Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  Alasdair watched as the captain moved around the deck, stopping to talk to each man. He slapped a shoulder or two, shared laughs, and moved on.

  Both Erik and Robert had spoken of the importance of making the crew feel appreciated. Even though the captain’s word aboard a vessel was law and subject to immediate dismissal—or being tossed overboard in olden days—if not obeyed, a wise captain also knew his own life depended on his crew’s ability to work together. As Alasdair had just witnessed, they’d kept the ship from being damaged and they’d kept themselves intact.

  Alasdair shook his head as a comparison lodged inside his mind. If the English would treat the Scots like a captain did his crew, maybe there would be a chance for a real union and not just tolerance for a government while trouble simmered below the surface.

  Glasgow was a hotspot for that kind of trouble. He wondered if he could help change it.

  * * * * *

  After what seemed like hours keeping one hand braced against the wall of the cabin while the other hung on to the bunk’s fiddle, Bridget was relieved when the ship began to steady herself. The excessive pitching slowed to a rocking-chair movement and the heavy rolling became more of a gentle, lulling sway. The brunt of the storm must have passed. Bridget flexed her arms to loosen tight muscles just as a knock sounded on her door. “Yes?”

  A lad not old enough to shave opened the door and stuck his head around. “I brought ye some bread and broth. Me da says in case ye have a queasy stomach.”

  Although Bridget was not prone to the sea malady, she realized that she was hungry. She’d slipped out of house this morning with nothing to eat. “’Tis kind of ye.” She motioned for the boy to put the tin bowl he was holding on the small table. “Who is your da?”

  The boy’s face lit with pride. “He is the cook. I am learning his trade. Captain Nels says he’s had none better than my da.”

  That would explain the youth’s presence then. Although passenger ships often employed cabin boys, working ships like the Sea Wolf most only took on adult, able-bodied men. Bridget sipped a spoonful of soup, finding it lightly seasoned and flavorful. It tasted like it had been strained off a vegetable and mutton stew. She smiled at the lad. “I think the captain has the right of it. This is very good.”

  The boy grinned lopsidedly and shoved a lock of reddish hair away from his face. “I will tell me da ye said that.”

  “What is your name?” Bridget asked when it appeared the lad was in no hurry to leave.

  “Will,” he answered, leaning against the doorway.

  “My name’s Bridget,” she said as she took a bite of bread that was surprisingly soft, as though it had just been baked, unlike the hardtack and salt biscuits usually kept on board a boat. She wondered how Will’s father kept the bread from getting soggy.

  “Och, everyone kens who ye are,” Will said.

  Bridget looked up from the bowl. “Why would the crew ken who I am?”

  “The sailor who helped ye on aboard told everyone below we had a lady sailing with us.”

  “I see.” Bridget knew many sailors held superstitions about women on board. She also knew women weren’t always safe travelling alone. Was that why the captain had her escorted to this cabin? So she wouldn’t cause a disruption? She was hardly the type to entice men.

  “Ye are even prettier than they said,” Will blurted and then blushed and looked at the floor.

  Bridget blinked and pretended not to notice the boy’s sudden shyness. She’d never been the object of anyone’s fascination and she might have been amused, except the boy looked miserable. “’Tis kind of ye to say it, but if the men are talking, does the captain wish me to stay in the cabin for the whole trip?”

  Will shrugged. “I doona ken, but the captain told everyone ye are a friend of Captain Henderson and kin to Captain MacLeod.” He straightened and looked up, swallowing hard. “But if ye are afraid, I will escort ye and protect ye.”

  Bridget curbed a smile. Will looked so earnest, although she doubted he was much more than eleven or twelve. “Thank ye,” she said again as she handed him her empty bowl. “I will call on ye if I feel I need to.”

  Will’s face broke out into a grin again and he pushed the stubborn lock of hair away from his eyes. He squared his narrow shoulders. “’Tis me duty to protect a lady such as ye.”

  “I’ll nae forget,” Bridget said and closed the door gently behind him.

  She sat back down on the bunk but was soon fidgeting. She stood and paced the small space of the cabin. It only took seven steps or so. After a few more minutes, the walls began to feel closer. Maybe she should have taken young Will up on his offer to escort her.

  Bridget shook her head. She hated feeling cooped up. The storm had abated, so going up on deck would not prove dangerous. And she sincerely doubted she’d be in any danger from the crew either, given Captain’s Nels not-so-subtle warning. She doubted anyone would bother her.

  Yet, she would take some precaution. Bridget recalled Jillian telling the twins stories of London Society. When Caitlin and Caylin started asking about whether English girls slapped boys who were too bold, Jillian had told them the best way to discourage attention was not to invite it. Bridget looked at the simple brown, woolen cape she’d worn. It had a hood. If she kept it up, she could avoid eye contact with any sailor who happened by. Having made the decision, she stood, wrapped the cape around herself, and headed out the door to the companionway.

  She needed some fresh air, for goodness sake. She wouldn’t stay on deck long.

  * * * * *

  Sea fog began to develop after the icy storm passed over the warmer waters of the north Atlantic drift. The swirling tendrils rose upward like steam from a kettle, making the white crests of the waves look like foam atop ale. Mist blanketed the ship, obscuring the view and making it seem as though they were drifting in an endless cloud.

  Alasdair finished coiling a casting line that had come loose and refastened it on a hook under the rail so it would be ready for docking. As rough as the storm had been, the ship had sustained no damage, due to the quick response of the crew. Even the deck, though damp, had no water sloshing about since the scuppers were kept clean, allowing the water to flow out.

  Near him, two sailors were adjusting the sheets, trying to find enough wind to fill the sails in the now nearly dead-calm conditions.

  “All I’m sayin’, Alan, is storms do nae crop up this quick.”

  “And ye are blamin’ the woman for it, Douglas?”

  “We have nae had a storm come up on us this quick before,” Douglas repeated.

  “Aye,” a third man said as he joined them. “’Tis bad luck to have a woman on board, even if the captain agreed to it.”

  Douglas nodded. “I think ye have the right of it, Shamus.”

  Alasdair frowned as he listened to the sailors’ discussion. He knew sailors’ superstitions stemmed from long-ingrained beliefs that ships were regarded as female, that the crew respected the vessel and treated her as though she were maiden, mother, and perhaps mistress of their souls. As such, she would brook no competition from a mortal woman walking her decks. He also knew Abigail sailed with Shane and Shauna with Robert, although he did recall it had taken their crews some time to accept those accommodations. Captain Nels must be transporting a guest—or maybe his own mistress—although Alasdair had not seen anyone.

  “Are ye saying there’s a woman aboard?” Alasdair asked.

  “More like a witch,” Shamus said.

  “Aye, a sea witch like the kind that churns up the water and snatches sailors off the deck and takes ’em down to Davy Jones’s locker,” Douglas muttered.

  “Ye’d best be careful,” Alan said with a grin, “else a kelpie might jump onto the deck and offer ye a ride down there.”

  Douglas scowled at him. “’Tis nae a laughing matter. First the storm and now this dam
n fog and nae wind. ’Tis a witch’s brew for sure.”

  Alan shook his head. “Ye’ll be hearing the Sirens singing next.”

  “Look,” Shamus interrupted. “There she is.”

  Alasdair turned to follow the man’s pointing finger. With the fog drifting and billowing across the deck, it was hard to see, but it looked like a figure covered totally in brown moved forward toward the bow. For a moment, Alasdair wondered if a selkie had slipped on board and was about to shed her brown fur and become a woman. Then he chided himself. All the sailors’ talk about mythical sea creatures and the eerie stillness of the fog-enshrouded ship on still seas was making his imagination work overtime. At least he wasn’t hearing any singing.

  “Maybe she’s come up on deck to inspect her spell,” Alan said, grinning again, “to see if it’s working.”

  “Laugh if ye want,” Douglas replied stubbornly. “The witch may be planning on a watery end for us all.”

  “Aye. She’s got hair like fire,” Shamus said. “’Tis a witch’s color.”

  Alasdair stared at Shamus and then turned his attention back to the cloaked figure ahead. She had her back turned to them, so he couldn’t see her face. The hair at his nape began to bristle. Red hair. When had the woman come on board? It couldn’t be…

  Before he could finish that thought, she raised her hand, pushed the hood back, turned her head, and lifted her face to the mist.

  Bridget.

  He stepped back and headed for the companionway to go below. He needed time to think. Conditions might be calm now, but Alasdair sensed the turmoil was just beginning.

  Chapter Twenty

  It felt invigorating to be on deck and in open air. Small, confined spaces didn’t bother Bridget, but she preferred to be outdoors, especially after a storm. Back at Glenfinnan, the earth would smell fresh and the air clean and crisp as though the bad weather had taken everything else bad with it. She always felt energized afterwards.

  The atmosphere at sea was a bit different, the air heavier, but perhaps that was due to the fog that swirled like snow around her, making a long bowsprit appear and disappear in its vapors, like a ghost ship silently gliding on still seas. Bridget glanced down over the rail. After the churning fury of large swells and deep troughs, the water was flat and calm, as if chastised like a child for throwing a tantrum earlier. She couldn’t even hear any lapping against the hull, but that could be because they were hardly moving. Bridget pushed back her hood and lifted her face to the soft mist. She stayed that way for a few minutes until a zephyr breeze brushed her brow, feeling almost like an invisible kiss. It brought a lingering scent of salt with it, along with the first hint of sun. Bridget smiled and raised her arms high to welcome the sudden warmth.

  “Sweet Mary and all the angels, we’re going to die!”

  “Lord, have mercy! By all that’s holy…”

  Bridget lowered her arms and turned her head at the commotion behind her. What on earth were those men yelling about? Their faces were as white as the lifting fog.

  Several other sailors joined the men. Some of them gaped at her openly while others made the sign of the cross and a few began to mutter in Gaelic. Whether they were cursing or praying, she didn’t know, but they were all staring at her.

  The wind began to increase, causing her hair to lift and swirl around her head. Her cape blew open. Had they never seen a woman wearing breeches before? What was wrong with all of them?

  Bridget raised one hand to catch her hair and the first two dropped to their knees. It sounded as if they were pleading for something, but she couldn’t really tell, since their voices were shrill as wind shrieking through highland passes. Then she heard one word quite clearly just as the group started advancing toward her.

  “Witch!”

  She widened her eyes as the implication sank in. The superstitious sailors must blame her for the storm and the fog as well. They probably thought she was responsible for the sudden change in the wind too. For certain, their expressions had gone from fear to anger.

  Bridget turned to run and then realized she was at the bow. There was no place to go.

  * * * * *

  Alasdair had just gotten to the cabin he would share with the first mate when he heard a cacophony of noise above. The ship had begun to pick up speed, but it certainly wasn’t heeling over, so there would be no need to yell orders to man the sails or any reason for boots to be stomping across the deck like soldiers going into battle. What was going on?

  Bridget.

  Her name emblazoned itself on his brain like a smith’s hot hammer. He’d left her standing on the deck. The bloody fools must have continued the idiotic conversation he thought Alan had put a stop to. Alasdair sprinted up the ladder before he’d even finished the thought.

  Bloody hell. A small mob of men had their backs to him as he came on deck and they were between him and Bridget. Alasdair shouldered his way through them, pushing and shoving and not much caring about fists trying to pummel him. He elbowed the front two men out of his way and broke through.

  Bridget stood wedged between the two rails of the bowsprit, a gangly looking, red-headed boy in front of her. He had spread his arms out and Bridget had her hands on his shoulders, so Alasdair didn’t know who was protecting whom, but it didn’t matter. He turned to the sailors and growled low in his throat.

  “Ye damn fools are going to have to get by me first.”

  “That will not be necessary.” Captain Nels spoke from behind his men. He hadn’t raised his voice, but it carried like a cannon shot. His crew separated and he came forward. His glance took in the situation immediately and he turned to his men. “Back to your stations. I will not have this happen again.”

  “But—”

  “Did I not make myself clear?” Captain Nels looked each of the men in his face. “Anyone who disagrees with me will be let off at the next port.”

  “Aye, captain,” several of the men murmured while they left. Douglas and Shamus started to look back and then quickly averted their gazes since Captain Nels was still watching them.

  Bridget, in turn, was staring at Alasdair. She looked somewhat dazed, her eyes wide and her lips parted as if she were going to speak, but she didn’t. He supposed she might not have gotten over the scare of being threatened yet. Or maybe she was as surprised to see him as he had been to see her.

  The captain turned around and eyed Will.

  “What are you doing here? Should you not be helping your father?”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy swallowed hard and then continued. “I saw the lady go up the companionway. I gave her my word I would protect her.”

  Alasdair raised an eyebrow at the same time the captain did. The lad didn’t even have peach fuzz on his face and was scrawny to boot. Any one of the sailors could have tossed him overboard using one hand. Still, it was admirable that the boy had such a sense of duty.

  Bridget seemed to recover and smiled at the lad. “And I appreciate the risk ye took.”

  “I told ye I would protect ye.” The boy’s lopsided grin and the bright look in his eyes made Alasdair wonder how much duty played into the lad’s actions. He was obviously besotted with Bridget.

  “But ye must nae put yourself in such danger again,” Bridget finished.

  Will’s face fell. His face turned as red as his hair and he scuffed a toe on the deck. “I thought ye wanted my help.”

  The boy looked as though he were trying hard not to cry. Alasdair thought of Rauri and Ewan when they were about that age and how they’d desperately wanted to be thought men. “The lady said she appreciated ye, lad. ’Tis the way of women to worry about a mon getting hurt if he fights.”

  Will looked up, hope in his eyes. There was an altogether different look in Bridget’s. Alasdair was pretty sure it wasn’t agreement if the sparks flying from them were any indication.

  “Ye doona ha
ve to worry about me, lady,” Will said and straightened his shoulders. “I can fight.”

  Bridget’s expression changed as she turned to Will. “I am sure ye can.” She glanced toward Alasdair. “Although there are sometimes better ways to handle things.”

  Try telling that to my brothers, Alasdair thought. When they were growing up, hardly a day had gone by when at least half of them weren’t sporting a black eye or bruises somewhere. Even now, they preferred to solve matters with fists and knuckles. It was quick and effective. The only way Alasdair had managed to keep them from knocking their heads together on a daily basis was to beat all of them.

  “In any case, you need not worry, Will,” Captain Nels said. “You heard my orders. The crew will not bother the lady again.”

  “And I will make sure they doona,” Alasdair added.

  Bridget raised her eyebrows while Will scowled at him. Obviously, the boy didn’t like someone else assuming his role of protector. Alasdair stifled a grin and wondered if maybe he should teach the boy how to really fight after all. Before he could voice that thought, Captain Nels spoke to Will.

  “Why don’t you and I go talk to your father? He is probably wondering where you are.”

  Will’s face went pale. “I was supposed to be peeling potatoes. He’s going to take the strap to me for sure.”

  The captain smiled. “Well, maybe not. I will tell him how brave you were.”

  The boy’s face lit like a candelabra. “Ye will?”

  “I never say I will do something that I do not plan to do.”

  Alasdair watched the pair walk toward the stern and the companionway and then he heard Bridget clear her throat. He turned to find her studying him.

  “Did ye decide to follow me because ye dinnae think I could take of myself?” she asked.

  “I dinna ken ye were on aboard,” Alasdair replied, “although after what just happened, it might be a good thing that I am here.”

  Bridget frowned. “I had faith Captain Nels would keep me safe.”

  Alasdair frowned too. He didn’t much like the idea that Bridget would rely on the captain, who was a stranger after all. “Ye should have told us ye wanted to go to Glasgow.” When she was silent, he tilted his head. “Why are ye going anyhow? What are ye intending to do?”