Bridget stared at him, not quite sure she heard correctly. “Here?”
“Aye.”
“But it is a boarding house for women.”
“Nae.” Alasdair pointed to the sign hanging above the door. “Do ye see anything that says so?”
Bridget looked up. The sign simply said Rooms to let. “Robert gave me a letter of introduction to the proprietor so she would accept me.”
“That the widow Ferguson will do,” Alasdair answered. “She owns the building since her husband died several years ago. We always stay here when we are in Glasgow, so Robert kenned ye would be safe.”
Safe. She might very well be safe from the dangers on the streets, but how safe would she be with Alasdair residing in the same house? Or, more truthfully, how strong would her resistance be? The situation was eerily similar to staying at his house in Arisaig. The reason she had come to Glasgow was to avoid such enticement and here it was, practically being handed to her on a serving platter.
The image of the dancing shadow from last night beckoning her to frolic flitted through Bridget’s mind and she wondered if perhaps the Fae had a hand in this after all. Maybe one of them had decided to prove to her that they existed by thwarting her practical plan to put time and space between herself and temptation. She thought she heard the sound of laughter, but it was so faint and soft she couldn’t tell for sure. There wasn’t anyone around except Alasdair. Perhaps she was going barmy after all.
“Are ye coming?”
With a start, she realized she had been standing on the curb like a halfwit staring into space. Alasdair was already headed down the walk. She followed quickly, ascending the four steps to the door as he pushed it open and stepped aside.
She entered and glanced around. The entryway was spotlessly clean, the wooden floor polished and the walls freshly painted in a pale shade of blue. A watercolor of the River Clyde hung on one wall. Two armchairs in a darker blue brocade sat on either side of an open door to her right. Like most boarding houses, the ground floor contained a public room for eating, but the usual scent of stale ale and tobacco did not accompany the delicious aromas of cooking meat and savory pies drifting into the entryway. The conversation sounded muted as well and not bawdy.
Alasdair stepped over to the small wooden counter on their left that held the register. A plump, silver-haired woman stood behind the counter. She peered over the spectacles perched on the edge of her nose with eyes twinkling bluish-green, like the water did when sun shone on it.
“’Tis a long time since I’ve seen ye, Alasdair MacDonald. If I were a woman to take insult, I might be thinkin’ ye were avoiding my establishment.”
“Och, Ilse, forgive a mon for such a breach,” Alasdair said with a grin and leaned over the counter to plant a kiss on her weathered cheek. “’Tis busy I’ve been.”
Ilse turned her bright look on Bridget and then back to Alasdair. “I will forgive ye if ye tell me ’tis because ye’ve taken such a fine-looking bride.”
Bridget almost choked, although Alasdair only looked amused. “I am nae married to him.”
One of the Ilse’s eyebrows rose and her expression grew more scrutinising Bridget felt her face grow warm once she realized the woman probably thought she was Alasdair’s leman. “I mean, I am nae—”
“Allow me to introduce ye,” Alasdair said to Bridget, his mouth still in a half-quirk. “This is Ilse Ferguson, the owner of this establishment.” Turning to the lady, he added, “My companion is Bridget MacLeod, sister-by-marriage to Robert Henderson.”
Bridget unfolded the letter of introduction and held it out. “Robert gave me this.”
“I’ll nae be needing it,” Ilse said. “’Tis enough that ye came with Alasdair.”
Not that she had intended to. She really needed to let Mrs. Ferguson know she was not attached to Alasdair in any way. “Actually, Robert asked me to supervise his shipping office for several weeks. Mr. MacDonald is here on other business.”
Ilse’s eyebrow arched again, but she made no remark. Instead, she turned the register around for Alasdair and handed him a quill. He signed his name and handed the pen to Bridget. She glanced down at the assortment of names already on the sheet. Most of the women’s names had room numbers on the third floor and the men had numbers on the second. Bridget breathed a small sigh of relief. At least she wouldn’t be next door to Alasdair like she had been in Arisaig. “I see we will be housed on different levels.”
“Usually, that is true, but I am nearly full right now,” Ilse said. “The last two rooms open are on the second floor at the end of the hall.” She smiled with a glint in her eye. “’Tis a bit out of the way back there.”
Bridget stifled a moan while Alasdair practically smirked. Behind Ilse, Bridget could have sworn she saw the dancing shadow of a girl and the sound of soft laughter once again.
A strange tingle slid down Bridget’s spine and she wondered if the Fae truly were at work.
By the time they reached their rooms, Alasdair realized he had a dilemma on his hands. It didn’t take much deduction on his part to know Bridget was not pleased with the situation. Her straight back, stiff shoulders, and fast walk told him that. He could even understand why—at least partly—since powerful lust raged in his blood and he thought it might in Bridget’s too. He also knew honor was as important to her as it was to him, and that it probably wasn’t particularly wise to be next door to each other.
However, they were housed on the second floor that mainly had men letting the rooms. Alasdair had already observed two of them on the stairs giving Bridget covert looks while another one coming out of his room gaped at her openly until Alasdair’s glare sent him hurrying past them.
He was going to make damn sure each and every male residing here understood Bridget was off-limits. He also was quite sure she wouldn’t appreciate how he was going to do it.
Bridget stopped in front of the door second from the end of the hall and inserted her key into the lock, pushing the door open. The room was simply furnished with two narrow beds separated by a bureau and a small table with two chairs, but as with all of Ilse’s rooms, it smelled of wax polish and fresh sheets. Alasdair saw Bridget nod approval as she turned and held out her hand for her valise.
“I can take that now.”
“I want ye to have the other room.”
She frowned. “Why? This one looks perfectly fine.”
“Fine it may be, but the other room is at the very end of the hall and gives ye better protection.”
“From what?”
“Not from what, lass. From whom. Did ye nae see the men giving ye the eye on the way up here?”
The frown deepened. “Nae.”
Alasdair sighed. As refreshing as it was that Bridget gave herself no airs nor fussed about her appearance, that she remained unaware of how attractive she really was could put her in danger. “Ye are in the city now. Nae all men have good intentions.”
Bridget folded her arms. “I doona think I will be accosted in this boarding house.”
“I will make sure of that.”
She gave him a wary look. “What do ye plan to do?”
Instead of answering, he moved to the next room and unlocked the door, shoved it open with his boot, and carried her valise inside.
Bridget followed him but remained standing in the doorway. “Ye did nae answer my question.”
“Aye. Come inside. I doona want other ears hearing.”
She hesitated, looking as though she was going to argue the point, but finally stepped in and closed the door behind her. “If ye think to tell men I am your leman to protect me, ye need to think again.”
“I would nae ask ye to pretend to be such.”
Bridget arched a brow. “What then?”
“I want ye to be my intended.”
Her eyebrow went higher. “Ye already have a betrothed.”
Alasdair wanted to say not for long. Instead, he swallowed hard. “’Tis the safest way to protect ye.”
She shook her head. “I will ask it again. Why do ye think I need protecting? I am nae a child and nae stupid.”
“I never said ye were stupid nor a child. Captain Nels told me there is unrest in Glasgow because there is an organization of women demanding rights to work and wages.”
“Really?” Bridget relaxed and smiled. “I want to meet them.”
Alasdair bit back a groan. He suspected that would be her reaction. “Men of business and trade are nae happy with the ideas or the women behind them. Ye will be safer here and at the marine office if I let it be known ye are mine.”
The brow shot up again. “Yours?”
He’d known she wouldn’t like the term, but it was one he planned to use since it would be the most effective. “Aye, lass. Mine. Glasgow is far enough south to have suspicion remain that Highlanders are still barbarians. I will be wearing my kilt and sword from here on. I will claim ye as my woman and no one—especially sailors who ken from where Highlanders descend—will dare offend ye. To do so would mean coming to terms with the end of my sword.”
Bridget stared at him. “Ye cannae be serious.”
Alasdair drew his brows together. “Why nae? The MacDonalds were Lords of the Isles.”
“Three hundred years ago.” Bridget began to smile. “I will agree ye look fierce enough with that glower on your face and your hair wild about your shoulders, but ’tis the year 1817, in case ye somehow slipped back in time.”
Alasdair lifted his chin. “’Tis nae matter what year it is. Only a foolish mon forgets what the tip of a sharp blade can do and how quickly.”
Bridget shook her head again, much as she might do with a somewhat dim-witted child. “I would ask ye to keep your sword sheathed.”
For a split second, Alasdair wondered which sword she meant, but since she kept on talking, she must mean the steel one in his baggage.
“I will try nae to place myself in danger,” Bridget said, “but I willnae live a lie as your intended.”
He really wanted to tell her it would not be a lie if he could find the evidence he needed to free himself. “I mean to keep ye safe.”
She gave him a thoughtful look. “Then let it be known I am your sister-by-marriage. ’Tis the truth in a way. I did, after all, come to stay with my sister and your stepbrother because I needed a change. And now, here I am in Glasgow, seeking another change.”
Bridget’s words struck Alasdair as sharply as any knife could have. She needed a change. Somehow, his lust and desire for her had made him forget that Bridget was a fairly recent widow. Just because her body had responded to his after the fire and again on the deck of the ship didn’t mean her heart didn’t still grieve. Desire was a natural reaction for a passionate woman deprived of her marriage bed.
Bridget had such a strong nature, she would not allow others to see her wallow in self-pity or talk about missing her husband. It didn’t mean she didn’t feel the pain.
He was a horse’s arse to have forgotten. He needed to treat her with the respect of a sister-by-marriage that she deserved. Whether Bridget meant it or not, he would be keeping his personal sword sheathed.
* * * * *
Alasdair was waiting for her in the public room the next morning when Bridget descended the stairs to get breakfast. She had half-expected him to knock on her door, but he had not.
He stood when she entered the room. The first thing she noticed was the tartan he wore, just as he had said he would. The distinctive red, blue, and green plaid would have been hard to miss on any man, but it made Alasdair look like a warrior of old. The sash across his white shirt broadened his chest while the edges of the kilt just brushed his knees and exposed hardened, muscular calves encased in mid-high boots. The black handle of a sgian dubh stuck out of the top of one and she wouldn’t have been surprised if another knife was hidden in the other boot. He had been serious about the sword as well. Its gleaming hilt protruded just enough from the well-oiled leather sheath to provide a glimpse of polished, sharpened steel. With his black hair loose about his shoulders, he did look formidable.
Alasdair pulled out her chair, at the same time giving hard looks to two men seated at another table and one perched on a stool by the bar. All of them quickly expressed interest in the food on their plates. Bridget wasn’t sure if she wanted to smile or just shake her head as she sat down. Thankfully, it was a young maid who brought her plate of ham and eggs and was spared a withering look, although Bridget did notice the girl eyeing Alasdair with interest.
“I see ye decided to wear your clan colors after all,” she said and noted how deftly he maneuvered the sword out of his way as he took his own seat. Obviously, the wearing of it was not foreign to him.
“I said I would. Did ye doubt me?”
She began to wonder if he had truly been serious about brandishing the weapon against any male who looked her way. “Nae. I’m just surprised ye are nae wearing a musket as well.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “’Tis hard to strap on over a kilt, unless ye want me to rearrange it. Would ye prefer I do so?”
Bridget felt her cheeks warm as she realized strapping a gun to his thigh would indeed rearrange way too much clothing. “Nae. Ye are quite well-armed.”
Alasdair put his hand in his lap. “I do have another weapon in here.”
For a startled moment, Bridget thought he was referring to his manhood, but then she realized he had merely tapped his sporran. Even so, her face felt on fire from her wayward thoughts.
Alasdair studied her, an odd look on his face. “Did ye have a restful sleep, sister?” he finally asked, emphasizing the last word loudly enough for the neighboring table to hear.
Bridget breathed a small sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to insist on the original relationship he’d mentioned last night. “Well enough, brother. Ye are kind to be concerned.” She thought she saw his mouth tighten, but she wasn’t sure since he reached for his coffee. “What are your plans for today?”
“That will depend on yours.”
“I thought to go to the marine office this morning and introduce myself.”
Alasdair nodded. “I will accompany ye.”
Bridget started to tell him that would not be necessary, but she suspected she would just be wasting her breath. “I plan to get started looking at the accounts. That should keep me busy most of the day, so ye will be free to go about your business.”
“We shall see.”
She frowned. “Ye doona mean to sit by my side the whole day?”
He gave her another thoughtful look. “Only if I think ye need the protection.”
“I doona need—”
“’Tis a brother’s duty to protect his sister,” Alasdair said.
It seemed he was going to play the brotherly card for all it was worth. Bridget refrained from looking heavenward. She knew full well from having two overly protective real brothers that arguing would do no good. It only made Ian and Jamie more stubborn and determined.
Unfortunately for Alasdair, those were traits she possessed too. For now she would acquiesce, but the battle of wills had begun.
Alasdair just didn’t know it yet.