Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  Alasdair moved his dinner dishes aside and fingered the letter, aware that Bridget watched him from across the table. He wished he’d had an opportunity to speak with her privately about what this invitation meant, but he hadn’t had a moment alone with her since Niall had arrived. His brother made sure he was the one who was always by Bridget’s side. Sometimes, Alasdair thought Niall did so just to annoy him much as they had done when they were lads, but he also realized it was safer to give the appearance that Niall had a personal interest in her. At least, Alasdair hoped it was just posturing. Bridget had remained oddly silent, which didn’t help ease his worries.

  “Well?” Niall asked.

  Alasdair realized he had been woolgathering. Again. He was finding it hard to concentrate on much besides whether Niall was really interested in Bridget or not. He tapped the envelope. “Colonel Boothe has extended an invitation I cannot pass up. If there is a chance I can represent our people in Parliament and better their lots, I cannot refuse to do it.”

  “But ye hate pomp. I cannae see ye prancing about the English court.”

  Alasdair glared at him. “I doona prance. Anywhere.”

  “Alasdair is right,” Bridget said. “The English doona care about Scots. It will take a Scotsman to make a difference.” She gave Alasdair a steady look. “Even if it means spending time away from…home.”

  Home? Or her? Had Bridget meant to say from me?

  It was a question Alasdair was still pondering when walked into the Walker Hotel the next afternoon. Bridget had quickly changed the subject yesterday and, as usual, he had not had a chance to talk to her alone.

  The clerk behind the counter looked at his invitation and practically fawned at him.

  “What a pleasure to have ye join us, Mr. MacDonald,” the young man said. “I will be happy to show ye where the gentlemen are meeting. Please follow me. Right this way.”

  Given the clerk’s eagerness to help, Alasdair wasn’t surprised when he was shown to a room at the end of the hall that resembled a men’s club more so than a private meeting room. An ornate crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, unlit at this time of day since tall, narrow windows allowed the afternoon sun to shine through. The walls were richly paneled in mahogany and a large oriental carpet covered most of the floor. Comfortable-looking leather armchairs were arranged in small groups to allow for muted conversation. A man in black trousers and a white livery jacket stood alertly near a glass-topped cart that held an assortment of decanters and glasses.

  As the desk clerk closed the door behind Alasdair, all eyes fastened on him. Most of the men had curious, open expressions on their faces, and Alasdair didn’t sense hostility from any of them. A tall man with silvery hair broke away from a small group standing near the cart and came toward him.

  “Mr. MacDonald?” He held out his hand. “I am Edward Boothe, retired Army.”

  Alasdair didn’t need to know the man was military. It showed in his walk and his bearing. The set of his jaw and the directness of his steel-grey eyes also bespoke authority. Alasdair shook the man’s hand, not surprised the grasp was as firm as if the man were handling a sword.

  “Thank ye for inviting me,” Alasdair said, noting the other men in the room had returned to their conversations.

  “My pleasure,” the colonel replied. “I happened to come upon Miss Howard and Mrs. MacLeod several days ago and was told you had an interest in joining Parliament.”

  The news that Bridget had been with Isobel caught Alasdair by surprise. Bridget had not mentioned she had gone anywhere with Isobel, and Isobel had merely said she’d run into a friend of her father’s who was influential. “I appreciate your quick response,” Alasdair said. “Ye must have great respect for Reverend Howard to take his recommendation of me.”

  “Reverend Howard?” The colonel looked momentarily confused and then the expression cleared. “Miss Howard’s father. I recall that he decided to move north—I forget where exactly—about a year ago”

  “Arisaig.” Alasdair wondered why the colonel didn’t seem to know that.

  “Actually, the fact that Mrs. MacLeod said the Henderson captains would vouch for you made me decide on extending the invitation, although Miss Howard can be very persuasive.”

  So Bridget had stood up for him? Even when he hadn’t had the chance to talk to her about any of this?

  “Do you not think so?” the colonel asked.

  “I’m sorry.” Damn it, he was woolgathering again. “What did ye say?”

  “I merely asked if you thought Miss Howard persuasive.”

  Persuasive was not the word Alasdair would use. Cunning. Crafty. Calculating. All were better words, but he could hardly insult Isobel given the circumstance. “It was Miss Howard who suggested I might put my skills to use in Parliament.”

  “Really?” One of the colonel’s eyebrows arched ever so slightly. “It sounds as though she has taken a personal interest in you.”

  Alasdair frowned. Had Isobel not mentioned their betrothal? An innate relief flooded through him. If she had not, perhaps there was hope she would be amenable to dissolving the betrothal. Was there a reason he should mention it if she did not?

  The colonel was looking at him curiously. He’d probably noticed Alasdair’s frown. He smoothed his expression, although it was too late.

  “How much of a personal interest has Miss Howard taken in you?”

  Alasdair couldn’t lie. He’d not found any evidence yet to discredit Isobel and until he did, he was still committed, whether he liked it or not. He took a deep breath. “Isobel is my betrothed.”

  Mixed emotions played across the colonel’s face. Surprise. Sympathy, maybe? The expressions were too fleeting to tell, but the colonel did look a little bit dazed as well.

  “I see,” the man said.

  Those were the same words Alasdair’s solicitor had used. They didn’t make any sense when Simon had said them and they didn’t make any sense now. What did those men think they saw?

  And why did Colonel Boothe still have that strange expression on his face?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Over the next several days, two more opportunities arose to which the colonel invited Alasdair. The first was another men’s-only occasion at a private hunting lodge near North Kelvinside where Alasdair met two current members of Parliament and some wealthy landowners. Although no one grilled him or disagreed with him, the topics of conversation and the way they were introduced made him feel he was being interviewed. Which he probably was. He understood that these men wanted to know what kind of a person they were supporting, if they chose to support him.

  The second occasion to meet with influential people was tonight and one that he had been dreading. One of the tobacco lords, so called for their rise to instant riches over the tobacco trade, was hosting a ball at his prestigious townhouse not far from George Square. Not only did Alasdair detest dancing, but he also had Isobel clinging to his arm.

  To aggravate matters further, the colonel had asked that Bridget accompany him as well, since she had ties to the Henderson and MacLeod shipping lines in Glasgow. Bridget had looked as enthusiastic about attending as she might have if she’d been asked to jump into the dirty water of the River Clyde. Not until Niall pointed out that she could vouch for both Shane and Robert supporting Alasdair did she agree to go. Niall was escorting her.

  The evening hasn’t even begun, Alasdair thought when he raised the brass knocker on the townhouse door, and it can only get worse.

  A liveried footman opened the door and a butler, moving as stiffly as his starched collar, announced them at the entrance of the small ballroom. The room was already full of people and the drone of conversation loud, but a gradual hush fell over the crowd.

  Alasdair tried to keep his mouth from twitching. He knew why they were staring. He was in full Scottish regalia from his polished ghillie shoes to the sil
ver-crested kilt pin that held his fly plaid in place over a jabot shirt. The only thing that was missing was his sword. Isobel had looked horrified when she saw him, but Bridget had smiled.

  He sensed she was having a hard time keeping from laughing out loud right now. The women in the room had dropped their gazes to his legs, bare from above the knee to the top of mid-calf socks. Some of them spread their fans, fluttering them as if the air had suddenly become stifling. The men’s expressions were a mix of disbelief, bewilderment, and a few critical stares. Alasdair met their gazes. If these people were truly going to support him, they needed to know—and understand—that he was a Highlander. Parliament might meet in London, but he would never be English.

  “I suspect tomorrow the women will be full of talk about a well-turned leg,” Bridget whispered.

  Alasdair wasn’t sure if she spoke to him or Niall since his brother had decided to wear the plaid as well. Isobel dug her nails into his arm and she nearly hissed her words. “See…I told you this costume would be out of place.”

  “Costume?” Alasdair kept his voice low. “I am Scots. Remember that.”

  Before she could respond, a matron broke out of her reverie and came forward, joined by a slightly stocky man who appeared to be in his forties.

  “I am Glynnis Glassford,” the woman said by way of introduction, “and this is my husband, Jonathan.”

  “Nephew of John Glassford, the original owner of this house,” the man said as he shook Alasdair and Niall’s hands. “We are also your hosts. Welcome.”

  “Thank ye for inviting us,” Alasdair said and introduced the women. He thought he saw a look of surprise flit across Jonathan’s face when Isobel stepped forward, but he couldn’t be sure because the man quickly turned to Bridget. “Colonel Boothe told me of your relation to Shane MacLeod and Robert Henderson. I have met both of them several times. My uncle, as you may not know, had over twenty ships in his own fleet back before the Revolution. The American one,” he added.

  Bridget nodded. “My cousin, and Robert as well, are wanting to increase trade with America.”

  “It is a good time to do it with the war issues finally settled both there and in France,” Jonathan said.

  “It seems so,” Bridget replied. “I have been going over Robert’s ledgers. He has several orders waiting.”

  Jonathan raised an eyebrow. “You are a businesswoman?”

  The slight set of Bridget’s shoulders told Alasdair she was about to take the man to task. “A very astute businesswoman,” he said before she could speak.

  “Aye. Bridget is quite capable,” Niall added.

  Alasdair managed to refrain from glaring at his brother, but he didn’t like the fact that Niall had taken a step closer to Bridget as if to protect her from any insult.

  Isobel gave a bored-sounding sigh. “I am sure Bridget would be quite glad to converse with you, Mr. Glassford.” She gave a tug to Alasdair’s arm. “I would like to circulate.”

  “Of course,” Glynnis said. “Let me introduce you to some of our guests.”

  “That would be quite kind,” Isobel said.

  Alasdair didn’t much like leaving Bridget with Niall, but they were discussing shipping. He hoped Jonathan wasn’t just feigning interest in what Bridget had to say, but he noticed the man’s eyes following them from time to time with a look of contemplation as his wife introduced Alasdair and Isobel to various people. More than once, Alasdair noticed some of the men seemed disconcerted when Isobel was presented. He wondered why.

  Perhaps he needed to pay another call to his solicitor regarding Isobel Howard.

  * * * * *

  The air was dense and damp the next morning, and Isobel drew the hood of her cloak over her hair as she departed the rented hack and started walking down a side street off Gallowgate. The street was narrow with no sidewalks and lined with small shops frequented by Glasgow’s working class. Isobel paused in front of a shop mid-block. The sign, one of the few that wasn’t dangling, announced it to be Madame Marvela’s, where questions of the future could be answered. The small window case housed a crystal ball. Isobel didn’t believe in crystal balls, or tarot cards, or reading Runes, or tea leaves, all of which Madame Marvela claimed to an expert at. It was the potions the woman kept locked in a cabinet at the back of the shop that Isobel had come for. She glanced up and down the street. Tendrils of fog hung like shrouds against the old brick walls, obscuring vision. She doubted that any of the persons who’d attended last night’s ball would be caught dead here, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

  Isobel pushed the door open and stepped through. The inside of the small shop was dimly lit with a single candle burning on a small round table off to one side. The wall opposite it had two shelves lined with various objects Isobel assumed were charms or talismans of some sort. Above those hung a large painting of a full moon that shed its light on a circle of white-clad women dancing on the grass beneath it. The smell of incense lingered in the air.

  Isobel moved to the polished oak counter that blocked the entrance to the back room and picked up a small silver bell. The soft tinkle vibrated in the small space and a moment later, the curtains dividing the two rooms parted and an old woman bent with age stepped out. She hobbled forward and placed a gnarled hand on the counter. Long white strands of hair hung around a wrinkled face, but when she looked up, her dark eyes burned hot as coals.

  “How can I be of assistance?” she asked, her voice surprisingly clear.

  Isobel stared at the old woman with the strange eyes, an apprehensive shudder sliding down her spine. This was not the same person she’d come to see the last time.

  “Where is Madame Marvela?”

  “She is not here.”

  Isobel could see that. She didn’t appreciate such a response, but she bit her tongue. She wanted those herbs. “Perhaps you could help me then.”

  “Perhaps. What is it ye wish?”

  Obviously, this old crone had no clairvoyant powers, or she’d know why Isobel was here. Not that Isobel thought Madame Marvela had powers either, but that was neither here nor there. “I came for an extra potion of herbs to help me become with child.”

  The old woman’s eyes sharpened. “’Tis nae usually the woman’s fault.”

  Isobel pressed her lips together. She didn’t need a lecture. She needed something that would work. Last week, she had lain with the colonel and just two days ago with Gordon. She had plans to meet Gordon again in a day or two. He had swived her good and hard, planting his seed deep, but she wanted to make sure it would take. She managed a smile. “My husband desperately wants children. I am so afraid I am barren.” She dabbed at her eye with her gloved hand. “Last time, Madame Marvela gave me some herbs, but said to come back for something stronger if I did not begin to increase.”

  “Your husband craves bairns, does he?”

  Isobel tried to hide her irritation. Why was the old witch questioning her anyway? “Of course. What man does not? He wants very much for us to be a family.”

  The old woman studied her a moment longer and then nodded. “Wait here.”

  Isobel watched the crone’s slow progress through the curtains. She was tempted to follow her, but Madame Marvela had strict rules about not entering the back room. Isobel tapped her foot impatiently while she waited. Time seemed to stretch like hours, and she was eager to be gone. Finally, the old woman emerged and placed a small cloth sack on the counter.

  “These can cause stomach upset,” she said. “Are ye sure ye want to do this?”

  Isobel grabbed the sack. “It does not matter as long as the herbs do what they are supposed to do.”

  “Aye. They will do what they are supposed to do.”

  Isobel placed some coins on the counter. She didn’t bother to wait for change. She had what she wanted.

  * * * * *

  The old crone watched her go. Then
she straightened, allowing her bones to fall into place while her face and hands smoothed of their wrinkles and her hair turned dark and silky with the strange golden streak that marked her as Fae.

  She looked at the painting of the women dancing under the moon. Their positions had shifted and they stood watching her from the painting. She smiled and nodded. The combination of broom, motherswort, and hops in the sack Isobel took would ensure she that did not increase, no matter whose seed—or how often—it was planted.

  The Fae had long guarded the MacLeods and those they cared for. Alasdair MacDonald was intended for Bridget MacLeod. The faerie fingered the acorn she kept in her pocket, picked up the coins, and left the shop, giving the money to a delighted street urchin lingering nearby. Then she turned and vanished into the mist.

  * * * * *

  “Simon knew nothing?” Niall asked Alasdair as they sat enjoying tankards of ale after dinner two evenings later.

  Alasdair shook his head. “Only that Isobel made the rounds of certain charitable events hosted by wealthy patrons. Not unusual for a vicar’s daughter.”

  “No hint of scandal then?”

  “Nae.” Alasdair had interrogated the solicitor to such lengths that Simon had finally told him he might consider a career as a barrister himself. Not that Alasdair’s line of questioning had revealed anything new. He had hoped, given those odd looks men had sent him at the ball, that there would be something in Isobel’s past he could use to dissolve the betrothal. Apparently, Isobel’s reputation was pure as fresh snow.

  “Perhaps I will ask around,” Niall said.

  “Whom would ye ask? Simon has a network like a spider’s web. If he cannae find—”

  “Ah, but Simon has nae questioned the lasses,” Niall answered with a grin. “I owe it to myself to find out if all the ladies in Glasgow are as prickly as Annie.”