were showing her no mercy either. Ewan and Rauri openly taunted her, even though their knives barely struck the edges of the board. The newly returned brothers were all giving Margaret instruction as though she’d never handled a knife before. She glowered at all of them, and Alasdair could sense her temper was a mere breath away from exploding.

  Her first throw went wild, missing the board altogether. Ewan and Rauri hooted, making Margaret’s face turn red. Alasdair contemplated telling them to leave her alone but refrained. Margaret would not appreciate his intervening any more than she wanted instruction. More importantly though, if his sister ever needed to defend herself with a weapon, she needed to keep a cool head, regardless of how upset she was.

  A small movement to his right caught his eye. He turned to see Bridget making a slight movement with her hand. He noticed Margaret staring at her and then, surprisingly, his sister gave a short nod and picked up another dagger. She glanced once more at Bridget, who gave her a small smile.