Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  Alasdair wasn’t sure why he was inclined to say good-bye since he was only going to be gone for three weeks or so. He certainly wasn’t at liberty to tell Bridget he would be investigating Isobel’s past, although he hoped by the time he returned, he’d have some information he could use…and he prayed he would not see her belly increasing.

  By the saints and angels—or the Fae that supposedly lived in the Sidhe hills—he prayed that Isobel was not carrying his child.

  The crew was already hauling in the anchor as Gavin rowed the dinghy closer to the hull. Alasdair heard the scrapping of chain against the bow and scrabbled up the rope ladder. Captain Nels raised an eyebrow and, although he didn’t say anything, Alasdair knew the gesture was disapproval of his late arrival. He pushed his duffel behind a locker bolted to the deck and lent a hand coiling the anchor rode. Since the oars were already manned, he then helped unfurl sails and helped hold the rigging taut, although it was probably unnecessary since two sailors climbed nimbly upward to hoist the square topsail on the forward mast.

  A MacDonald always pulled his own weight, and the captain was not going to find Alasdair lacking.

  The Sea Wolf glided through the relatively calm waters past Eigg and Muck, giving Alasdair a chance to introduce himself to the crew and somewhat appease the captain for being late. Then, as the ship reached open water and picked up the stiffer breeze of the Atlantic, Alasdair applied himself to manning sails. Once they passed Tiree and tacked southerly, the prevailing northwesterly winds fully caught the sails, the Sea Wolf picking up speed until it felt as though she was merely skimming the waves.

  Alasdair was not the boatman that his stepfather or Robert was—as eldest son his responsibility was to the crofters and villagers that depended on the MacDonalds—but he’d always enjoyed the exhilaration of sailing. The wind, with the slightly chilly bite of the north, nipped at his ears and caused a refreshing ruddiness to his face. The deck below his feet swayed gently as the ship rode the swells and dropped into troughs, only to rise again like the canter of a well-gaited horse.

  He could understand how the sea lured men to it. On this vast expanse of water, nature showed her great strength and power, then teased men into thinking they could control her with their seaworthy ships…the ocean taunting them to sail on, lulling them with light winds and fair skies, until they were compelled by the Sirens’ song closer to the unseen rocks just below the surface of the ever-cresting waves that rolled on.

  Alasdair felt as though he was awfully close to those rocks himself. He had underestimated Isobel’s ability to scheme, had foolishly allowed himself to be maneuvered into a betrothal. If he couldn’t find a resolution, he would be drowning in the murky depths of misery forever.

  He heard a shout and looked up to the crow’s nest attached to the main mast where the boatswain kept watch. The man was pointing behind them toward the stern. Alasdair turned to look. A low line of dark grey clouds loomed along the horizon, rolling toward them. He didn’t need to be told a storm was coming.

  * * * * *

  Isobel set the cook’s basket of warm scones on the ground and looked from one MacDonald to another. None of them stopped working on Robert’s house as she arrived, which irritated her. They could at least show some appreciation for her effort this morning. She’d insisted the cook make the scones fresh and the woman actually had the audacity to scowl at Isobel for suggesting it. The cook had adamantly refused to prepare any more chicken for the MacDonald’s lunches, saying she wanted some thanks for her efforts. When Isobel responded that returning with an empty basket testified to her cooking skill, the woman had just grunted.

  No doubt that Owen MacLean was responsible for that response. He praised the cook after practically every bite, swearing chicken had never been so tender or so delicately seasoned and the vegetables had been steamed to perfection and the desserts were to do battle over, dulcet and full of rich flavor. The woman had preened like a peacock, but Owen didn’t stop there. He brought the cook heather bouquets from the hills, which made the woman blush and had even given her his fine linen handkerchief when she’d nicked a finger in the kitchen and then insisted she keep it. Isobel wouldn’t have been surprised if the cook had been willing to hunt a boar and prepare the whole thing strictly for Owen.

  Unfortunately, Owen’s gratuitousness didn’t extend to Isobel. Although he was unerringly polite, he was also completely formal. He spoke more to her father about the most mundane and boring things than he did to her. Even her planned seduction of Owen at the glade had been unsuccessful. He’d refused to disappear out of eyesight of the village, claiming he wouldn’t think to compromise her, even after she’d unbuttoned nearly half her bodice and brushed against him. He was as elusive as Alasdair, and she was beginning to wonder if all Scot men were so obtuse.

  And where was Alasdair? She didn’t see him working. She’d not stopped at his house to collect Bridget this morning—befriending that one was about as easy as petting a porcupine—but the hour was late, and she didn’t think he’d still be home.

  With a sigh, she picked up the basket and walked toward the men. “I am looking for Alasdair.”

  Braden continued to hammer. “He is nae here.”

  She could see that, but she tried to hide her irritation. “Where is he?”

  “Gone,” Gavin said, not stopping his work either.

  “Gone? Where did he go?”

  Niall shrugged as he picked up a board. “Glasgow.”

  “Glasgow? He did not tell me he was leaving.”

  Lachlan took several nails out of his mouth and eyed her. “Does he need your permission to go about his business?”

  Of all the brothers, Isobel liked Lachlan least. He was insufferably rude and arrogant and not one bit apologetic for his speech. She stuck out her chin. “I should think he would inform me as to his plans. I am his betrothed.”

  “Ye have nae trapped him yet, now have ye?” Lachlan grinned and returned to his work.

  She barely managed to keep from throwing the basket at him. The man actually turned his back to her. “How dare you—”

  “Alasdair went to Glasgow on business,” Aidan said, giving Lachlan a warning look. “Our solicitor sent a letter regarding the weavers’ strike.”

  Isobel wanted to say that workers were always striking in Glasgow, but she held her tongue. At least Aidan was being polite.

  “Do you know when he plans to return?” she asked, trying to sound calm. She’d planned to cajole Alasdair into a picnic at the glade, only this time she would use a smaller amount of herbs to stir his desire. She only had a few weeks before Alasdair would realize she was not with child, and she knew no man in the village would dare cross a MacDonald by bedding her. Owen had been her one hope, and he hadn’t been helpful at all.

  “He dinna say,” Aidan replied, “so I doona ken.”

  This was not good news. Isobel bit back her anger at her plans being thwarted. She doubted she’d get much help from any of the men, so maybe she should go speak to Joanna. She should really get to know her future mother-in-law better.

  Isobel smiled at Aidan and turned to leave. “I hope Alasdair returns soon. I shall miss him deeply.”

  She thought she heard Lachlan laugh, but she didn’t look back. Delivering the fresh scones to Joanna would be a perfect opening to get the information she wanted.

  * * * * *

  Margaret answered the door when Isobel knocked, and Isobel barely held back a sniff of disdain. Dressed in her brother’s breeches, with a linen shirt half-tucked in and her hair a jumbled mess that looked like it hadn’t been combed in days, Margaret looked more like a street ruffian than a girl. And her feet were bare. Had the girl no sense of propriety at all?

  “Is your mother here?” Isobel asked when Margaret didn’t say anything.

  “Aye. She’s in the kitchen.” Margaret didn’t move either.

&nbs
p; Really, the girl was insufferable. “Are you not going to invite me in?”

  Margaret was spared the response as Joanna came up behind her and she reluctantly moved aside. Isobel fixed a smile on her face.

  “I thought I would bring you some fresh scones that our cook baked this morning.”

  Joanna had a guarded look on her face, and for a moment, Isobel thought maybe she would not be invited in, but then Joanna opened the door wider.

  “Come in. That was kind of ye.” She turned to Margaret. “Would ye put the kettle on for tea?”

  Margaret hesitated. “She probably wants to ken where Alasdair has gone.”

  Isobel kept her smile plastered in place lest she snarl at the little bitch. “Actually, I am aware that Alasdair has taken a business trip to Glasgow.”

  “Well, do ye—”

  “Margaret. The tea, please,” Joanna said.

  “Aye, Mither.” Margaret frowned, but walked off to the kitchen.

  Isobel exchanged boring pleasantries with Joanna, waiting for the tea to be brought. She didn’t really care about old man Macpherson who had gout so bad he could hardly walk, or the widow Macrae who’d come down with a stomach ailment, or the fact that a MacDonnell crofter had broken his arm and a number of villagers had gone out to help him with his crops. She had a hard time stifling a yawn, but Joanna acted as if these people were all important, so Isobel nodded and looked appropriately interested.

  Margaret finally brought the tea and plates. Isobel was glad that put an end to the drivel regarding the villagers. She wished Margaret would leave, but the girl had planted herself in one of the wing chairs.

  “So,” Isobel said after everyone had tea and a scone, “do you have any idea how long Alasdair may be gone? I already miss him.”

  Margaret snickered, and Isobel wondered if it was a trait that ran in the family. Maybe it was because Joanna gave her the same stern look Aidan had given Lachlan earlier.

  “I am nae sure,” Joanna said. “With the weavers striking, several of the other unions and guilds are supporting them and nae working either. Alasdair wanted to make certain the kelp burning and shipping was not being held up.”

  Isobel didn’t care about the workers either. They were always complaining about something…wages, working conditions, too many hours. What she needed to know was when the idiot would be back so she could attempt another seduction before it was too late. “He gave you no idea at all?”

  “Nae. It could be several weeks.”

  She didn’t have several weeks. A thought occurred to her. What was that old adage about if a mountain wouldn’t come to a person…? If Alasdair was not coming home soon, she would go to Glasgow. The idea was brilliant. She could use the excuse of purchasing a trousseau for her wedding. She would stay with her aunt, who always had two drams of whisky in the evening—for medicinal purposes she said—and who would be sound asleep by nine o’clock. That would leave Isobel plenty of time to rendezvous with one of her former lovers and make a baby.

  And if she could lure Alasdair to her bed while she was in Glasgow, so much the better. He could not deny the child was his. The more Isobel contemplated the whole thing, the more pleased she was. Her smile became genuine. She’d love to see the look on Bridget’s face when she heard the news that Isobel had gone to Glasgow too.

  Isobel looked around. Where was the MacLeod woman? Maybe Isobel would just tell her the news right now. She managed to keep her voice light. “Where is Bridget, by the way? I didn’t see her earlier when I walked by.”

  Margaret snickered again. “Bridget went to Glasgow too,” she said. “They both left on the same ship.”

  Isobel’s face froze even as white-hot rage tore through her. The sleazy bitch thought to take Alasdair from her? It wasn’t going to happen. Isobel would make sure of that just as soon as she got to Glasgow.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Bridget felt the boat heel sharply to port only seconds before what sounded like bullets hitting the deck overhead. She heard someone shout a command to lower sails, followed by the pounding of boots as the ship listed dangerously over once more, almost causing her to slip off the bunk. She probably would have had it not been for the wooden fiddle around the edges.

  The wind howled through the rigging like a screaming banshee, and Bridget realized the original hammering on the deck must have been hail. She could hear the steady pounding of rain. The Sea Wolf was obviously in the throes of a real blow, as her cousin Shane would have called it.

  Robert hadn’t mentioned anything this morning about the barometer falling, but Bridget knew that sudden squalls did occur sometimes. Storms rolling off Iceland were far more predictable, but this certainly wasn’t one of them. If she were the superstitious sort, she would think she’d conjured up the storm herself—or maybe an irritated Neptune had helped—since the tumultuous motion so closely mirrored her own troubled thoughts.

  Had she done the right thing in leaving?

  When Robert said yesterday he wanted someone to go to Glasgow to keep an eye on the office, Bridget had been sure the move was a golden solution for everyone involved. She was putting time and distance between herself and Alasdair, although it seemed the farther the ship sailed, the closer Alasdair seemed to be, at least in her mind. Such foolishness. She was not given to wild flights of fancy. She was only indulging in this kind of nonsense because she’d been cooped up in the cabin for several hours with nothing to do but think. Those thoughts inevitably led to remembering how very much Bridget wanted to stay locked in Alasdair’s arms or, even better, turn around and press the length of her body against his, wrap her arms around his neck and turn her face up for his kiss. A forbidden kiss, but one that was even more tempting for having tasted him before. Like Eve holding the apple, how long would she have been able to withstand that temptation and not stop at a kiss? A temptation as ancient as time itself. Succumbing to such feckless behavior was debased and disreputable, which brought Bridget full circle to why she was on this ship.

  She would eventually have given in. There was no sense in denying what she felt anymore. Her comfortable marriage to Brodie couldn’t compare to all the new sensations that assailed her senses. Everything about Alasdair attracted her. Not only his masculinity, his strength, his scent, but also, his sense of duty and honor. He had done the right thing in agreeing to marry Isobel. Bridget’s traitorous body—with the strange urges and compulsions that grew stronger each time she was close to Alasdair—would eventually not have cared that she was stealing another woman’s man, that she was taking what was not hers to take. That would make her no better than the worst slattern in the streets or the adulterous, hedonistic women of the ton.

  Better that she was putting time and space between herself and Alasdair.

  * * * * *

  Alasdair took back his benevolent thoughts of understanding the lure of the sea and instead muttered a curse as the first pellets of hail battered the crew. The ice, along with a wind that struck with the ferociousness of a highland blizzard only added to the misery of the crew scrabbling to take down sails as the boat heeled over, burying its port rail in the churning water.

  Even Captain Nels seemed surprised at the sudden fierceness of the storm. Within minutes of appearing as a black line on the horizon, it had rolled over the water producing huge swells and confused seas. He’d quickly taken the helm to point the bow into the wind to avoid being swamped, but a boat as massive as the Sea Wolf didn’t come about easily, especially with sails luffing while the sailors tried to adjust them.

  Alasdair knew he was too much of a landlubber to be of help with the sheets in this weather condition, so he put his weight into helping the captain maneuver the wheel, pushing his side of the wheel around while Nels pulled it over. Slowly, over what seemed like endless minutes, the Sea Wolf rounded up, her great bow lifting and slicing through a rising swell, splitting the crest and sending the
water neatly sluicing to port and starboard. The boat continued to pitch like a bucking horse, but at least she was upright. The hail was replaced by a steady rain as the wind eventually slacked and the brunt of the storm passed over them to roll on.

  “All hands accounted for?” Captain Nels asked when his quartermaster approached the helm a short time later.

  “Aye, Captain,” the man said. “Just a bit wet.”

  Soaked, sodden, and bedraggled are more fitting terms. Alasdair looked at the crew. There hadn’t been time to pull out foul-weather gear, and the whole lot of them looked like drowned rats, except these rats weren’t about to desert ship. They simply slicked back wet hair from their eyes and began preparing to re-hoist the reefed sails. Shane and Robert had both spoken often of the hardiness of their crews, and Alasdair could see what they meant.

  Captain Nels looked at the pedestal-mounted compass in its brass housing and adjusted their heading. “Thank God that blow was short. We did not lose much time.”

  Alasdair bit back a grin. Trust a captain of Viking origin to call a vicious storm a blow. Nels somewhat reminded him of his stepfather. When Erik Henderson had arrived in Arisaig nearly twenty years ago, Alasdair’s mother had taken one look and declared Thor himself had arrived. While his stepfather didn’t carry a hammer, he did present an iron fist at times when his unruly stepsons needed to be brought to task. Most of the time though, he preferred to be at sea. It was something that Alasdair suspected was born into a man.

  Captain Nels turned over the helm to his quartermaster. “I’m going to go thank the crew.”