Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Really?” Bridget relaxed and smiled. “I want to meet them.”

  Alasdair bit back a groan. He suspected that would be her reaction. “Men of business and trade are nae happy with the ideas or the women behind them. Ye will be safer here and at the marine office if I let it be known ye are mine.”

  The brow shot up again. “Yours?”

  He’d known she wouldn’t like the term, but it was one he planned to use since it would be the most effective. “Aye, lass. Mine. Glasgow is far enough south to have suspicion remain that Highlanders are still barbarians. I will be wearing my kilt and sword from here on. I will claim ye as my woman and no one—especially sailors who ken from where Highlanders descend—will dare offend ye. To do so would mean coming to terms with the end of my sword.”

  Bridget stared at him. “Ye cannae be serious.”

  Alasdair drew his brows together. “Why nae? The MacDonalds were Lords of the Isles.”

  “Three hundred years ago.” Bridget began to smile. “I will agree ye look fierce enough with that glower on your face and your hair wild about your shoulders, but ’tis the year 1817, in case ye somehow slipped back in time.”

  Alasdair lifted his chin. “’Tis nae matter what year it is. Only a foolish mon forgets what the tip of a sharp blade can do and how quickly.”

  Bridget shook her head again, much as she might do with a somewhat dim-witted child. “I would ask ye to keep your sword sheathed.”

  For a split second, Alasdair wondered which sword she meant, but since she kept on talking, she must mean the steel one in his baggage.

  “I will try nae to place myself in danger,” Bridget said, “but I willnae live a lie as your intended.”

  He really wanted to tell her it would not be a lie if he could find the evidence he needed to free himself. “I mean to keep ye safe.”

  She gave him a thoughtful look. “Then let it be known I am your sister-by-marriage. ’Tis the truth in a way. I did, after all, come to stay with my sister and your stepbrother because I needed a change. And now, here I am in Glasgow, seeking another change.”

  Bridget’s words struck Alasdair as sharply as any knife could have. She needed a change. Somehow, his lust and desire for her had made him forget that Bridget was a fairly recent widow. Just because her body had responded to his after the fire and again on the deck of the ship didn’t mean her heart didn’t still grieve. Desire was a natural reaction for a passionate woman deprived of her marriage bed.

  Bridget had such a strong nature, she would not allow others to see her wallow in self-pity or talk about missing her husband. It didn’t mean she didn’t feel the pain.

  He was a horse’s arse to have forgotten. He needed to treat her with the respect of a sister-by-marriage that she deserved. Whether Bridget meant it or not, he would be keeping his personal sword sheathed.

  * * * * *

  Alasdair was waiting for her in the public room the next morning when Bridget descended the stairs to get breakfast. She had half-expected him to knock on her door, but he had not.

  He stood when she entered the room. The first thing she noticed was the tartan he wore, just as he had said he would. The distinctive red, blue, and green plaid would have been hard to miss on any man, but it made Alasdair look like a warrior of old. The sash across his white shirt broadened his chest while the edges of the kilt just brushed his knees and exposed hardened, muscular calves encased in mid-high boots. The black handle of a sgian dubh stuck out of the top of one and she wouldn’t have been surprised if another knife was hidden in the other boot. He had been serious about the sword as well. Its gleaming hilt protruded just enough from the well-oiled leather sheath to provide a glimpse of polished, sharpened steel. With his black hair loose about his shoulders, he did look formidable.

  Alasdair pulled out her chair, at the same time giving hard looks to two men seated at another table and one perched on a stool by the bar. All of them quickly expressed interest in the food on their plates. Bridget wasn’t sure if she wanted to smile or just shake her head as she sat down. Thankfully, it was a young maid who brought her plate of ham and eggs and was spared a withering look, although Bridget did notice the girl eyeing Alasdair with interest.

  “I see ye decided to wear your clan colors after all,” she said and noted how deftly he maneuvered the sword out of his way as he took his own seat. Obviously, the wearing of it was not foreign to him.

  “I said I would. Did ye doubt me?”

  She began to wonder if he had truly been serious about brandishing the weapon against any male who looked her way. “Nae. I’m just surprised ye are nae wearing a musket as well.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “’Tis hard to strap on over a kilt, unless ye want me to rearrange it. Would ye prefer I do so?”

  Bridget felt her cheeks warm as she realized strapping a gun to his thigh would indeed rearrange way too much clothing. “Nae. Ye are quite well-armed.”

  Alasdair put his hand in his lap. “I do have another weapon in here.”

  For a startled moment, Bridget thought he was referring to his manhood, but then she realized he had merely tapped his sporran. Even so, her face felt on fire from her wayward thoughts.

  Alasdair studied her, an odd look on his face. “Did ye have a restful sleep, sister?” he finally asked, emphasizing the last word loudly enough for the neighboring table to hear.

  Bridget breathed a small sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to insist on the original relationship he’d mentioned last night. “Well enough, brother. Ye are kind to be concerned.” She thought she saw his mouth tighten, but she wasn’t sure since he reached for his coffee. “What are your plans for today?”

  “That will depend on yours.”

  “I thought to go to the marine office this morning and introduce myself.”

  Alasdair nodded. “I will accompany ye.”

  Bridget started to tell him that would not be necessary, but she suspected she would just be wasting her breath. “I plan to get started looking at the accounts. That should keep me busy most of the day, so ye will be free to go about your business.”

  “We shall see.”

  She frowned. “Ye doona mean to sit by my side the whole day?”

  He gave her another thoughtful look. “Only if I think ye need the protection.”

  “I doona need—”

  “’Tis a brother’s duty to protect his sister,” Alasdair said.

  It seemed he was going to play the brotherly card for all it was worth. Bridget refrained from looking heavenward. She knew full well from having two overly protective real brothers that arguing would do no good. It only made Ian and Jamie more stubborn and determined.

  Unfortunately for Alasdair, those were traits she possessed too. For now she would acquiesce, but the battle of wills had begun.

  Alasdair just didn’t know it yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As Bridget preceded him out the door and down the steps of the boarding house, Alasdair caught the spicy scent wafting from her hair and wondered again what type of soap she used. Never had the slight hint of cinnamon ever aroused him before, but it lingered in the air around her and made him want to lean over to nuzzle her neck and nibble her ear. He grimaced as desire surged through him. Hadn’t he just resolved yesterday to regard Bridget as a sister? What had happened to his will power? Had he been standing on a ship’s deck too long, doused in sea salt, that his iron will had corroded into nothing but rusty ashes? Even Bridget’s innocent remark about his not wearing a musket had caused him to make a remark that he should not have.

  Bridget glanced over at him. “Ye look upset.”

  He was. With himself. He could hardly tell her he had somehow become as besotted with her as young Will had been, especially when she had made it clear how she wished to be treated. Alasdair shook his head. “I am nae upset.”


  “If ye have business that needs attending to, I can walk to the office by myself. ’Tis nae far.”

  “’Tis six blocks.”

  Bridget arched a brow. “I am used to walking miles in the hills behind Glenfinnan. I think I have stamina enough for such a short walk as this.”

  His mind reeled at her use of the word stamina, diverting itself along a path of tantalizing fantasy. Alasdair nearly choked on his own libidinous thoughts, but he managed to turn the sound into a cough. “Villains and cutthroats doona lurk about in Glenfinnan’s hills.”

  Bridget looked around. “I doona see any lurking about here either.”

  Alasdair frowned. “Ye ken what I mean. The closer we get to the quay, the more danger is about.”

  “’Tis early in the day,” Bridget said. “I suspect these ruffians ye speak of are still soundly sleeping off the effects of their late-night adventures. I will be safe.”

  “I will make sure ye stay safe and out of harm’s way.”

  “Ye sound like my brothers.”

  It was Alasdair’s turn to raise a brow. “I thought ye wanted me to treat ye as a sister.”

  Bridget slanted a look at him. “I said ye could let it be known I am your sister-by-marriage. I dinna say ye had to treat me as such.”

  What did she mean by that? His ever-helpful imagination began a new stream of thought that he quickly curtailed. If he didn’t start taking control of his own mind, he would be the one needing care…in a home for halfwits. “It would nae look well if I allowed my sister-by-marriage to roam about alone.”

  Bridget stopped walking. “Allowed?”

  Her hair seemed to brighten, but perhaps it was an illusion because her eyes were sparking like igniting tinder. She obviously didn’t like his choice of words. But dammit, if he were to control his own licentious thoughts, he needed to think about Bridget like he did Margaret. “Aye, lass. In order to keep ye safe in the city, ye will need to follow my instructions.”

  “What?”

  “Follow my instructions.” Alasdair clenched his jaw. “Obey me.”

  Bridget stared at him for one, long moment. “Obey is nae a word in my vocabulary.” Then her mouth curved into a smile and she walked away, leaving him no choice but to follow after her.

  * * * * *

  “Has Captain Henderson gone completely barmy?”

  The incredulous tone of the harbour master’s voice flowed through the open door as Alasdair made his way up the steps to the marine office. He’d deliberately let Bridget walk on ahead mainly to observe if anyone would approach her, but also to give her temper time to settle. And, if he wanted to admit another truth, he didn’t much like trailing behind her like a forlorn puppy.

  He took in the scene immediately as he entered the room. Bridget had evidently lost no time in presenting the letter of introduction Robert had written. The harbour master, a large man in his forties whose bronzed, weathered face bespoke years aboard ships, was squinting at Bridget as though she were some sea creature dragged up from the deep that he’d never seen. Bridget stood across the counter from him, calmly meeting his gaze, but Alasdair noticed how tightly her hands were clasped in front of her. Her hair practically crackled as he moved closer.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Fredrickson?” Alasdair asked the man.

  Gustav Fredrickson shifted his gaze to Alasdair with an expression of relief. “Mr. MacDonald. I was not expecting you, but I am glad you are here.” He waved the letter. “Captain Henderson cannot be serious about this.”

  “I can assure ye he is,” Alasdair replied.

  “But…” he looked at the letter again, as if trying to determine it a forgery. “Does Erik Henderson know of this?”

  Alasdair shook his head. “My stepfather has been in Norway and is nae expected back for several more weeks—”

  “What difference does it make?” Bridget asked. “Robert’s house was struck by lightning. While he’s rebuilding, I offered to oversee the shipments of kelp. I have experience. Perhaps ye ken my cousin, Shane MacLeod?”

  The harbour master gave her a sharp look, his blue eyes piercing. “Ja, I know Captain MacLeod. His office is just down the street from here.”

  “He trained me, my sister, and his wife to help with the accounts.”

  Gustav gave a startled look behind her. “Are they here too?”

  Alasdair bit back a grin. The idea of Shauna, Abigail, and Bridget all three descending on the poor man was a bit nerve wracking. “Ye need have nae fear of that.”

  The man looked relieved, although Bridget appeared about to argue the matter. “Robert has confidence in Bridget,” Alasdair continued quickly. “I have worked with her myself and can attest to her knowledge of shipping.”

  Bridget gave him quick glance. “Thank ye,” she said as she folded her arms and turned back to stare pointedly at the harbour master.

  Gustav still wore a doubtful expression, but he folded the letter and slipped it into a drawer. “I must warn you, Mrs. MacLeod, that your presence may not be appreciated by Captain Henderson’s bookkeeper.”

  Alasdair frowned. “I can nae imagine old Mr. Graham would object. He is the kindest of souls.”

  “Ja. He was.”

  “Was?”

  “Ja,” the harbour master said again. “His consumption got worse and the doctor ordered him to bed rest.”

  “I dinna ken that. I will call on him.” Alasdair said. “Who has been handling the books and shipments meanwhile?”

  “His nephew, Gordon Munroe, has been filling in the past several weeks,” Gustav answered. “I do not think you have to worry. The young man clerked in London for an investor. Things have been running quite smoothly.”

  “Then that will make Bridget’s job much easier,” Alasdair said and then drew his brows together when the harbour master looked skeptical. “What is it ye are nae saying?”

  Gustav hesitated. “Let me just say young Mr. Munroe can be somewhat difficult.”

  Bridget raised an eyebrow. “So can I.”

  Alasdair thought he heard the harbour master groan, but he wasn’t sure. Alasdair did note the determined set to Bridget’s jaw and had no doubt she could hold her own. Young Mr. Munroe probably didn’t stand a chance.

  * * * * *

  Bridget covertly watched the sullen young man seated behind Robert’s desk as she thumbed through a stack of invoices at a small table near the office window. Gordon Munroe appeared to be in his mid-twenties, although it was hard to tell given his face had a pinched look and his lips were set in a hard, thin line. He was immaculately dressed in grey trousers with a silver satin waistcoat and a well-tailored darker grey topcoat. His brown hair, several shades lighter than his eyes, was worn fashionably curly and short with long sideburns. The heavily starched cravat made the points of his collar stand up, causing his chin to jut out. Bridget wondered how he could see the papers in front of him, since he held his nose so high. His gaze was so downcast that his eyes almost looked closed. Nor had he looked up once since Alasdair had left.

  Bridget muffled a sigh. Their first exchange had not gone well. When Mr. Fredrickson had introduced them, Gordon had responded by asking, quite bluntly, why she had come. Before she could answer, Alasdair had informed him that Robert had sent her. When Gordon replied her help was not needed, she’d felt Alasdair tense and thought he might make a flat pancake of Gordon Munroe right there. The harbour master had interceded before that happened. Gustav had somehow convinced Alasdair that it might be better if he left the two of them to get acquainted. She’d refrained from rolling her eyes at Alasdair’s departing dark glower.

  Bridget adjusted the stack of invoices, placed her hands on top of it and took a deep breath. “Might we talk?” she asked Gordon.

  “I am busy.”

  “I can see that. Still, I think it would be best if we could reach an underst
anding.”

  “I understand enough.”

  “I doona think ye do.” Bridget held on to her own mounting temper when he did not look up. “I would appreciate your attention for a moment, Mr. Munroe.”

  He put down his pen and slowly looked up. His eyes were devoid of any expression and as flat as coastal land. He didn’t blink and he didn’t speak.

  The effect was somewhat eerie, as though she were confronting a statue carved of stone. Bridget swallowed. “I want ye to ken that Captain Henderson simply wants to make sure shipments are being met, since he cannot be here.”

  Gordon remained rigid. Bridget began to wonder if he would respond at all, when he finally spoke.

  “The harbour master would inform Captain Henderson of late or missed shipments.”

  “Perhaps so, but Robert—Captain Henderson—wanted someone to check on things.”

  “Because he does not trust me?”

  “He did nae ken ye were even here,” Bridget replied, thinking it odd that Gordon didn’t say ‘trust Mr. Graham’, since that was who had been the bookkeeper.

  Gordon looked slightly mollified. “I do not like having the quality of my work questioned.”

  Bridget tilted her head. “Ye must have had your work examined when ye clerked in London.”

  He lifted his chin. “I can assure you no one has ever found an error in my bookkeeping.”

  “I dinna mean to say anyone would. ’Tis just good common sense to have numbers checked now and again.”

  “You will want to inspect my books?” His voice sounded as brittle as ice pellets striking windows in winter.

  “My intention is to limit myself to what I was asked to do, and that is to make sure the shipments arrive and depart on schedule.”

  “That is hardly woman’s work.”

  Bridget put her hands in her lap so she could clinch her fists under the table. Perhaps it was good Alasdair wasn’t there. She was fighting her own urge to slap the arrogance out of Gordon Munroe herself. “I am quite capable.”