He made a small sound of disdain. “Women do not belong in offices doing a man’s work.”
She reined in her temper. “I doona intend to do your job.”
Gordon smiled, but it looked almost feral. “See that you do not.”
Bridget smiled back, hoping it didn’t look as though she were simply baring her teeth, because she felt like snarling at the insolent lout. It didn’t matter whether Gordon Munroe approved of her or not.
She just hoped she could hide her dislike of the man from Alasdair. If he ever found out what animosity was already building, he wouldn’t let her out of his sight…or worse, he’d send her back to Arisaig.
Robert had asked her to make sure shipments were going through. He trusted her with that responsibility, and by God, Neptune, or the Fae, that was what she was going to do.
* * * * *
Gordon slammed the door to his fourth-floor flat in a dilapidated building in Glasgow’s East End and cursed soundly. He stomped to a corner area that served as his kitchen and banged opened a cabinet door, nearly causing it to fall off its hinges. He took down a glass and wiped the inside clean with a small towel in case any bugs had crawled over it while he was gone and then filled it halfway with cheap whisky. He was tempted to gulp it down after the day he’d just had, but gentlemen sipped their drinks, even if the stuff was rotgut instead of French cognac.
He sank into the threadbare armchair that served as the only piece of comfortable furniture he had and propped his boots on an equally worn hassock. Taking a sip of the whisky, he closed his eyes and let its fire sear his throat until it settled like glowing embers in his stomach. Opening his eyes, he surveyed the shabby room with its fading, peeling wallpaper that might at one time have been cream but now was a dingy yellow. A marred, wooden table with enough knife cuts on its surface to indicate the original owners hadn’t used plates and a straight-back chair stood near his kitchen. On the other side of the small room was his bed, hardly wide enough for him to turn over in, but at least he’d gotten new ticking for the mattress, thanks to the cotton millers tossing out vast amounts of waste. The devil only knew how many bed bugs and other vermin had been crawling in the old mattress when he’d moved in. He despised filth. Next to the bed was a metal rack and a trunk that held his outward persona—expensive, tailored clothing, carefully pressed shirts, and starched cravats—all needed to impress the men of wealth he met in gambling dens and whose purses he sometimes emptied. Gordon looked at the one small window, its panes dirty with soot from nearby factories. How in the hell had he come to live like this?
It wasn’t his fault that his losing streak had lasted nearly two years. He just kept getting dealt really bad hands of cards. That would improve soon. He just needed one good break. Then he could pay off his creditors and re-establish himself at the gentlemen’s clubs in London.
Gordon cursed again and took another swallow of whisky, larger this time. He was the son of a baronet, after all. He might have assumed his maternal surname of Munroe to hide his identity from anyone from London searching for him, but seventy years ago, his great, great grandfather had chosen to side with the English at Culloden. For his efforts at the battle of the bridge of River Ness, King George had granted his ancestor holdings in Kent. His older brother, Carl, would inherit that land and the title, which Gordon thought was grossly unfair, especially given the fact that he was much smarter than his brother, but their father had wanted Gordon to have a parcel of land as well. At least, that had been the plan until the incident at boarding school.
Gordon drained the rest of his whisky and thought back. Stupid headmaster. Gordon had gotten quite good at supplementing his allowance by encouraging the younger boys to play games of chance, which he easily won. His earnings had steadily grown until a damn earl’s son had run crying to a prefect that he’d had all of his money stolen. Gordon had tried explaining that he’d won the money, but the headmaster had said gambling was against the rules and kicked him out.
Carl had smirked and told him he was stupid. Him. Stupid. Carl had needed tutors just to learn to read and do his sums.
Gordon got up and poured another drink, making sure the glass was almost full this time. He deserved a good, stiff drink after having the MacLeod bitch in the office today. If that woman started meddling, all his planning would come to ruins.
That Captain Henderson had not come down, and that Gordon’s uncle had taken ill were blessings, since it meant no one would be looking over Gordon’s shoulder while he siphoned off small amounts of inventory from each shipment and deposited the money in his own account. He couldn’t win back everything he’d lost if he had no money to put on the table. So far, things had gone smoothly. Until today.
He’d be damned if he let Bridget MacLeod ruin all his plans.
* * * * *
“I noticed a small group of young women not far from the quay this afternoon,” Bridget said at dinner that evening. Alasdair had invited Mrs. Ferguson and her daughter, Annie, to join them. Bridget had noticed her earlier, but then it would be hard to miss Annie since her hair was a bright ginger color almost the shade of a pumpkin. She wore it loosely tied back, but there were curly tendrils that had escaped, much like Bridget’s own hair tended to do. Her eyes were a deep blue and her gaze sharp. Bridget suspected Annie didn’t miss much that was going on.
Since she appeared to be about the same age as the other women and, like them, dressed quite sensibly and not in high fashion, Bridget thought the topic a good opening for conversation.
Alasdair obviously didn’t. His gaze sharpened as he looked at her. “When were ye walking about the quay? And how far away were ye?”
Annie frowned at him, her face reflecting annoyance. Bridget knew the feeling all too well. “I walked over to Shane’s office to introduce myself to his bookkeeper.”
Alasdair looked confused. “There was a group of women in Shane’s office?”
Bridget noticed Annie trying to hide a smile and almost smiled herself. “The mon was working. Of course there were nae women there.”
His confusion deepened. “Then where did ye see these women?”
Perhaps she’d have a bit of fun at Alasdair’s expense. “Several blocks from there.”
His eyes grew stormy. “Several blocks? Did I nae warn ye about that?”
“I doona remember,” Bridget said. “Ye gave me many warnings.”
He drew his brows together. “And it seems ye doona heed any of them.”
“I think I might have mentioned I doona understand the word obey,” she said to Alasdair. “Does heed mean the same?”
As if sensing she was playing with him, his expression smoothed and his eyes returned to the color of a calm sea. A corner of his mouth lifted. “’Tis my duty as your brother-by-marriage to protect ye, lass. Can ye blame me for that?”
Bridget blinked. Alasdair had just turned the tables, toying with her by reminding her of showing brotherly concern. For some reason, the idea of brotherly concern irked her, although she kept her face devoid of expression. “Since I doona want ye to fash, I will say I was quite well protected.”
He looked wary. “How?”
Bridget doubted Alasdair would be much impressed that she carried her own sgian dubh strapped to her ankle. “As it happened, I arrived at Shane’s office near noon. Mr. Vann, the bookkeeper, was about to go to lunch, and he invited me along.”
Alasdair’s brows drew together again. “I doona recall meeting him.”
Annie gave her a sympathetic look before turning to Alasdair. “Ye can hardly be expected to ken everyone in Glasgow, can ye?”
“Nae,” he said, his tone carefully neutral as if trying to keep irritation out of it. “But I am concerned who Bridget—my sister-by-marriage—associates with.”
Bridget decided to change the subject. She’d had enough of brother-sister talk, and she really didn’t want Alasdair g
etting upset with Annie. “The young women at the coffeehouse seemed quite animated in their conversation. They seemed to be discussing bank accounts.”
Annie nodded. “They were probably ladies from the Women for Liberty and Progress Club.”
“The what?” Alasdair asked.
“The Women for Liberty and Progress,” Annie repeated, “although it usually goes simply by LP, rather like the members of Parliament’s designation of MP. The idea is that women should be able to earn a living from something besides being a maid or serving girl in a public house. Even in the case of educated girls, they can only aspire to be governesses. This group thinks we should be allowed to work wherever we want. Maybe even own our own businesses.”
“’Tis is a worthy cause,” Bridget said, eyeing Alasdair, who opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it. She hid a smile. “Do ye nae agree?”
He gave her a steady look. “If this is the group Captain Nels warned me about, I think they should proceed with every caution.”
“Phooey,” Annie said. “The men just try to scare us.”
“Us?” Bridget asked. “Ye are one of them, Annie?”
Annie nodded proudly. “I am.”
A thought formed quickly in Bridget’s head and simultaneously a thundercloud crossed Alasdair’s face. She had no doubt he knew what she was going to say, but she said it anyway.
“I should like to join this group.”
To her surprise, Alasdair only sighed and remained silent.
Chapter Twenty Four
After Alasdair walked Bridget to the marine office the next morning, he made his way to his solicitor’s office.
“I suspected you might be coming to Glasgow once you received my letter,” Simon Trevor said as way of welcome and gestured Alasdair to take one of the two leather armchairs arranged by the unlit hearth as he took the other one.
Alasdair had always liked the man. He was not pretentious and did not feel the need to sit behind his massive mahogany desk to impress anyone.
“Brandy? Or perhaps sherry, given the early hour?” Mr. Trevor asked.
“Neither,” Alasdair replied, “and I’ve already had coffee at Mrs. Ferguson’s.” He took out the letter. “I got into town two days ago and was glad to see dock workers going about their business loading and unloading ships. I had thought they might shut down in support of the weavers’ strike.”
“There is always that fear,” the solicitor said, “but so far, the shipping lines have kept business operating.”
“How badly have the strikes affected our ash production?”
“Work hasn’t stopped, but it has slowed. Your employees are well aware they will not receive wages if they stay home. On the other hand, they want to support the weavers’ guild. It’s a pity they get paid by the hour and not by what they produce.”
“Hmm. I doona like the fact men are idling their hands.”
“Nor do I,” Simon answered. “At least the kelp will not rot since it is dry.”
“But neither will the ash be ready to ship to the continent and the states. My stepfather has contracts that need to be met.”
“I understand. There is a lot of unrest right now. Both the Merchants’ House and the Trades’ House workers are complaining.”
“Do ye think they might be stirred up by this secret committee ye alluded to?”
Mr. Trevor shrugged. “They might be. The Committee for Organizing a Provisional Government has been about for a year. Their outward goals are to assist local governance.”
Alasdair lifted a brow. “And the private goals?”
“That is a bit more serious. A small group of radicals want to overthrow the English government.”
Alasdair smiled. “There’s been one faction or another wanting to do that since Culloden.”
“Yes. Well, this group seems to be somewhat organized. Rumors spread that they have secret meetings, never at the same place, and they are suspicious of anyone asking too many questions for fear they are government spies.”
“Do ye ken names?”
“Only the more outspoken ones, but there are several weavers involved.”
“Do ye ken if our workers are taking part?”
Simon shook his head. “That I do not know. They tend to align themselves more with the Seafarers’ Union. So far, ships are still taking on coal and barley.”
Alasdair grew thoughtful. “I doona want to threaten our workers with reduced wages. Perhaps we might offer a bonus for production beyond what they did before the slowdown?”
The solicitor smiled. “That is an excellent idea. Money is always good motivation.”
“Sad, but true,” Alasdair replied. “Speaking of wages, have ye heard anything about a women’s group that is advocating the right to work?”
“Ah. You must mean Women for Liberty and Progress. So far they’ve made little progress other than to annoy the merchants, shopkeepers, bankers, and others of the clerical class.” Simon eyed Alasdair. “I believe Mrs. Ferguson’s daughter is a member. Has she mentioned something unusual that I should know about?”
“Nae. I brought it up because a woman I escorted here has taken an interest. I want to be sure she remains safe.”
Simon smiled. “So the weavers’ strike was not the only thing that brought you to Glasgow?”
Alasdair sincerely hoped his face wasn’t turning red, since it felt awfully warm. “It was a coincidence. I dinna ken the lady, Bridget MacLeod, was on aboard until the Sea Wolf was underway. Bridget is… That is, she can be wee bit strong-willed when she sets her mind to something.”
“She sounds like my wife,” Simon said. “If I am not being too personal, is she someone who might fill that role for you?”
Blast, but the room had suddenly become warm. If only Simon knew how close to the truth that was, but Alasdair could not even hint at that until he had his other problem settled. “Nae. She is my…sister-by-marriage.” The words were hard to get out because he had failed miserably about thinking of Bridget in any kind of sisterly manner. “She is overseeing my brother’s marine office for a few weeks and I intend to make sure she is in nae danger.”
“I see.”
The words were said in a neutral tone, and the solicitor’s face appeared impassive, but Alasdair had a feeling the man saw a lot more than he let on. Alasdair certainly didn’t want any rumors or even suggestions of impropriety to start regarding Bridget. “She is a recent widow,” he said, probably more to remind himself of the fact than to dispel any suspicions on Simon’s part.
“I see,” the solicitor said again.
Better to change the subject. “I did have one other request of ye,” Alasdair said.
“What is that?”
“Have ye heard of a woman named Isobel Howard? Her father was a vicar here.”
Simon shook his head. “The name is not familiar.”
Alasdair had hardly expected it to be. That would have been too much good luck. “I would like for ye to find out what ye can about her. She and her father moved to Arisaig about a year ago.”
The other man wrote down the name. “I will see what I can do.” He laid down his pen. “If I might ask, what is her relationship to you?”
His mouth suddenly did not want to work. He was having trouble saying the words he didn’t want to voice. Alasdair forced himself to take a deep breath. “Unfortunately, she is my betrothed.”
Simon blinked. “I see,” he said.
* * * * *
“Am I early?” Annie asked Bridget when she arrived at the marine office shortly before noon.
“Ye are right on time.” Bridget neatly stacked the invoices she had been looking at, pushed her chair back, and stood. Luckily, Gordon had already left to get something to eat, and she’d left a note saying she’d be out for the afternoon. No doubt, he would want to celebrate that news.
As she left the office with Annie, Bridget had a feeling Alasdair would take distinctly the opposite view since she was not waiting for him to come and escort her. Blast it though. He was going to have to accept that she was capable of coming and going as she wanted, and she didn’t need a body guard. The harbour master had let it be known she was a cousin of Captain Shane MacLeod and a sister-by-marriage to Captain Robert Henderson as well. The dock workers would not harry her lest they lose their jobs, so she felt quite safe on the quay. Even though she would be leaving the area this afternoon for central Glasgow, she was with Annie.
By the time they reached High Street near Glasgow Cross and entered a small tearoom, Bridget had learned quite a lot about the purpose of the Women for Liberty and Progress, but she was surprised at how young most of them were. She wasn’t sure what she had expected…perhaps women of middle years who had raised bairns and wanted to do something new. However, the seven girls who greeted Annie were mostly younger than Bridget. They all gave her looks of friendly curiosity, though they were welcoming enough that she didn’t feel like an old crone. She hoped she’d keep their names straight.
“This is Aileen,” Annie said, touching the hand of a girl with long, straight hair so dark it looked raven blue in the dim light of the tearoom. “And this…” she placed a hand on shoulder of another girl, “…is Inis.” By contrast, Inis’s hair was so light it appeared almost white. Annie pointed her finger at each of the other girls in turn. “Cora, Fenella, Dierdre, and Nairna and Kiara. They’re twins,” she added about the last two.
It was obvious to Bridget that they were. They seemed to be the youngest and wore mischievous expressions, as though they’d just performed a great prank. Their eyes were blue rather than green, and their hair lighter, but Bridget wondered if they managed to get into as much trouble as Shane’s sisters, Caitlin and Caylin.
“I hope ye will give me time to sort through your names,” Bridget said, “and take no offense if I ask again.”
“Doona fash about that,” one of them said. Bridget thought it was Fenella. The others all nodded agreement.
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