Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Well, then,” Annie said after a serving maid wearing a wide smile set a teapot in the middle of the table and left the room. “Shall I pour?”

  The twins giggled and the rest of the group smiled as they raised empty china cups to be filled. Bridget wondered why they were all grinning until the golden liquid was poured into her cup and she realized it was whisky and not tea.

  “Uisge beatha?” Bridget asked.

  “Aye,” a woman with curly, dark hair replied. “If men can drink it, why can we nae?”

  “Aye! Aye!” a chorus of voices rang out as cups were lifted high. Bridget noticed that the women did sip cautiously though.

  Bridget took a careful swallow, knowing full well the impact of some of the Highland brews. This whisky was surprisingly smooth though. “’Tis verra good. Where did ye get this?”

  Another woman with hair as red as Bridget’s smiled. She thought it might be Dierdre.

  “’Tis my brother’s,” she said.

  “’Tis kind of him to share,” Bridget replied, remembering the frowns on her brothers’ faces when she’d poured a dram every now and then.

  The other woman shook her head. “Och, Baen does nae ken I have it. I would nae doubt be in for endless lectures if he found out.” She sighed. “Just because our da is gone, Baen thinks he can tell me what to do.”

  Bridget smiled. “Aye. I have two brothers who try to do the same.”

  Another chorus of ayes greeted that statement along with remarks about annoying brothers.

  Bridget took another sip. The whisky really was quite good. “Are ye sure Baen willnae discover this missing?”

  “I just borrowed the whisky, nae the bottle.” Dierdre winked. “I siphoned a little off several bottles and added a wee bit of water so the bottles would look full.”

  Bridget felt her smile widen as she took another sip. “’Tis ingenious of ye.”

  Dierdre took a healthy swallow from her cup and smiled back. “Aye. He thinks it manly that he can hold his liquor.”

  The whole group laughed at that, and someone made a slightly ribald toast to men’s stamina. Bridget found herself giggling along and realized, suddenly, that it had been years since she had actually giggled. She raised her cup again. The uisge beatha really was quite good.

  * * * * *

  By the time Alasdair got back to the boarding house that afternoon, he found one of the dinner tables already set and Bridget seated at it, eating along with Annie and her mother. Why Mrs. Ferguson had decided to do the evening meal at five o’clock instead of thirty past six, he didn’t know, but it seemed he’d almost missed it, which didn’t help his foul mood any.

  After he’d left Simon’s office, he’d spent most of the afternoon inquiring at various churches, including the one Reverend Howard had been pastor of, regarding any information about Isobel. No one seemed to be able to recall her, and the new vicar told him he had taken over after the Howards had already moved.

  To make matters worse, when he went to the marine office to collect Bridget, he’d been informed she’d left around lunchtime. He’d muttered something about stubborn, willful women who didn’t listen to good advice. The harbour master had given him a sympathetic look that didn’t help, and he’d only been somewhat pacified when Fredrickson had assured him Bridget had been in the company of Annie.

  Mrs. Ferguson looked up as he entered the dining room. “Ah, Alasdair. I’ve saved ye a spot here at the table and kept your food warm.” She motioned for the serving maid. “Will ye bring Mr. MacDonald’s food please?”

  The girl nodded and hurried out. Alasdair took the chair next to Bridget. He caught a slight whiff that smelled like whisky and looked at what she was eating…a stew of mutton, potatoes, carrots, and onions. Had Mrs. Ferguson flavored the gravy? He’d heard of folks cooking with wine, but whisky? His own bowl soon came and he tasted it. Nothing but the flavor of meat and vegetables.

  “Why did ye leave the office early today?” he asked Bridget.

  She burped delicately and put a hand to her mouth. “Excussch me.”

  “I took her to a meeting of the LPs,” Annie said, “since she’s been wanting to meet those ladies.”

  It took Alasdair a moment to remember what that was. “The women’s club? Was that safe?”

  Annie frowned at him. “It was the middle of the day. Not a single villain about.”

  She sounded sarcastic, but before Alasdair could respond, Bridget spoke up.

  “We met at the tearoom on High Street by the Tholl…Tol…Tolbooth.”

  Alasdair’s attention snapped to her. Why was she slurring her words? He sniffed the air. Was that liquor on her breath? “Have ye been drinking?”

  Bridget looked up and blinked owlishly at him. “Just a wee dram.”

  From her speech and reddened eyes, that wee dram was either a full glass of whisky or Bridget had the lowest tolerance to it that he’d ever seen, and he doubted that. While her condition explained why the food was being served early, it didn’t explain why Bridget, of all people, was foxed. He knit his brows and tried not to glare at Annie.

  “Is it drinking ye do at your club meetings?”

  She lifted her chin. “We have a celebratory dram now and then. Ye men do it. Why can women nae do the same?”

  Alasdair held on to his temper. He wasn’t about to get into an argument over the differences between what men and women did. He was more concerned for Bridget’s present state. “Ye should nae have allowed Bridget to get drunk.”

  “Oh, stop it!” Bridget pushed back her chair and stood, hanging on to the back of it. “I ken I hath…had…too mush. But ye ken what I also did?” She straightened and took a deep breath. Some of the glassiness left her eyes. “I also laughed. Nae. I giggled. Do ye ken how long it has been since I dith that? Do ye?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she turned and marched out of the room, high-stepping a bit unsteadily. Alasdair pushed back his chair to go to her, but Annie reached Bridget first, taking her arm.

  “I will take care of her.” Annie glared at him. “Bridget had a good time this afternoon. ’Tis nothing wrong with a mon drinking a bit too much. Why is it a sin if a woman does it?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer either and simply helped Bridget to the stairs. Alasdair stared after them. He’d only tried to be helpful. Why couldn’t anyone understand that?

  Damnation.

  * * * * *

  Bridget woke to bright sunshine hurting her eyes and a head that felt twice its normal size. She slowly swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, hoping she hadn’t overslept. Showing up late for the office would complete her mortification.

  What had she been thinking? She knew the effects whisky had. Only it had tasted so good…or maybe it had been because she had instantly felt a kinship for those young women and she’d felt like celebrating. All of them were educated, many had fathers who were bankers, physicians, or prosperous merchants, yet they all yearned for something besides being wives and mothers. At least, for a while. And, if Bridget remembered what had been said in the actual meeting, these women wanted to better the lots of girls in Glasgow who had not had the privilege of education.

  She hoped she hadn’t made too big a fool of herself. She recalled the others had second drams as well, but perhaps she’d had a third? She had also not had lunch, but she wasn’t going to make excuses for herself. She also owed the group an apology.

  Alasdair was another matter. She didn’t owe him an apology, but he had looked so bewildered at dinner, as though Bridget were a person he’d never met before. Not that the description wasn’t fitting. She almost didn’t recognize herself either, and she truly could not remember giggling like a young girl in years. Bridget contemplated dawdling in her dressing so that he might leave on whatever business he had, but then she shook her head, wincing from the pain of that gesture
. She was not a coward, and she’d have to face Alasdair sometime. Better now than later.

  He looked up from his coffee when she entered the dining room a short time later. Only a few people lingered in the room, a sure indication she had overslept.

  “I am going to skip breakfast,” she said, “since I’m already late.”

  “Ye will eat first.” Alasdair gestured toward the sideboard, where several covered chafing dishes stood. “Mrs. Ferguson kept those warm for ye.”

  She wasn’t sure how her stomach would react to food, but she couldn’t very well insult the boarding-house owner. Perhaps some coddled eggs and dry toast would aid her queasiness.

  Alasdair glanced at her plate when she brought it back to the table. She hoped he wasn’t going to comment on why she hadn’t taken ham or sausage or some of the heavily creamed porridge with cinnamon. Just thinking about those rich foods made her stomach roil. Thankfully, he didn’t address her selection.

  He kept the conversation casual as well while he walked with her to the marine office. It was only after he’d deposited her there and left that she wondered if maybe the talk had been too casual. She knew that when she had something to say that would be critical, she forced herself to hold back until she could word her thoughts properly. Maybe that was what Alasdair was doing. If so, she wasn’t looking forward to this evening’s walk home.

  Gordon didn’t look up as she entered the office. Given her present state of not feeling all that well, she was glad he was choosing to ignore her. But her feeling of gratitude was short lived.

  “So you decided to join us this morning,” Gordon said as he closed a folder he was working on. “How gracious of you.”

  On a good day, she would ignore his sarcasm. Today was not one of those days.

  “I was not aware I had to check in with ye.”

  He lifted his chin and looked down his nose at her. “I would like to know when to expect you so we are available to the ships’ captains.”

  Bridget looked over to the empty table she used as a desk. “There are no invoices or bills of lading to be done. When I checked yesterday, a ship was not due.”

  “When you checked?” he asked. “Before you left?”

  Bridget opened her mouth and then closed it. She’d had every intention of returning to the office yesterday afternoon, but she wasn’t about to explain what happened.

  “I am aware that females are accustomed to sleeping late, having leisurely luncheons and engaging in social activities,” Gordon said and picked up another stack of papers. “Perhaps you should reconsider your purpose in Glasgow and attend to things that women do.”

  Bridget took a step forward and banged her hand down on his desk so hard that he jumped. She felt the reverberation slamming through her head as well but ignored it. “My purpose in Glasgow is to supervise shipments from this office. Captain Henderson—your employer, lest ye forgot—is the one who sent me. Perhaps ye wish to discuss with him what a woman can or cannae do?”

  Gordon’s face blanched nearly as white as his cravat before the color returned to mottled shades of dark red. His eyes hardened. “I understand you are related to the captain by marriage. Perhaps he did not care for your shrewish ways and sent you here to have you gone.”

  “Ye think I am shrewish?” Bridget returned his look, refusing to blink until he started to fidget. Then she slowly smiled. “Did ye ken the MacLeods are descended from Fae? Some might even say Fae of the dark side.” She shrugged. “Of course, I’ve never had to prove the point.”

  His faced paled again and his fidgeting increased. “Perhaps I over spoke.”

  “Perhaps ye did.” Bridget picked up the stack of papers he’d been working on and took them to her table. “I will just go through these.”

  He nodded, not speaking. He didn’t say another word all morning and left early for lunch. Mr. Fredrickson poked his head around the door after Gordon left and asked if she’d like to share the lunch his wife had packed. Bridget didn’t want to insult the harbour master, so she accepted. Unfortunately, his wife had packed a pigeon pie swimming in grease along with a strawberry tart that was sticky sweet. On any other occasion, the food would have been delicious, but Bridget’s squeamish stomach, made more so by the argument with Gordon, did not take well to the ingredients.

  By the time Gordon returned from lunch, Bridget was feeling even worse. He gave her the barest of nods, which she returned before he buried his nose in paperwork. Bridget pretended to do the same, although she re-read the same invoice probably a dozen times. She would dearly have loved to leave early and go to the boarding house for a nap, but she was not about to give Gordon any more ammunition. He appeared to already have an arsenal to use against women.

  Besides, there was Alasdair. She wasn’t looking forward to hearing what he had to say when he finally decided to say it, but leaving without him for a second day would just increase his displeasure as well.

  Thankfully, he arrived on time.

  “How did your day go?” he asked once they were on the sidewalk heading home.

  Bridget slanted a sideways glance at him. Was he waiting for an opening to lecture her on getting drunk yesterday? Since she didn’t want to tell him about this morning’s altercation and have him come running to the rescue, she decided she’d stick to how she felt.

  “I have been sickly all day, if ye truly want to ken.”

  A corner of his mouth quirked. “I would suspect so.”

  Bridget looked up. “Are ye going to lecture me on it? If ye are, go ahead and get done with it.”

  His mouth curved into a smile. “I would guess ye feel badly enough without anyone blethering on about it.”

  She felt surprised…and grateful. Her brothers would not have let her off the hook so easily, even though she’d seen both of them in their cups on more than one occasion. “Thank ye then.”

  “Aye. Perhaps next time, ye will have those drinks with me?”

  Bridget groaned. “There willnae be a next time.”

  Alasdair laughed. “I think I have heard that said before. I might even have said it myself.”

  “Och, well. I have learned my lesson. I just want to get back to the boarding house, have a hot bath, seek my bed, and nae be bothered with another thing this night.”

  “We will see it done then,” Alasdair said.

  Unfortunately, Bridget’s hopes for a peaceful night didn’t last long. As they climbed the stairs to the boarding house and Alasdair opened the door for her to step inside, the first person she saw was Isobel standing by the counter.

  The girl didn’t look happy. This was going to be a horrible ending to a horrible day.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Alasdair stared at Isobel, praying she was an apparition even though he’d not imbibed in any spirits that would even allow him to allude to such a thing. The prayer went unanswered when Isobel spoke.

  “I have been waiting for you, dearest.”

  “What the…” Alasdair took a deep breath to regain control of himself. “What are ye doing here?”

  Isobel fluttered her lashes, giving him an innocent look. “Waiting for you, as I have already said.”

  From the curious look Mrs. Ferguson was giving him from behind the counter, Alasdair suspected Isobel had already explained about their betrothal, damn it. “I mean…” He forced his voice to sound civil. “I mean, what are ye doing in Glasgow?”

  “Well, when I heard you had gone to Glasgow on business, I thought it a perfect time to come down to do my trousseau shopping.” She put a hand to her stomach. “After all, I do not want to wait too long to set our wedding date.”

  Alasdair took note of the gesture, outwardly ignoring it and inwardly saying another prayer that the woman wasn’t with child. Beside him, he heard Bridget’s sharp intake of breath. She hadn’t missed the gesture’s implication either.


  “If ye will excuse me, I need to go to my chamber,” she said.

  Isobel waved her hand vaguely. “By all means, Bridget. You do look rather peaked, and Alasdair and I have plans to make.”

  “Nothing that cannae wait,” Alasdair said. “Bridget has nae been feeling well and needs a cup of tea.”

  Isobel narrowed her eyes briefly as she looked from Alasdair to Bridget, and then she fixed a smile on her face. “Of course. Tea sounds delightful. I will join you.”

  Alasdair thought he heard Bridget groan, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Really, I can skip tea—”

  “Do not be silly,” Isobel said. “A spot of tea can cure anything.” She looked toward the dining area. “Is that the tearoom in there?” Without waiting for an answer, she walked ahead. Annie was coming in from the kitchen and Isobel wiggled her fingers at her. “You there. Bring us some tea with honey and cream. Some biscuits as well.”

  Even in the dimmer light of the dining room, Alasdair could see Annie’s face flush red in anger. She looked ready to retort, but as Bridget came through the door, looking pale and ill, Annie turned without a word and went back to the kitchen.

  “Annie is nae a serving wench,” Alasdair said. “She is the owner’s daughter.”

  “She still works here, doe she not?” Isobel asked as she chose a table in the center of the room and looked around. “Why are you not staying closer to the Square instead of in this out-of-the-way place?”

  “This boarding house serves us quite well since it’s closer to the quay,” Alasdair answered.

  “But the accommodations are so much nicer closer to the town’s center.”

  Alasdair didn’t bother to warn Isobel that Annie was coming toward her with the tea tray and looked like she might just dump the whole thing on Isobel’s head. He almost wished Annie would, but that would no doubt put Isobel into a screeching frenzy. As it was, Annie put the tray down none too gently, making Isobel start. Thank goodness the teapot and mugs were both pewter and not china, or there might have been pieces scattered in every direction.