Bridget looked skeptical, but she let the matter drop. “Speaking of Glasgow, your sister, Margaret, would like to see it.”
Alasdair smiled, relieved to be off the topic of Isobel. “Margaret gets herself into trouble here. I hate to think of what would happen in a big city.”
“I could chaperone her.”
“Ye want to go to Glasgow?”
Bridget shrugged and walked over to the desk to sit down. “I have nae been there in many years.” She pulled a ledger toward her and opened it. “Now, if ye doona mind, I would like to acquaint myself with this business.”
Alasdair wanted nothing more than to draw up a chair next to her and explain kelp farming, but he didn’t want to insult Bridget’s intelligence again. “I will leave ye to it then. I’ll be talking with the harbour master outside if ye have any questions.”
“Thank ye,” she said. “I will let ye know.”
Alasdair nodded and turned toward the door. Just as he was about to step outside, her voice stopped him.
“About the picnic…”
“Aye? Ye will go?”
Bridget nodded. “’Tis a good opportunity for me to meet the villagers.”
“I will be glad to introduce ye to everyone.”
“Nae need for ye to do that,” she answered and smiled. “I will ask Niall to do it.”
* * * * *
Alasdair watched his brother making introductions two days later at the church picnic. He kept his face still since he didn’t want to incur another bout of smirking from Niall. His brother had already pushed Alasdair’s temper to the limit when he’d responded to Bridget’s request with a flourish of hand kissing and flowery compliments. She had just smiled, leaving Alasdair to wonder if Bridget actually liked flattery. He wasn’t the type to spout poetry, not even Robbie Burns, but his womanizing brother could. Alasdair hadn’t missed the fact that Niall had tucked Bridget’s hand into the crook of his arm, no doubt to goad him. If Alasdair weren’t the oldest brother, expected to keep the others from knocking their heads together, he’d have liked a go at Niall himself. Giving his brother a bloody nose might keep his own from being out of joint from what he was witnessing. He really didn’t like the fact that Bridget left her hand where Niall had directed it. Damnation.
“I do not believe you have heard a word I said.” Isobel, seated next to him on a bench by one of the tables, gave him a reproachful look. “Is something troubling you?”
Yes. His damn brother had just now put a protective hand to Bridget’s back as he helped her to a bench not far away. Glancing at Isobel, Alasdair suspected she would not want to know what he was thinking since his thoughts were not on her. Women were funny about things like that. “No troubles. I was just preoccupied. My apologies.”
Isobel’s cheeks dimpled immediately and she placed a hand on his arm. “Apology accepted.”
Funny how her touch did nothing for him. No pleasant shock, not even a little tingle. Her small white hand with its slender fingers reminded him of a bird’s claw. Alasdair didn’t think Isobel would want to hear that either. “The chicken is verra good. My compliments to your cook.”
She glanced at his plate. “You have not eaten very much.” Isobel picked up a chicken thigh and stripped a portion to hold to his mouth. “Are you not hungry?”
Alasidair shook his head. He was hungry all right, but not for the food on his plate. Bridget was sucking unabashedly on a slice of pear that Niall had cut for her. Juice dribbled from it and her tongue slipped over her lip to catch the drops. Alasdair had a sudden, insane urge to lick those droplets off Bridget’s mouth and taste her fully. He felt his groin tighten. Hell. When had he become so obsessed with one woman? One that was off-limits at that.
“Is something wrong?” Isobel asked as she put the piece of chicken down.
He managed to bring his wayward thoughts back to the present. “Nae. Why do ye ask?”
Isobel looked over to Niall and Bridget and then back to Alasdair. “You seem to be watching your brother and his guest very closely.”
Our guest, Alasdair thought, but he didn’t voice that either. Niall was doing a fine show of courting Bridget, damn him. His brother had left a string of broken-hearted lasses halfway to Glasgow. Bridget wasn’t going to be one of them. Alasdair would definitely be having words with Niall later. For Bridget’s protection.
“I was just wondering if Bridget is having a good time.”
Isobel arched a brow. “She appears to be.” She tightened her fingers on Alasdair’s sleeve. “I should like to stroll. Would you walk with me to the hills?”
Taking a walk to the hills was the last thing Alasdair wanted to do, especially with Isobel. Although standards in the Highlands were more relaxed about single men and women spending time together unchaperoned, Alasdair was not about to get into a compromising position with an English woman, nor did he want to encourage Isobel into thinking they were a couple. He hadn’t even wanted to be paired off this afternoon, but Bridget had refused to sit on his other side.
Alasdair glanced up to see a few grey-lined clouds scudding across the sky. “I think it might rain soon. Better to stay close to shelter.” Thank God for the clouds. They really didn’t look stormy, but an English woman probably wouldn’t know that. Besides, Scotland’s weather was fickle.
Isobel’s lower lip protruded. “Perhaps another time then.”
“Perhaps another time,” he said.
The pout to her rosebud mouth didn’t stir anything in Alasdair either, except a desire to leave. He looked around for Braden or Gavin, but neither were to be found. Then, as though angels had set the scene, he spotted Margaret talking to the farrier’s son. That was a matter he did need to see to. Alasdair rose to excuse himself, explaining he needed to check on his sister.
Isobel held her hand out to him. He took it to help her rise. As he did, her footing slipped and she emitted an ear-splitting shriek. Alasdair grabbed her waist to keep her from falling. She wrapped her arms around his neck as though clinging to a life ring in a raging flood. Well aware that her scream had attracted onlookers, Alasdair brought his hands up to disengage her, but she gasped suddenly and then slumped against his chest in a swoon. He had little choice but to hold her as he knelt and placed her on the ground. As he did, her eyes fluttered open and she reached her hand up to trace his cheek.
“Thank you. You are my knight in shining armor.”
He was hardly a knight, but he wanted to get to Margaret before she and John disappeared somewhere. “My lady.” Alasdair bowed slightly to Isobel and turned. As he left the table, he said a silent thank you to the heavens. It wasn’t often he associated anything angelic with his devil-may-care sister and her penchant for trouble, but he wasn’t going to argue with whatever entity had placed her and her young swain in Alasdair’s sights.
* * * * *
Isobel slammed the door to the vicarage and stomped up the steps to her bedchamber, where she slammed that door too and then bashed her fists against it.
How dare Alasdair MacDonald walk away from her?
The picnic hadn’t gone at all as she planned. Alasdair had not offered to escort her to the picnic even though she had made it quite clear that she would be his partner for the afternoon. He’d been distracted too, and Isobel knew it had to do with that red-headed bitch visiting from Glenfinnan.
Isobel walked to the window and gazed down the street to the open market area where people were gathering the leftovers from the picnic. Her father had frowned when she’d asked their cook to prepare the chicken with seasonings that Alasdair liked and reminded her she shouldn’t throw herself at a man who had not offered for her. Isobel kicked the door and winced as a sharp pain shot through her foot, reminding her of the last time she’d hurt herself when angry.
She grimaced. Her father disproved most of her behavior, which was the reason he’d brought the both
of them to Scotland’s wasteland and away from the temptations in Glasgow. What her father saw as temptation—mainly the availability of men with power and the wealth to provide her with expensive gifts—Isobel saw as opportunity to accumulate wealth of her own. She’d pawned most of the items and added the money to an account set up for her by a man of distinction who had deviant tastes.
Of course, if her father had any inkling she was no longer a virgin, let alone had several married lovers, she’d be sent off to a convent to spend the rest of her life in seclusion. Then what good would her money do her? For now, though, her secret was safe since she used special herbs provided by a witch woman who had a small shop off Gallowgate in Glasgow. She’d purchased pleasure-inducing herbs as well. The old crone said they would increase a man’s desire.
Pity she’d wasted some on the chicken Alasdair didn’t eat.
Isobel turned away from the window, smoothed her skirt, and settled herself into the large wingback chair she thought of as a throne. Her throne, from which she fancied herself a regal lady with servants to do her bidding. She rested her hands on its wide arms and lifted her chin. She wanted Alasdair and she would have him.
When she’d first arrived in this godforsaken wilderness, she’d thought her father had really found hell on earth…until Alasdair MacDonald strode into the vicarage and introduced himself. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such a fine male specimen—all hard, rippling muscles with that mane of wild, black hair—unlike her lovers with their soft paunches and balding heads. That he was quite pleasing to the eye was simply a bonus though. The real attraction was the status he held. His family had a shipping business that extended to the Continent and America. Everyone in the village looked to him for leadership, like one of those lairds who functioned like kings before the English had banned them.
Besides that—and more to what she considered an advantage—was that Alasdair himself had expressed concern about the many crofters who’d been driven from their homes with the Clearances. All she had to do was convince him he could do something about it if he obtained a seat in Parliament. Being the wife of an MP would suit her needs just fine. London society would have to accept her.
Isobel allowed herself an aristocratic smile, like she’d seen ladies of the ton use. England not only had a mad king, but also a free-wheeling prince who preferred decadence to governing, which really didn’t matter since the true power lay in Parliament. She could assert influence over a future husband. She’d abided her time in Glasgow, searching for the right person. She’d not expected to find him in the Scottish wilds.
Isobel needed to get him to Glasgow. By spreading her legs wide for lusting, aging men, she’d established the right contacts there to make things happen.
But first, she had to get Alasdair to marry her. Hopefully, her shriek had been loud enough, along with the intended clumsy fall that had made him grasp her improperly to set things in motion.
Isobel rose and went to her dresser where she opened a drawer to check her supply of herbs. The ones to prevent pregnancy she wouldn’t need any longer. If Alasdair got her with child, so much the better. The other herbs she would use to entice the man into her bed to make that happen.
Isobel closed the drawer and smiled again. She wasn’t about to let Alasdair MacDonald get away from her
Chapter Five
Bridget helped Joanna set the platters of food on the table and sat down. After the huge picnic earlier, she wasn’t hungry, but growing up with two strapping brothers, Bridget knew the MacDonald men would be ready for their next meal.
Their mother said grace and the younger lads tried to fill their plates while Braden and Gavin teasingly held one of the meat platters and fresh bread just out of their reach. A squabble ensued, which everyone else ignored. Bridget looked around the table. Niall winked at her. Margaret had a defiant expression on her face. Alasdair looked annoyed, although whether it was with the antics of his brothers or Margaret or herself, she didn’t know.
Joanna gave her sons a warning glance. “Perhaps our guest would like to eat.”
Gavin and Braden sobered, but before either of them could put the food down, Niall was on his feet and rounding the table. “Ye have nae manners, do ye?” He took the platter of meat before either could respond and brought it back to Bridget. “How large a slice would ye like?”
She noticed Alasdair glower at Niall. He needn’t look so angry. His brother was just being courteous as he had been all afternoon. “Just a wee slice,” she said to Niall. “Ye brought me too much food this afternoon.”
“’Twas my pleasure,” Niall said, carving a generous slice of venison and adding a scoop of gravy along with some potatoes. “A lass has got to eat.”
Alasdair’s face darkened and he stabbed at the food on his own plate. Bridget tried not to frown. Was he upset that Niall had escorted her to the picnic? Alasdair didn’t need to be put out about that, since he’d spent most of the afternoon with Isobel. The girl had actually tried to hand feed him as though he were some helpless bairn. Not that Bridget had deigned to watch the couple. If Alasdair liked simpering women, that was his choice. Or problem.
“I enjoyed the afternoon,” Bridget said. “’Twas good to be introduced to so many of the villagers.”
“I will be glad to escort ye whenever ye wish,” Niall said.
Bridget thought she heard something like a low growl come from Alasdair, but he was concentrating on his food, so she couldn’t be sure. She had only made the remark as way of general conversation. Niall was kind, but Bridget had no intention of encouraging him. Did Alasdair think she was flirting? She smiled, trying not to laugh out loud. She didn’t even know how to start, not that she wanted to. She’d always prided herself on her practical skills and straightforwardness. Bridget could not imagine what her brothers—or her sisters for that matter—would say if she suddenly started batting eyelashes and fluttering fans and acting like she had not a whit of sense.
Or being silly enough to try and feed a grown man food with her fingers.
Or swoon on him.
Bridget gave herself an inward shake and snapped back to reality. “I suspect once I start working in the marine office, I will meet more people,” she said and turned to Margaret. “Did ye have a nice afternoon?”
“I did until Alasdair made a fool of me.”
He put his fork down. “I dinna make a fool of ye.”
Margaret glared at him. “Ye did. What were ye thinking to ask John what his intentions were?”
“I wanted to ken the lad’s intentions,” Alasdair answered, “since ye disappeared with him.”
Braden, Gavin, and Niall looked up while the younger brothers snickered.
“Do we need to kick the lad’s arse?” Braden asked.
“Or box his ears?” Gavin said.
“Just to make sure the lad understands ’twould nae be wise to disappear with our sister again,” Niall added.
“He dinna disappear with me!” Margaret protested. “We walked to the glade by the burn in the hills.”
“Out of sight,” Alasdair replied. “’Tis nae allowed.”
Margaret pointed to Gavin and Braden. “They did it. Disappeared with the MacKenzie sisters—”
“That is different,” Gavin said.
Margaret stood, nearly knocking over her chair. “How is it different? What gives ye the right—”
“Enough,” Alasdair said. “John is old enough to shave. That makes him trouble.”
Margaret scowled. “What kind of trouble?”
Silence suddenly filled the room. Even Ewan and Rauri were still, their eyes like owls. The older brothers exchanged glances.
“The kind of trouble we will protect ye from, lass,” Alasdair finally said.
“I can take care of myself. I doona need protecting.”
“Aye, ye do.”
“I doona!” Mar
garet gave all her brothers a final glare before she threw her napkin down and ran from the room.
Bridget sighed. She’d only thought to ask an innocent question. She hadn’t intended to cause an argument, but it was an argument she understood only too well.
* * * * *
Later, after Bridget had returned to her room, changed into her night rail, and brushed her hair a hundred strokes, she hesitated before she climbed into bed. She had no business sticking her nose into family affairs, but she could empathise with Margaret. The MacLeod men were overly protective as well. Bridget might have had an easier time of it since she was the oldest girl and taken to mothering her younger sister, Fiona, when their mother died shortly after her birth, but her brothers still acted like guards.
Still, it wasn’t her business. She pulled the coverlet back, about to get into bed, when she heard what sounded like a wail from the room next to hers.
Bridget grabbed her wrapper and opened her door. The hall was empty. She stepped out and knocked on Margaret’s door. At first, she heard no other sound. Bridget was about to turn back when the door open and a red-eyed Margaret looked at her.
“May I come in?” When Margaret nodded and moved back, Bridget took care not to look at her face. She didn’t think Margaret was the type who would want to be asked why she had been crying.
Margaret’s room was similar to hers, although the counterpane had a colorful tartan stripe woven in. Bridget saw little sign of frills here either. The fire had been banked in the brazier, leaving only glowing embers. Just one of the oil lamps on a night stand was lit.
“Were you ready to go to bed?” Bridget asked. “I can come back another time.”
Margaret shook her head. “Nae. Sometimes I doona like lots of light.”
A dimly lit room did hide a puffy face. “Do ye mind if I sit?”
“Och, sure. Sometimes I forget my manners.”
Rogue of the Moors Page 4
