Rogue of the Moors

by Cynthia Breeding

  This time, she would handle matters herself. No one would take notice of someone dressed like a dockhand on the quay. And no one would notice if that dockhand was so clumsy that he and his heavy sack lurched and fell, accidently knocking Bridget on the head and causing her to fall into the water behind one of the ships. The big rudders protruding beneath the surface had hard edges. If the sack didn’t render the bitch unconscious, striking the rudders would. By the time Bridget was found, it would be too late.

  Gordon stared at the closed door after Isobel left. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was she thought she knew. Had the chit been following him? Seen where he lived? That would be enough to arouse anyone’s suspicions, and Isobel had uncanny instincts. He hadn’t been involved in any card games in the past several weeks since he was still skimming money to pay for the high stakes he would need. She couldn’t have caught wind of his gambling debts.

  Owen MacLean was another matter.

  They had crossed paths in London several times since the office of Chandler Jones, the investor Gordon had worked for, was adjacent to Owen’s employer, Nathan Rothschild. Both men were members of Whites, which is how Jones had found out about the number of markers Gordon owed various aristocrats and caused Gordon’s employment to be terminated. Rothschild would have been equally as aware of the situation. The question was if Owen MacLean knew. Such news often trickled down. Gordon had left London abruptly, and he didn’t doubt that many a man would be interested in getting him returned to pay his debts or go to prison.

  There was the slim possibility that MacLean wouldn’t recognize him. He had, after all, assumed the surname of Munroe. Much as Gordon’s instinct was to run, he couldn’t just disappear. That would raise too many questions.

  Gordon moved around the desk to take his place behind it and took the ledgers out of a drawer. He studied the neat rows of credit and debit entries his uncle had made and then looked at the ones he’d entered since he’d taken over. The entry totals weren’t that far apart. Gordon had been very careful not to get greedy in the amounts he took so no one would question a sudden drop in inventory or profit. He’d also altered copies of invoices so they would agree with the ledgers. To anyone doing a simple review of the books, the tabulations would add up. Only if someone actually saw the original bills of lading—which Gordon kept locked in a safe—would a discrepancy show up.

  Owen MacLean was smart enough to ask for such a thing, but unless one of the Hendersons arrived and approved it, Gordon would be under no obligation to provide such records. Of course, if Bridget was in the office, she might insist as well. Isobel was right. They would be better off without the MacLeod woman around.

  * * * * *

  “I still think ye should have stayed home another day to rest,” Alasdair grumbled the next morning as he and Bridget walked up the marine office steps.

  “I am perfectly fine.” Bridget reached up and traced the stubble on his cheek with her forefinger. “Besides, I doona think I would be doing much resting.”

  Alasdair grinned at her and then caught her hand to sweep a kiss against the palm. “I think ye are the one who tried to wear me out last night, aye?”

  “Aye. I mean, nae.” Bridget could feel herself blush. Once the truth of her virginity had come out, Alasdair had decided he would acquaint her with the many pleasures of lovemaking in various ways. She doubted they’d slept more than an hour total. “Ye ken what I mean, ye scoundrel.”

  Alasdair laughed and opened the door for her to enter. “I am nay sure I do, my lady, but ye can certainly show me later.”

  Her face wasn’t the only part of her body that was heating. Thankfully, Gustav was at the far end of the counter. Bridget tilted her head slightly, deciding to play Alasdair’s game. “Then ye had better go home and rest so ye are ready.”

  Alasdair’s eyes darkened with desire and his mouth twitched. “I have to go over to Shane’s office first, and then see about our special license. Once I have that procured, I will make it a point to go home and be rested for ye.”

  Bridget was tempted to keep bantering with Alasdair, but Gustav had looked their way, so she merely nodded. “I will see ye this afternoon.” For a moment, she thought Alasdair might lean down and kiss her—which would have been most improper, but her body didn’t much care—however, he simply bowed before he left.

  Bridget walked toward the closed door of Robert’s office. Not even Gordon could spoil her mood this morning. She had finally discovered what brought such silly looks to her sisters’ faces when they were in the same room with their husbands. Soon she would be Mrs. Alasdair MacDonald.

  Gordon looked up when she entered, for once not frowning at her. In fact, his voice almost sounded pleasant when he answered her good morning. Maybe it was just her perspective that had changed. Love certainly seemed to be having a wonderful effect.

  Bridget went to her table where Gordon had put three new invoices. She’d only been working about fifteen minutes compiling inventories when Gustav opened the door. “This was just delivered for you,” he said, handing Bridget an envelope.

  “Who would…” Her voice trailed off as she opened it. “It’s from Owen MacLean. He wants to know if I can come down to the Sea Lassie and answer a few questions he’d rather not ask the captain.” She put the letter down. “That’s odd. The captain should have answers to any questions Owen might ask.”

  “The captain works for your cousin,” Gordon said. “Maybe Mr. MacLean has questions he’d rather not have an employee—no matter his rank—know about. Especially if has to do with profit margin or anything that could affect the amount of money the captain earns from shipments.”

  “I suppose that could be true.” Bridget frowned. “I doona see how I can help though. I have nae actually worked for Shane.”

  “It certainly does not hurt to go down and find out,” Gordon replied. “If you cannot answer the questions, at least you will not have been rude in refusing to go.”

  “Aye. His clan has holdings next to my brother’s—”

  “Right now, Mr. MacLean is waiting for you,” Gordon said.

  “Ye are right.” Bridget pushed back her chair and stood. “I willnae be long.”

  Gordon smiled. “Take your time.”

  As Bridget started out, she thought about stopping at Shane’s office to see if Alasdair was still there. But Alasdair did not particularly like Owen, and if Owen had questions he didn’t want to be known, it would be better not to involve Shane’s office just now.

  She felt a little twinge of guilt since Alasdair didn’t want her going anywhere without him after what had happened yesterday morning. But the two men who’d accosted Annie and her were still in the gaol, awaiting a magistrate’s release. There were no weavers or any unsavory-looking characters lingering about either. Actually, the wharf was nearly deserted since many of the ships stood empty due to the strike. An occasional sailor walked up or down a gangplank, but that was all.

  Bridget let her mind slip back to memories of last night. Alasdair had made every square inch of her body quiver and tingle in anticipation. Even thinking about him right now was starting the tingle again.

  Only this tingling felt a bit different. More like a bristling. The hair at her nape rose as if a stiff breeze had just sprung up, except the wind was calm. She felt the vibration of footsteps on the wooden pier before she heard the sound of someone behind her.

  Bridget turned just in time to see a heavy sack hurdling through the air toward her.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  If he didn’t stop grinning like a complete eejit, Shane’s bookkeeper, Mr. Vann, was going to think Alasdair had gone completely barmy.

  And I may very well have, Alasdair thought as he walked toward the MacLeod office, barely missing stepping on acorns that lay scattered across the sidewalk from one of the oak trees that lined the street. Odd that they were falling so early this year. />
  Alasdair felt as though he had never been with a real woman before and, at the same time, that every woman he’d ever taken pleasure with had simply been preliminary preparation for what he’d felt with Bridget.

  He couldn’t even begin to describe the shared passion from last night. Not that he had any plans to put such things into words, and especially not for the benefit of his brothers. Niall had already given him several smirky looks this morning, probably more to goad him than to actually want to know what had taken place. Hell, it was probably obvious to anyone who occupied a room on the second floor what had happened. But what no one did know—nor was anyone going to find out—that Bridget had been a virgin in his bed. Alasdair was still stunned by that discovery. His own introduction to the pleasures of coupling had been at the hands of a girl several years older than himself who had not been shy. He had never deflowered a maiden. He thanked God he’d developed enough skill over the years that he’d been able to bring Bridget to ecstasy several times. He planned to repeat last night’s performance just as soon as they got home this afternoon. Let Niall smirk.

  “Good morning, Mr. MacDonald,” the bookkeeper said as Alasdair entered the office. “What brings ye here?”

  “Good morning.” Alasdair had been so caught up in his thoughts of Bridget he’d almost forgotten why he had come. “I saw the Sea Lassie docked yesterday. I was wondering if Robert Henderson had sent a message along with its captain.”

  Mr. Vann shook his head. “No message from him, but a lad did come in a little while ago with a note for Bridget.”

  “For Bridget? Why would he bring it here?”

  “The name probably. Her full name was on the front and the sign outside says MacLeod. The lad dinnae look overly bright.”

  “Did ye keep it?”

  “Nae. I told the lad where to take it.”

  “Do ye ken who it was from?”

  Mr. Vann’s face turned pink. “Aye. I took a look. I probably should nae have, but the message was nae in an envelope, just folded—”

  “Never mind that,” Alasdair said. “Who was it from?”

  “A man named Owen MacLean. Do ye ken him?”

  “Aye.” Why was MacLean sending notes to Bridget? If the man thought to have designs on Bridget, he had another thought coming. One that might include Alasdair’s fist to his head. “What did the note say?”

  “That he had some private questions and wanted Bridget to meet him by the Sea Lassie.”

  Private questions? The man’s arse would be bouncing off the quay when Alasdair caught up with him.

  “Thank ye,” he said and stomped out, almost slipping on an acorn at the bottom step. It was a good five minute walk to where the Sea Lassie was berthed, but he doubted it would give his temper time to cool. Another acorn dropped from the tree, this time hitting Alasdair on the head. He gave a muffled curse. Was a squirrel attacking him? He wasn’t in the mood for such antics.

  To heck with walking. The sooner he faced off with Owen, the better.

  Alasdair began to run.

  * * * * *

  Bridget ducked just as the heavy sack flew over her head and landed with a loud plunk in the water. Before she could straighten, she felt someone crash into her side. She fell dangerously close to the edge of the dock and managed to roll a few feet before her leg was caught and she was dragged backwards. Bridget flailed her arms, trying to find something to grab hold of, but her hands only scraped wood and she felt a splinter pierce a palm.

  She managed to flip onto her back and use her other leg to kick at her opponent. The boy’s cap was pulled so low she couldn’t see his face, but why was a dockhand attacking her? Bridget kicked again, this time her foot landing in the boy’s midriff, causing him to stumble back and release her leg. Bridget sprang to her feet at the same time the boy’s cap fell off and Isobel’s long, blonde hair came down.

  “Cat fight!” someone called. Within seconds, dockworkers appeared from warehouses, forming a circle around the two women. Bridget heard wagers being called out, but she could only focus on Isobel.

  “Why are ye doing this?” Bridget asked, keeping her gaze centered on Isobel.

  Isobel lurched forward and Bridget sidestepped. “Tell me why ye are doing this,” she said again.

  “You know why,” Isobel said between clenched teeth. “You tried to steal my husband from me!”

  More wagers exchanged hands as Isobel began to circle. Bridget turned with her, keeping her weight balanced evenly. “Alasdair is nae your husband.”

  “Because you stole him, you damn bitch! You were determined to make my life miserable. You came to Arisaig to take him from me. You cannot have him. He is mine.”

  Bridget didn’t reply as she turned slowly in a circle to keep Isobel in front of her. Anything she said would probably only provoke Isobel, and Bridget didn’t want Isobel losing what little grip she might still have on sanity.

  Isobel narrowed her eyes to mere slits. “Why could you not just have gone into the water and drowned? You would have made my life so much easier.”

  Bridget didn’t respond, wondering if she should shout out to the men making wagers that this was more than just one woman angry at another. She saw the madness in Isobel’s eyes, but they didn’t. They would probably just increase their wagers instead. She had her sgian dubh, but reaching for it would only escalate the situation.

  Isobel stopped circling and smiled. Bridget eyed her warily.

  “Sally tried to steal him too, but I got rid of her.” Isobel said and suddenly pulled a wicked-looking stiletto from its sheath hidden beneath her loose shirt. “Now I will get rid of you too.”

  The split second that it took Bridget to comprehend what she’d just heard was too long. Isobel rushed her, knife held high, its tip pointed down. Bridget lunged sideways, crouching low to avoid the knife. She managed to grab hold of Isobel’s wrist and tried twisting it back when suddenly Isobel’s hand went limp and the knife clattered to the ground. Her eyes widened and she moaned as she slumped to the ground.

  Bridget kicked the knife away, stepped back, and looked up. Alasdair was striding toward her, looking like a stone god come to life. He bent and pulled his dagger from Isobel’s shoulder, and the next thing Bridget knew, she was in his arms.

  A place that felt like heaven after having just been through hell.

  * * * * *

  “Tell us everything,” Annie said, two hours later when Bridget and Alasdair finally returned to the boarding house, bringing Owen along with them. “One of the boarders came back with the news that a fight had broken out on the wharf, but we had nae idea ye were involved.”

  “Bridget was near killed,” Alasdair said, taking a long swallow of his whisky before setting the glass down. They’d spent the last hour and a half with the magistrate, giving statements. Even though they had been assured Isobel would be under police guard while a physician attended to her, Alasdair and Bridget had gone to the gaol to make sure she was locked in a cell. Isobel had spit and hissed like a cat at the sight of Bridget and then had abruptly started crying and begged Alasdair to take her home. The confrontation had lasted less than five minutes, but Alasdair knew it had shaken Bridget and she was near collapse. Mrs. Ferguson had taken one look at Bridget’s pale face and hustled all of them to her private parlor at the back of the house. Now that Bridget was curled up on the sofa beside him, fortified with a glass of warm, mulled wine, Alasdair finally felt he could take a deep breath and relax. Bridget was safe, but he still kept one arm protectively around her shoulders.

  “What in the hell happened?” Niall asked, taking a healthy portion of his own whisky and narrowing his eyes as he turned to Owen. “And what part did ye play in this, MacLean?”

  Bridget shook her head. “Owen dinnae have anything to do with it.”

  “Aye,” Alasdair reluctantly agreed. “The mon was used as a foil.�
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  “If I had known I was being used, I would have gone straight to Bridget and warned her,” Owen said. “I had no idea she would be on the quay by herself.”

  Niall still looked wary. “I knew one of us should have stayed to protect—”

  “Doona start lecturing now,” Annie retorted. “Let Bridget talk.”

  Bridget gave them a wan smile. “The danger was nae from the men on the dock. Who knew that Isobel held such hate?”

  “Lachlan sensed it. We should have heeded his instinct,” Alasdair said, “but I had nae idea the bit—the woman was capable of murder.” He tucked Bridget closer to him. “Forgive me.”

  “Ye doona need to apologize,” Bridget replied. “I had nae idea either.”

  “At least she was nae successful,” Niall said.

  Alasdair looked at Bridget and then at his brother. “Actually, Isobel was.”

  Niall frowned. “What do ye mean? Bridget is bruised but alive.”

  “Isobel killed Sally,” Alasdair said.

  “What?”

  “She said as much to me when she pulled her knife,” Bridget added. “Two of the dockhands placing wagers were close enough to hear it.”

  “Too bad ye dinnae kill her then,” Niall replied. “’Twould have been fitting.”

  “At the time, all I wanted to do was get Isobel to drop the knife,” Alasdair said. ‘The easiest way was to strike her shoulder.”

  “I am glad ye dinnae kill her,” Bridget said. “She will now spend years in prison instead.”

  “Where she belongs,” Niall said.

  Annie nodded. “’Tis fitting. When she gets out, she will be an auld woman.”

  “And one not likely to attract men with her flirtations and manipulations,” Owen said. “No one in the society she wanted to be a part of would even think of receiving her.”

  “Her ambitions will have come to naught.” Alasdair let his hand slide from Bridget’s shoulder down her arm, fingers stroking lightly. “Bridget will be the woman by my side when I accept the seat in Parliament.”