Alasdair turned down the wick on the oil lamp in Robert’s office and leaned back in the chair behind the desk. Since that disastrous Sunday dinner, he’d started coming here after work and staying through the evening. He told himself he was making sure Robert’s paperwork was in order while Robert concentrated on rebuilding his house, even though Bridget came by in the afternoons to check on things. The small room smelled faintly of the spicy scent she used to wash her hair, and he found that strangely comforting. Especially since he was doing his best to avoid Bridget in person.
Things were bad enough during the daytime when Isobel showed up with Bridget in tow for lunch. He wasn’t sure why Isobel had suddenly started acting friendly toward Bridget. He didn’t think Isobel was remorseful, in spite of the apology. He would even have suspected her to lie about having made one, but Bridget had affirmed it when he’d asked her. She’d said it with no emotion in her voice and no spark in her eyes.
She spent lunchtimes sitting with Niall, who had begun acting like some damn knight in shining armor. Bridget had even called him Galahad once, and his brother had bowed and kissed her hand. Alasdair had wanted to knock the smirk off Niall’s face. His brothers were all womanizers, but Niall was the worst. Thanks to his quick reflexes, Niall had avoided having his pretty face beaten by protective older brothers from several neighboring clans.
Alasdair wanted to warn Bridget not to allow herself to be taken in by his brother’s smooth talk, but what kind of a hypocrite would he be when he’d allowed himself to be snared by Isobel? Alasdair still couldn’t believe how effectively she’d maneuvered both the episode at the glade and the one in her parlor.
If there had been an episode in the parlor. He’d never been in such a state before, so he had no way of knowing what he was capable of doing and not remembering. The blood on Isobel’s thighs had been real.
Now all he could do was wait the six weeks out, which was why he’d taken to coming to Robert’s office each evening. He couldn’t bear the idea of sitting across the dinner table from Bridget and watching Niall flirt with her. Worse, Alasdair hated the way Bridget looked at him when he managed to catch her eye. She kept her expression neutral, her voice flat and monotone if she responded at all.
He missed the camaraderie they’d begun to establish while working together in the office. Bridget had a quick mind and a sharp wit, both attributes he admired. He’d seen the strength of her spirit as well. She’d worked the water brigade the night of the fire until she was near exhaustion—damn it, if he didn’t remember curing her hysterics with a kiss and how she’d responded to it—and then, with a resilience he’d seldom seen, she forged ahead to take care of Shauna. Alasdair wanted to tell Bridget how much he admired her, how much he’d begun to care, but those were words to remain unspoken. Yet he didn’t trust himself not to say them if he had the opportunity. Hence, he spent the evenings in Robert’s office to avoid temptation.
Alasdair looked at the clock as it chimed, then he leaned forward to extinguish the lamp. The hour was late. It should be safe to go home.
* * * * *
Margaret slept as soundly as a bairn in the bed beside Bridget, and she envied the girl’s youthful ability to fall asleep as soon as her head landed on the pillow. Bridget had lain awake for over an hour, staring at the ceiling and trying not to toss and turn.
The evening was unusually warm for Scotland and, even though the window was open, no refreshing breeze blew in from the water. Robert had said earlier the mercury in his glass was falling, which meant another storm was probably on the way. Maybe that was making Bridget restless tonight. The fire that had resulted from the storm had made her edgy…maybe she was anticipating another disaster.
Her sleeplessness had nothing to do with Alasdair MacDonald or his upcoming nuptials. Nothing. She rolled over and punched her pillow. Just how much of Isobel Howard’s company was he enjoying each evening?
Bridget heard footsteps coming up the stairs and then someone making their way past the door and down the hall. Alasdair had returned a little earlier than usual, not that she kept track of what time he returned each evening. She waited a good ten minutes to make sure he hadn’t decided to come back out and then she rose. Maybe sitting outside on the bench by the rose garden would soothe her nerves.
She didn’t bother with a wrap over her night rail since the air was so heavy and still. No one would see her in the backyard anyway. Bridget opened the door quietly and padded silently on bare feet down the stairs and toward the back door. As she entered the kitchen, a premonitory flash of lightning illuminated it suddenly, silhouetting a dark specter sitting at the kitchen table. Bridget stifled a gasp just as the figure muffled a curse and pushed back the chair.
“What—”
“Who…”
Another flash of lightning lit the room again and Bridget saw her specter was Alasdair. A moment later, she heard a match being struck and the light from an oil lamp filled the kitchen.
“What are ye doing here?” Bridget asked, her voice a little shaky.
His mouth quirked. “’Tis my house.”
“I meant, what are ye doing in the kitchen?”
Alasdair looked at the plate on the table. “Eating?”
Bridget noticed now he had cheese and bread in front of him. Why was he eating so late? What had he been doing at Isobel’s that he hadn’t had time to eat? The thought of what they might have been doing made Bridget suddenly aware that she was standing in front of Alasdair wearing nothing but her white muslin night rail, and that the material was thin and well-worn. She folded her arms across her breasts, wishing Alasdair hadn’t turned the wick so high on the lamp.
His gaze followed her movements, and she could have sworn his eyes gleamed like twin flames of fire. “I heard you come upstairs,” Bridget said.
Alasdair moved his gaze from her hands to her face and tilted his head sideways. “Were ye waiting for me to come home?”
“Nae! I mean…I heard footsteps go past the door.”
“Probably Robert,” Alasdair replied. “With the storm coming, he most likely wanted to check on his house.”
She should have thought of that. Robert would not want to leave loose boards about, or anything else that could be picked up by wind and cause more damage. Well, she couldn’t just continue to stand here. Bridget turned to go.
“Wait, lass.”
Bridget stopped. “Why?”
“I would like your company while I eat.”
“I am nae so sure ’tis a good idea.”
Alasdair glanced at the window that had started to rattle, indicating the wind was picking up. He turned back to Bridget and smiled. “Then keep me company because I am afraid of storms.”
“I doona think ye are afraid of anything, Alasdair MacDonald.” Bridget started when a clap of thunder cracked. Alasdair didn’t move. “Ye see? Ye just proved it.”
His grin widened. “’Tis said when the thunder cracks like that it opens the graves of the dead and the spirits walk about looking for unsuspecting souls to snatch.”
“Any wraith that encounters ye would do well to leave ye alone.” She couldn’t keep a corner of her mouth from lifting in a smile. “Ye looked like a demon yourself sitting alone in the dark just now.”
“And ye could have been a ghost, dressed in white as ye are.”
“I am hardly a ghost.”
“Aye, I can see that now.”
His eyes glinted mischievously as he looked her over, reminding Bridget she was wearing very little. She turned and walked toward the door.
“Wait.”
Alasdair’s voice was near. Bridget could feel his warm breath by her ear. How in the world had he moved so quickly and silently? She turned around, nearly bumped into him, and took a step back. Looking into his eyes, she found no humor in them now. Instead, his look was intent.
“Ye are very much alive, Bridget MacLeod, but ye haunt me anyway. Ye are in my thoughts when ye should nae be.” Alasdair’s gaze traveled to her mouth. “Yet the more I try to push those thoughts aside, the more they intrude.” He leaned closer. “What are ye doing to me?”
Something inside Bridget stirred. Heat seared through her and became a hot, pulsing sensation between her thighs. Such quick, strong reaction was foreign. What was Alasdair doing to her? Her face felt flushed and her breasts suddenly ached with wanting the friction of brushing across Alasdair’s chest. He was so close…
The village bell began to ring, a short sound followed by a longer toll, another two short and three more long. Alasdair abruptly turned and headed to the door. Bridget heard pounding on the stairs and a moment later, Robert ran into the kitchen.
“What is it?” Bridget asked. “Another fire?”
“Nae, the bell clangs continuously for that.” Alasdair grabbed a slicker off the hook by the kitchen door. “’Tis a distress signal.”
Robert hurried past them both. “There’s a ship out there and it’s in trouble.”
* * * * *
Wind whipped the trees, bending branches and scattering leaves as Alasdair and Robert raced toward the water’s edge. Before they got there, heavy rain slashed at them sideways, making it hard to keep their eyes open.
“’Tis worse than I thought,” Alasdair yelled above the howling wind and pounding rain.
“I was afraid this would happen,” Robert answered, pulling the brim of his seaman’s cap down. “A cold wind off Iceland meeting the warm air off the moors makes a bad brew. The barometer was falling faster than I’d ever seen it.”
“The ship should have put back to sea to ride this thing out,” Alasdair said as they joined a group of men already at the shore.
“They may not have had time,” Robert replied. “Remember how fast this storm came in. If they were already in the loch, they wouldn’t have been able to turn back.”
One of the men pointed. “She’s foundering.”
Alasdair slicked his wet hair back and brought his hand up to shield his eyes from sting of the rain. Past the rocky breakwater that sheltered Arisaig, he could barely make out a vessel slightly larger than a fishing boat listing badly to its port side. A lantern appeared to be swinging from the bow, the light flashing and disappearing sporadically. The sailor on deck was probably trying to signal their position with a cloth over the lamp, but the wind was too strong to decipher the message. In any event, they’d already been spotted. The harbour master, only half-dressed, was already returning the signal with the help of two men working the cloth while he held the lantern high. The problem now was to get the sailors to shore before their boat went down.
“Do ye think one of the coracles can make it out there?” another man asked, referring to the small, round, leather-bottomed boats used to fish the shallow inlets.
“Nae,” another answered. “Even if ye did, they doona hold more than two, and that would be risking it in this weather.”
“We doona ken how many are aboard,” a third one said.
“We’ll use my father’s longboat,” Robert said. “They are built for rough weather.”
His comment ceased further conversation and the group looked at him, some with mouths agape.
“We doona ken if she’s seaworthy,” one finally said.
“She’s been kept in the water, hasn’t she?” Robert answered, already striding past the men toward his father’s boat.
“That boat is your da’s pride and joy. He will skin us if it gets wrecked,” a second one said.
“There’s a ship being wrecked and sinking as we stand here blethering.” Alasdair stomped off after Robert. “We need more men to row. Doona just stand there like green lads.”
He might as well have called them cowards. The whole group surged forward, nearly trampling each other. By the time Robert had released the lines and Alasdair had helped him push the shallow-keeled boat into deeper water, twenty men were aboard, oars at the ready. He and Robert lifted themselves over the low freeboard as the boat floated free. Without a drum to establish the rhythm for the rowers, Alasdair started to call the cadence while Robert took the tiller.
The boat glided smoothly through the protected waters of the inlet, but when it rounded the rocks, the rough chop of the loch raised the high prow over the crest of a wave and sent it crashing into a trough. Water sluiced over the crew. The men’s faces turned grim, but not one of them said a word, even as the pitching continued. To Alasdair, the movement felt much like trying to ride an unbroken horse. Actually, a bucking horse would probably feel better. Robert, however, looked nonchalant when Alasdair glanced back at him.
“These boats have crossed the North Sea in worse than this,” he said.
Not a single man answered. Considering many of them made their livings off the sea and were no strangers to it, spoke volumes to Alasdair. He picked up the pace of the beat, making the men concentrate only on rowing.
As they drew near the listing boat, it bobbed erratically, and Robert gave a quick command to reverse oars. Immediately, without losing a stroke, the oars were lifted, turned, and dipped, bringing the longboat to a standstill, or at least as much of one as could be had in the churning water. Alasdair was amazed at the alacrity with which the men responded. Most of them were independent fishermen, not used to being part of a ship’s crew, but Robert’s voice held authority and command.
“Keep her steady, men,” Robert said. “We cannot get any closer without the chance of colliding and breaking apart.”
No one argued with him.
They were probably a good fifteen to twenty feet away from the other vessel, too far to jump from one deck to another. Alasdair could see five men clinging to the rail, the heaving sea already sloshing over them.
“Do you have a rope?” Robert called.
“Aye,” one of the men yelled back. “Do ye want us to throw it and tow ye over?”
“No,” Robert replied. “We cannot come closer. Weigh down the bitter end and toss it. Then each of you grab hold and jump. We’ll pull you in.”
Conversation ensued among the men on the other boat, although Alasdair couldn’t hear any of it over the sound of the waves crashing against the hull. He couldn’t blame them for not wanting to jump into what looked like boiling water, but it was their only chance of survival.
“Stop your blethering and jump!” he yelled.
They stopped talking to look over at him. Apparently, one of them had enough sense to see reason. He bent down and, a moment later, the line snaked over the water. Alasdair caught hold of the wooden chock the man must have pried off the deck to give weight to the rope.
“Slip me a piece of that so I can tail for you,” Robert said from behind him.
Alasdair allowed a length of the rope back and then braced himself. He felt the line go taut. If the men didn’t jump soon, the longboat would be pulled toward them. If he let go of the lifeline, the men would perish.
“Jump!” Eejits, that’s what they were. Bloody eejits.
As if they heard his thoughts, the line loosened, he heard plops, and then the line tightened again. He and Robert began pulling. As they brought in the rope, more of the men helped tail while others readied themselves to pull the sailors from the water.
Robert established a calm, two-count heave-ho, making it easier to draw the men closer. Within minutes, all five sailors were lying on the planks in the shallow belly of the longboat, gulping air.
One of them finally pushed himself to a sitting position and pushed back his matted hair.
Alasdair stared at the man. What in the hell was Owen MacLean doing in MacDonald territory?