Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  “What a splendid idea. Shall we walk, Bridget?”

  “I am working at the moment.”

  “Nothing that cannot wait,” Gordon said.

  His voice had a slight London accent, as though he had spent time there but perhaps came from elsewhere. Isobel always tried to identify a man’s birthplace. One never knew when such information could be used. She tilted her head slightly and swept an upwards glance at him. “Are you from London, sir?”

  The man’s dark brown gaze travelled over her fashionable, lilac-colored walking dress with its fitted jacket that outlined her bodice, and then he looked to her face. “I clerked for an investment firm there.”

  “How interesting.” Not that she gave a flying fig, but flattery always worked. “I have always thought working with sums and keeping accounts rather difficult.” She glanced toward Bridget. “I cannot imagine how my friend manages it.”

  Bridget made a strange sound, but she didn’t look up. Gordon’s eyebrows rose. “My thoughts exactly.”

  Obviously, he had no liking for Bridget, but then neither did Isobel, although she was determined to use every acting skill she possessed not to show it. “Really, Bridget, you will get wrinkles squinting at those numbers. Why not come for a walk with me?”

  Bridget sighed and looked up with a resigned look. “I need to finish this entry.”

  “Of course. I will wait. I just wish I had brought my fan, since it is rather warm in here.” Perhaps she could make use of Gordon’s dislike for Bridget. Isobel fingered the buttons on her jacket and loosened one. She noticed Gordon’s eyes spark even though he appeared to be glancing at the wall over her shoulder. Nonchalantly, not looking at him either, she undid the remaining three, allowing the jacket to slip open and reveal the scooped neck of her dress. It didn’t expose as much cleavage as a gown, but it did give just a hint. Gordon’s gaze flitted to her bosom before looking away.

  Isobel guarded a smile, scenting a conquest. Gordon was younger and probably more virile than most of the men she seduced, which right now was what she was looking for. “I do hope I will have a chance to talk to you about London,” she said to him when Bridget stood reluctantly and walked toward the door. Isobel took a deep breath, causing her breasts to lift. “Perhaps over tea?”

  His eyes grazed the top of her bodice again and a slight smile curved his lips.

  “I would look forward to that.”

  She hid the giddy feeling that came over her. There was still time to pass off a baby as Alasdair’s. Gordon Munroe might just be the man to make her pregnant.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bridget didn’t care to go anywhere with Isobel, but the most efficient way to get her out of the office was to leave with her for a few minutes. Then Bridget could come back and get to work.

  As she walked to the door, she was amazed to hear Gordon agree to have tea with Isobel. Bridget was even more surprised when she glanced back and noticed the both of them exchanging silent glances that practically screamed at her. Isobel was flirting with the obnoxious man. Why would she do that when she was betrothed to Alasdair?

  A cold fury swept through Bridget at the thought of Alasdair being cuckolded. Perhaps there were rakes and scoundrels who deserved that, but Alasdair was not one of them. He adhered to a code of honor like a knight of old. He treated people with respect, he was honest and protective—well, maybe a little overly so—but still. He stood for everything a Highlander valued, including taking care of his people. He was even contemplating seeking a seat in Parliament, where he could better the lives of his countrymen. He was—Bridget swallowed a sudden lump in her throat—everything that she could want in a man. Isobel didn’t even appreciate what she had.

  “Have ye decided ye doona want to walk?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as irritable as she felt.

  “Of course we will walk,” Isobel said, giving Gordon a last glance before she turned to join Bridget at the door. “I need to start compiling my trousseau. I want to find just the perfect thing for the wedding night. You can help.”

  “I doona have time to shop,” Bridget replied. Especially not for that.

  “Please take all the time you want,” Gordon interjected. “I am quite sure I can manage the office while you two ladies are out and about.”

  Bridget gave him a scathing look, but he just smiled blandly. She was tempted to unleash her anger, but she didn’t want to lose her temper in front of Isobel. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked out.

  “Are you leaving for the afternoon?” Mr. Fredrickson asked as she swept by.

  “Quite possibly,” Isobel said.

  Bridget shook her head. “Nae.”

  The harbour master looked confused, opened his mouth, and snapped it shut, apparently thinking it better to remain silent. Bridget didn’t blame him. Her brothers always said her face looked like a storm about to break when she had to rein in her anger. She quickened her pace as she went down the steps and started up the hill away from the docks.

  “Must you walk so fast?” Isobel asked as she picked up her skirt hem and hurried to catch up. “I do not want to soil my dress.”

  Bridget wanted to tell her she should have thought of that before she came to the marine office. “The street cleaners do nae come down to the quay.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Isobel held her skirt aside with one hand. “Really, Bridget. You are walking like a man with such big strides.”

  “’Tis nae wise to dawdle in this area.”

  “Are you saying it is not safe?”

  “A woman lingering about the docks is usually offering services.” Bridget glanced at Isobel. “If ye ken what I mean.”

  Isobel gave her a naïve look. “Services? Oh!” She put her free hand to her mouth as if shocked. “You mean like…ah, like…oh, it is just too embarrassing to say the words.”

  “They are called prostitutes,” Bridget said.

  “Oh. That is quite vulgar language.”

  Bridget was thoroughly tempted to use a few choice words she’d learned from her brothers, but held herself in check.

  “I cannot even imagine doing….doing…something like that,” Isobel continued.

  This time, Bridget had to bite her tongue to keep from commenting. As far as she was concerned, flirting with a man while betrothed to another was only a notch or two above what street doxies did. Even worse, Bridget suspected a lot of those girls didn’t have a choice. They needed money to eat or maybe take care of family. Isobel flirted with Gordon because she wanted his attention. Not that Bridget understood why.

  “I hope you do not use such language with Niall,” Isobel said.

  Apparently, she was not ready to give up on the subject, even though she claimed to find it vulgar. “Nae. Why would I?”

  “I am relieved to hear that,” Isobel said, letting her skirt hang free now that they were on cleaner cobblestone near a small row of shops. “Men do not tend to court women who are too bold.”

  Alasdair didn’t seem to mind her boldness. He actually valued her opinions whatever they were. But Isobel had said Niall. He wasn’t paying her court. Was he? Bridget slowed as she thought about it. When she’d come down to breakfast this morning, Niall had mentioned that since Isobel had come to Glasgow, it wouldn’t look good for Alasdair to escort Bridget places. Alasdair hadn’t looked happy about that, but he’d reluctantly agreed. Niall had assured his brother he would take good care of Bridget. She remembered fuming at that statement because she wasn’t a child who needed taking care of. Did Niall mean anything more than that?

  “Oh, dear,” Isobel said as they reached the short row of small shops. She looked down the street. “I do not see a sign for a modiste.”

  Bridget said a silent prayer of thanks. The last thing she wanted to do was visit a dressmaker and listen to Isobel discuss wedding clothes or, more specifically, night clot
hes. “The shopkeepers here mainly sell goods that come directly off the ships. ’Tis a good place to buy tea and spices.”

  “My aunt’s housekeeper does that,” Isobel said. Her gaze sharpened when she saw a group of well-dressed men in front of a store. “They do not look like servants or even majordomos. Why in the world are men shopping here at this hour?”

  “Irish whisky probably,” Bridget replied. Just saying the word made her stomach churn. “Or maybe tobacco from Virginia. Two ships docked yesterday. There are lots of imports—”

  “I think I recognize one of those men,” Isobel interrupted. “The tall one with the silver hair.”

  Bridget felt her own eyes sharpen on Isobel. Was the girl going to flirt with another man? She turned to look at him. He did seem to stand out from the group of men. Only slightly taller than the rest of them, he stood ramrod straight and had a certain bearing about him. He was speaking to two younger men who both nodded eagerly at whatever he said. His own facial expression remained neutral, as though he were accustomed to being listened to and not questioned. Their accents sounded English, but this man carried himself much like a Scottish laird.

  “Who is he?” Bridget asked, curious in spite of herself.

  “Colonel Edward Boothe of the Third Brigade, 37th Foot,” Isobel replied and then waved to get his attention.

  Bridget raised a brow. “How do ye ken him?”

  Isobel frowned at Bridget. “Through Papa, of course.” Then she smiled as the colonel looked in her direction and started across the street, leaving Bridget little choice but to follow her.

  “My wife would like a tin of tea leaves,” he said to the proprietor of one the booths. After the man nodded, he excused himself from the group and waited a few steps away, a small smile on his lips. “Miss Howard. I had no idea you were back in town.”

  “I just arrived two days ago. I was planning to contact you.”

  The smile increased ever so slightly. “Were you?”

  “Yes.” Isobel’s smile matched his. “I always enjoy conversing with you, Colonel.”

  “Conversing.” He looked amused. “There is something to be said for a good give and take on a subject.”

  “Exactly,” Isobel replied. “I shall look forward to it. Soon, I hope.”

  Bridget cleared her throat, causing both of them to look at her.

  “Who is your friend?” the colonel asked Isobel.

  “This is Bridget MacLeod. She was visiting her sister in Arisaig.” Turning to Bridget, Isobel added, “My friend, Colonel Boothe.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” the colonel said. “What brings both of you to Glasgow?”

  “My brother-by-marriage operates Henderson Shipping from here,” Bridget said, “but matters at home prevented him from coming down, so I offered to check on things at the office for him.”

  “That is quite a successful line,” the colonel said. “Your brother-by-marriage must trust your judgment.”

  Of course he did. Bridget hoped the colonel wasn’t going to make some remark about women not being capable of dealing with business. She’d held her temper in quite enough this morning. Thankfully, the man didn’t pursue it. He turned to Isobel.

  “And you?”

  “I am glad you asked,” she said. “I brought someone with me that I thought you should meet.”

  “Whom might that be and why?”

  “His name is Alasdair MacDonald,” Isobel replied. “The townspeople of Arisaig look up to him as their leader. If they had a mayor, he would be it. As it is, he is quite interested in obtaining a seat in Parliament, and I know you have a lot of influence.”

  “Which I need to use sparingly.” The colonel looked at Bridget. “Would Henderson vouch for this man?”

  “Aye,” Bridget replied, “but ye should ken the truth of it. Robert Henderson’s father, Erik, is also the stepfather of Alasdair MacDonald.”

  “That is interesting,” Colonel Boothe replied, “and somewhat impressive.”

  “I can tell ye for certain that Alasdair MacDonald is an honest mon who cares about his clansmen, especially those driven out of their homes by the Clearances. When he got word of the weavers’ strike, he wanted to make sure the workers at the kelp factory were still—”

  “I do not think Colonel Boothe needs to hear all of that right now,” Isobel said. “I am sure Alasdair can speak for himself.” She dipped her chin and gave the colonel a slanted look through her lashes. “I told him I would help in any way I could.”

  Was Isobel flirting again? Bridget thought she saw a spark of interest in the colonel’s eyes, but it vanished so quickly she wasn’t sure. Perhaps she was still upset over this morning’s incident. The colonel was married, after all.

  “I suppose I could sponsor him as a guest at Walker’s and see what the members think,” the colonel said to Isobel, “but it might be best if we met first so I could get some more details.”

  “Of course,” Isobel replied and opened her reticule to take out a calling card. “This is my aunt’s address. I am staying there.”

  The colonel slipped it inside his waistcoat. “I shall call on you tomorrow.” He bowed slightly. “And now, if you will excuse me, I need to rejoin the other gentleman.”

  “Certainly,” Isobel said, her gaze lingering a bit too long before she turned away and started down the street toward another shop.

  Bridget trailed after her, not paying much attention to Isobel’s chatter. Bridget knew she should be happy for Alasdair. If he wanted to make a difference in his clansmen’s lives, he could affect that as a member of Parliament. Colonel Boothe could provide Alasdair the perfect opportunity. She just wished she wasn’t feeling so depressed about the whole thing.

  It wasn’t until later, when Bridget returned to the office, that a thought came to her. Isobel had not once mentioned she was betrothed to Alasdair. It would have been the first thing Bridget would have said.

  So why didn’t Isobel?

  * * * * *

  Isobel could scarcely believe her luck after she flagged a hired hack to return to her aunt’s house. She must have been truly inspired when she decided to visit Bridget today. Isobel had almost changed her mind since she found Bridget to be incredibly boring, but she also knew to act like the woman’s friend would ensure a certain loyalty, however ironic that might be.

  She’d never expected to find a possible father for the baby she needed to pass off as Alasdair’s. She certainly had not expected to find two possible fathers in the same day. What a coup.

  Isobel sat back on the seat. Gordon Munroe seemed a gentleman of distinction if his impeccable clothing and proper enunciation were indicators. He might even have influential, important friends that she could use. Giving her favors to men was like accumulating markers that she could call in at a later time. Simply put, it was good business.

  A business that she’d already established with the colonel. She had planned on contacting him, but running into him today by chance had saved her the effort of forging a letter from her father and contriving some sort of meeting that wouldn’t make the colonel’s wife suspicious. Isobel had seen the woman once at a masquerade ball. Mrs. Boothe didn’t look like the forgiving sort. Although Isobel took a certain amount of enjoyment in seeing the wives of the men who shared her bed, she was always careful that none of them had a clue as to what was happening.

  In any event, the colonel would send a carriage for her tomorrow as he had done before. She fully understood he’d want part of his payment first before helping Alasdair. It was a small price to pay in return for the influence she would yield as the wife of a member of Parliament. Besides, the colonel never lingered long with the act.

  She hoped Gordon Munroe wouldn’t dawdle overlong either.

  What was important was that both men spilled their seed in her. With luck, she’d be increasing soon.

 
* * * * *

  Gordon kept one eye on the brass clock that hung on the wall. He didn’t have any idea how long Isobel Howard would keep the MacLeod bitch out of the office, but this was his chance to alter the inventory on the shipment going out this afternoon. Thankfully, Bridget had not picked it up from his desk before she left. By the time she returned, their copy of the bill of lading would show a lesser amount of kelp leaving along with a lesser amount of money due. He, of course, would collect the full amount when he delivered the correct paperwork to the ship’s captain. Since he was the bookkeeper, he would deposit the lesser amount in the bank and it would balance with the paperwork they had on file.

  He smirked as he put the falsified copy on the table Bridget used. The sanctimonious chit would be the one actually making the incorrect entry to the ledgers. If questions were ever asked, she would be the scapegoat who would be held guilty. No one would even suspect him since the money he siphoned off was in a separate account under an alias. He was brilliant. Still, having the MacLeod woman in the office hindered his progress since he had to be careful to wait for opportunities like this one. It would be much better to get rid of her presence entirely.

  Gordon went back to his desk and wondered if he could persuade Isobel Howard to help. Even though she’d acted as though she was a good friend, he could read the subtle changes of expression. An ever-so-slightly narrowing of the eyes, the barely discernable tightening of lips, the hardly noticeable lift of a brow…all were signs he’d learned to read at the faro tables. Bridget’s reaction to Isobel also told him there was no liking between the two of them. The woman was brazen. She’d already issued him an unspoken invitation he didn’t intend to ignore. She wanted something. So did he.

  Perhaps they could join forces—besides physically joining together—to provide benefits for both of them.

  He found himself being actually pleasant to Bridget when she returned to the office later that afternoon.

  * * * * *

  “Are ye serious about this then?” Niall asked Alasdair two days later as he finished reading the invitation to Walker’s that had been delivered by post earlier and put it back on the dining table. “I thought it was just blethering that Isobel was doing.”