Alasdair slid his hand down Bridget’s torso, along the indention of her waist and the flare of her hip. He slipped his hand lower to the cluster of curls already damp. Bridget made another sound low in her throat. He moved his hand between her legs, parting them, and slipped a finger inside her core. She was hot and wet, her body softening and readying for him.
He’d intended to take this first time slowly, to get to know every inch of her first, to taste her juice, but the desire that had been building for weeks demanded fulfillment. Alasdair shifted his position and moved over Bridget, spreading her thighs with his knees, his throbbing cock finding her entrance easily and nudging eagerly inside. Alasdair sighed in pure ecstasy. Even the small portion of him that was inside her was already held tightly. To slide his whole length into her heat and feel her core grip and hold him like that…he couldn’t wait any longer. Alasdair thrust.
And then stopped when he felt resistance, staring at Bridget in bewilderment.
“Ye are a virgin?” he asked.
* * * * *
Bridget closed her eyes in embarrassment. She had hoped Alasdair would never find out. With all the horseback riding she and her sisters had done, she had hoped her womanly barrier had been broken. The Crone of the Hills at Glenfinnan had said such a thing was possible. Bridget had promised Brodie his secret would be safe. Now it was no longer.
“Bridget?” Alasdair’s voice was soft as he began to withdraw from her.
She grabbed his arm to hold him still and forced her eyes open. “Doona leave me. Please.”
For a moment, Alasdair looked undecided. Then he settled back on his legs and drew her thighs over his, keeping himself partially embedded and waited.
Bridget chewed her lower lip. Just a minute ago, her body had felt on fire, now she felt as though there was ice in her veins. She prayed Brodie would forgive her. “I am a virgin because my husband did nae favor me.”
Alasdair’s brow furrowed. “Ye are beautiful. How could the mon nae favor ye?”
Bridget shook her head and didn’t answer.
“Did Brodie favor another woman?”
She shook her head again.
Alasdair’s brow smoothed as his eyes widened. “He favored his own kind?”
Bridget nodded. “He never acted on his feelings though.”
“Did your brothers ken?”
“Nae! Nobody kenned, nae even his parents. Can ye imagine the ridicule he would have taken if anyone found out? He might even have been killed. People fear what they doona understand.”
“’Tis truth in that.”
“My husband was a good mon.”
“Aye. I saw that in the short time I was at Glenfinnan last year.”
“I would ask that ye keep his secret.”
“Brodie’s reputation is safe with me,” Alasdair said and then hesitated. “Perhaps we should finish our coupling at another time.”
“Nae.” Bridget lifted her hips, shoving at him. “I have waited long enough, do ye nae think?”
His eyes darkened. “Are ye sure?”
“As sure as I have been of anything in my life. I want ye, Alasdair MacDonald. I want ye now.”
“Ye are an amazing woman, Bridget MacLeod.” Alasdair repositioned himself, then leaned down to give her a tender kiss. A kiss that quickly turned heated.
The smooth head of his manhood nudged at her opening, then Bridget felt herself being stretched wide as the thick length of it followed. The sensation was strange, alien and yet somehow also familiar. As though Alasdair belonged right where he was.
He stopped moving, and for a moment Bridget thought he’d changed his mind. Then he began to stroke between her parted folds. A pulsing began between her legs as he flicked back and forth over a little nub that was fast becoming the center of all sensation. It swelled beneath his touch and grew achy for more, much like her breasts had when he’d suckled them. The pulsation became a throbbing that surged through her lower belly and rolled like relentless surf onto the shore, to ebb, only to build again.
Alasdair began to thrust slowly, causing those scattered sensations to come together like a rising tide. Bridget could feel him at her barrier again and wrapped her legs around his thighs.
Alasdair deepened their kiss and gave a hard thrust. For a moment, there was searing pain, but Alasdair’s clever tongue kept her from crying out. The pain quickly subsided as pleasure built like a wild, rogue wave, cresting and crashing only to rise in a mighty swell to crest once more. Bridget began to shudder, much like a rudderless ship tossed about on a restless sea, rising high, cresting and then crashing, letting the curl of the wave take her to oblivion.
* * * * *
Niall sat with his arms crossed and his legs stretched out in front of him in a corner of the dining room. Annie sat a table and Niall watched the physician finish applying salve to the bruise on her arm and then wrap a bandage around it. When Alasdair had arrived back with the two women earlier and Niall had seen the ripped sleeve on Annie’s dress, cold rage had filled him at the thought of the lout who’d manhandled her. That was a score he meant to settle on the morrow.
For now, there was Annie.
He waited until the physician finished and Mrs. Ferguson had reluctantly gone back to the kitchen before he got up and sauntered over to the table where Annie was just rising.
“Have a seat, lass.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to ye.”’
Her brow furrowed, but she did as he requested. “If ye are going to lecture me—”
“Nae.” He wanted to lecture her, but she was as strong willed as Bridget and Margaret. A man had to choose his battles. And, where women were concerned, choose those battles wisely. “I want to ken what happened.”
“I already told ye. This man grabbed my arm when Bridget and I left the tearoom, and when Bridget tried to stop him, another man accosted her.”
“Why?”
Annie looked at him as if he had only half his wits. “Because she was trying to help me.”
“I doona mean Bridget,” Niall said. “I mean ye. Why did the mon grab ye?”
“How should I ken? Ye will have to ask him.”
“I intend to do that tomorrow.”
Annie gave him a startled look. “Why would ye do that?”
He arched a brow. “Because MacDonalds settle their scores.”
“’Tis nae your problem.”
“I just made it mine.”
“But—”
“Tell me what happened, lass. From the beginning.”
Annie sighed. “We were having a meeting of the LPs in the same place we always do. There were no disruptions or anything. The others left, and I was paying the account. When Bridget and I went outside, those two men just lurched at us.”
“Ye had nae seen them before?”
Annie’s eyes blinked twice. “I doona ken who they were.”
Niall took note of the small move. “I dinna ask if ye kenned who they were. I asked if ye had seen them before. Anywhere.”
Annie looked at the wall over his shoulder. “I…they might have been outside when we walked in.”
“And they were still there when ye left?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Obviously.”
“Did they say anything?”
Her gaze drifted back to the wall. “They might have made some comment.”
“What kind of comment?”
“It was nae important.”
Niall crossed his arms again. “Was it something about the strike last week?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Why would ye say that?”
“Because men—particularly the weavers—are nae happy about what that club of yours is doing.”
A thunderous look crossed Annie’s face. “We have a right to meet. We have a
right to demonstrate peacefully. Or at least we should. ’Tis nae fair—”
“I am nae saying ’tis fair,” Niall said, “but ye ladies are placing yourselves in danger with your actions.”
Now she glowered at him. “We willnae stop.”
“I dinnae think ye would.” Niall said and pushed back his chair to stand. “Then ye leave me nae choice.”
“Choice? What choice?”
“I will escort ye from now on when ye venture out.” He almost laughed at the expression of indignation on Annie’s face, but experience had long taught him a woman in high dudgeon was not a force to reckon with. He was, however, surprised at the coolness of her tone when she spoke.
“Are ye nae supposed to be following Bridget around?”
Niall glanced toward the staircase from which Alasdair had not come down. “I think I have been relieved of that duty.”
A blush colored Annie’s cheeks, which Niall found quite intriguing. So she probably was thinking the same thing he was concerning what was going on upstairs.
Most interesting.
Her words, though, were clipped. “Whatever that case is, I give ye no leave to follow me around.”
“I dinna ask for leave,” Niall replied, “and I will walk by your side and nae behind. Ye will get used to it.” He bowed slightly, trying to hide a grin as her jaw jutted out. “Ye might even learn to like it.”
“I doubt that.”
Was that a challenge? Niall kept his face impassive. “We will see.”
Chapter Thirty
Isobel approached the marine office late that afternoon. She’d often thought all men were fools. The two she’d hired to waylay Bridget and Annie earlier had just proved it by completely fumbling the job. Even before Alasdair’s unexpected visit earlier, Isobel knew she was going to have to do something about Bridget. The woman just wouldn’t leave Alasdair alone. Isobel had gone to great pains to find out—discreetly of course—which of the striking weavers were most upset with the demonstration in front of the Trade House. Then she’d persuaded one of her aunt’s less ethical footmen to make the arrangements to have the weavers assault Bridget badly enough that she would be sent back to Arisaig. Of course, the fools had struck the wrong woman.
Alasdair MacDonald was a fool too if he thought she’d step meekly aside and allow that Scottish bitch to take her place. Isobel had even tried to befriend the slut, but had Bridget appreciated it? No. Instead, she had stolen Alasdair’s affection.
Isobel planned to get it back. She still had one card up her sleeve that had not been played. Gordon Munroe was about to become her ace of spades.
At least that damn Scot woman won’t be here this afternoon, Isobel thought as she climbed the steps. She had seen the physician’s carriage drive away from the boarding house. No doubt her betrothed—she wasn’t about to let Alasdair go—would insist the Bridget rest.
“What are ye doing here?” Mr. Fredrickson asked as she came inside.
“I have come to see Mr. Munroe.”
“The marine office is not a place for social calls.”
Isobel refrained from frowning. That damn whore had even poisoned the harbour master against her. Another mistake Bridget would pay for. “Why do we not let Mr. Munroe make that decision?”
“Yes, let us do that,” Gordon said from the doorway to the Henderson office. “Please come in.”
She smirked at the harbour master, swept by him, and closed the door with a sharp click.
Gordon leaned against the edge of the desk, legs crossed at his ankles, and arms braced on its surface “So why have you come, Isobel? Eager as you are for my, er, ministrations, this is hardly the place for a rendezvous.”
Isobel hid her irritation. Did the man really think her eager to spread her legs? Well, he probably did since that was the persona she’d chosen to portray. It just proved her point that men had limited capability in thinking. “I have come to offer you a way out of your dilemma.”
“My dilemma? What would that be?” he asked.
“Bridget MacLeod.”
“I will admit I have no use for the woman, but she hardly poses a dilemma.”
“Does she not?” Isobel walked closer to him so he would have a good view of her cleavage as well as smell the musk she’d rubbed between her breasts earlier. The scent always made men compliable. Most men, anyway. Nothing seemed to work on Alasdair. “I think she might be prying a bit too much.”
His eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”
Isobel paused, making herself look thoughtful. Something was off about Gordon. His immaculate dress and articulate speech did not match the shabby hotel they used for their assignations. Nor did the run-down tenement in which he lived.
“I think we both know what I mean.”
Gordon folded his arms across his chest. “Perhaps you should explain.”
Isobel had waited in the shadows across the street the last time they’d met and then followed Gordon when he left. He had walked and not hired a hack, so it wasn’t hard. She could hardly believe the condition of the building he’d entered. At first, she’d thought he might have some sort of business to conduct with seedy characters, but when he had not emerged more than half an hour later, she could only conclude it was his residence.
He must be earning a decent wage, so if he could not afford a better place, what was he spending his money on? And how desperate was he for more funds? Isobel was going to gamble on nothing more than a hunch, but it was a strong hunch.
“I suspect you would rather not have Bridget looking at those ledgers.”
His eyes flickered again and his expression grew wary. “Why do you say that?”
“I think you are an ambitious man who wants more than he has.” Isobel shrugged. “I am not judging you. I have my own set of ambitions. Let us just agree that achieving those ambitions would be easier if Bridget MacLeod could no longer interfere.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting murder?”
“That is such a nasty word,” Isobel answered. “I was thinking along the lines of persuasion to remain quiet.”
“Blackmail?”
“Strong persuasion,” Isobel countered. “I did some research. Bridget MacLeod has fourteen-year-old cousins who are quite comely, I understand. She also has a niece and nephew who are infants. Should anything happen to any of them… Well.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Gordon said. “All her family has to do is keep them under guard.”
“They cannot do that forever. Fourteen-year-olds are not wont to be constrained, and I understand those twins are rambunctious to begin with. Sooner or later, there will be an unguarded moment. Bridget just will not know when. To keep them safe, she must quit this office and keep silent.”
“That sounds like quite an elaborate scheme,” Gordon said. “How do you plan to implement such a thing?”
“First of all, I need to convince Bridget that the threat to her relatives is serious.”
“You are planning to confront her?”
Isobel stared at him, wondering how stupid he really was. “Of course not. Do you think I want to get arrested?”
“Then how do you propose to do this?”
“The weavers’ strike,” she answered. “Men are already worried about losing wages and that Women for Liberty and Progress club has just stirred the pot even more with their demonstrations. It will not be hard to convince one or two of them to abduct her and deliver the ultimatum.”
Gordon shook his head. “Abduct her from where? She is always escorted, in case you did not notice.”
Of course she had noticed, not that she wished to discuss it. “But neither Niall nor Alasdair stay after they bring her. Isn’t one of the MacLeod ships usually in dock?”
“Yes.” Gordon turned and rifled through a stack of papers. “Right now, the Sea Lassie at the
end of the quay. Why?”
Isobel knew exactly where the ship was. It had put into port the day before. When she’d first seen it, she’d wondered if Shane MacLeod was its captain. She didn’t need any of Bridget’s relatives here for what she’d planned this morning, but the ship had a different man in command. Ironically, since her original plan had failed, now Isobel would use the ship to her benefit. “If Bridget got a note tomorrow from someone she trusted to meet at her at the Sea Lassie, she would go by herself, would she not?”
“Probably. But who would write her a note?”
“You.”
Gordon laughed. “I hardly think I am someone Bridget trusts and, more to the point, why in the world would I do such a thing?”
Isobel sighed. “You would not sign your name to it. Vary your handwriting too. The note would be signed as Owen MacLean.” After the way Owen had rejected her twice—twice!—she owed him payback. Getting him implicated would only be fair.
Gordon sobered. “Owen MacLean?”
“Yes.” Isobel noted that Gordon’s face had paled slightly. “Do you know him?”
“I…” He blinked several times. “I do not think so.”
Gordon was lying, but Isobel tucked the information away to mull on later. “Owen is a friend of the MacLeods and is investing in the kelp business. He is in Glasgow to decide which shipping lines he wishes to use.” She paused. “I believe he said he was going to pay this office a visit.” Isobel watched Gordon as she said it. Yes, he definitely had paled. Hmmm. “So do you think my idea has merit?”
Gordon swallowed. “I believe it might.”
Fools, Isobel thought again several minutes later as she left the marine office, note tucked into her reticule. Tomorrow morning, she’d pay to have the note delivered and would be waiting close to the ship herself. She had no intention of blackmailing Bridget. Isobel doubted the ruse would have worked anyhow, but she had to invent something to get Gordon to write the note.
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