Bridget noticed that all four of the MacDonald men were seated at the table for supper. None of them appeared bruised or battered, so they must have taken their mother’s warning not to exchange blows seriously. Bridget knew men thought fighting was the solution to most arguments, but she had never understood why they would enjoy brawling simply for the sake of it. Looking at the granite set to Alasdair’s jaw made her wonder if a skirmish might not still take place.
“We serve ourselves here,” Joanna said as she brought in a dish of vegetables and smiled at Bridget as she sat down. “Doona skimp on your servings.” She glanced at her sons. “I am used to big appetites, so there is always plenty of food.”
“Thank ye,” Bridget said. “The boar smells delicious.”
“Allow me to carve ye some,” Niall said, flourishing a knife with enough skill that Bridget had no doubt he’d be deadly with a dagger.
Alasdair gave him a sharp look but said nothing.
Oddly enough, the other brothers were quiet and subdued this evening. Even though she’d only met them briefly when they’d come to Glenfinnan, she didn’t think the reserved behavior fit any of them. Rowdy, boisterous, rambunctious, yes. Quiet, no. Had the retelling this afternoon of the fate of that poor girl affected them so much?
Bridget glanced at Alasdair. He hadn’t been in the room, but the memories were probably crystal clear. She wished she could say something to him, but she caught the glimpse he gave her. His eyes were like emerald shards. She’d seen that look on her brothers’ faces, warning anyone with any sense not to broach them. Now was not the time to comment.
A clamoring near the back of the house broke the silence. Bridget heard shouting and several heavy thuds. It sounded like an altercation taking place, although none of the men seated seemed to be overly concerned.
The kitchen door banged, followed by the trampling of boots coming down the hall. The yelling hadn’t stopped either. Three lads in shirts, breeches, and tartan caps burst into the room, one of them dripping wet.
“’Tis nae my fault ye fell into the burn,” one said.
“Ye pushed me, ye fool,” the wet one answered.
“To get ye out of the way. I had to save Margaret.”
“I dinnae need saving,” the third one shouted. “Ye are both oafs.”
Bridget blinked. The last voice was definitely feminine and angry. She studied the three. The boys were tall and gangly, indicating they hadn’t quite reached manhood. The girl was merely slender, but they all had fierce scowls on their faces.
“Ye slipped on a rock running away from your beau,” the dry one said.
The girl pummeled his shoulders with her fists. “That eejit is nae my beau!”
The lad fended off the blows easily. “Tell him that then.”
“I will the—”
“Caps off in the house,” Alasdair said.
All three swept off their caps while the wet one smacked the dry one. “Why did ye nae protect our sister and chase after the mon?”
Margaret pushed the wet one back. “I doona need ye to protect me!”
Bridget bit back a smile. Obviously, she had been wrong about the sister being coddled. The girl sounded every bit as annoyed as Bridget had felt earlier. She looked at Margaret again. Despite her brows being drawn together in a thunderous frown, the girl was attractive. Long auburn hair, several shades darker than Bridget’s but still very reddish, tumbled down her back now that her cap was off. She had high cheekbones and a straight, pert nose. Her chin might have jutted a bit too much, perhaps because her mouth was set in a tight line. Blue flames sparked from her eyes.
She definitely didn’t look like someone who wanted to be coddled.
“Ye might remember my youngest brothers, Ewan and Rauri,” Alasdair said to Bridget, “and Margaret.”
The three stopped bickering and looked at Bridget, noticing her for the first time.
“Who are ye?” Margaret asked.
“She’s one of the MacLeods,” Ewan answered, suddenly full of self-importance even though he was wet. “We met her at Glenfinnan.”
Not to be upstaged by his brother, Rauri added, “When we rode with our brothers as guards.”
Margaret looked miffed. “I wanted to go along to Glenfinnan too. I’m older than either of ye.”
“Ye are a girl,” Ewan said.
As if that settled the matter. Bridget watched as Margaret cuffed her brother’s ear.
“I can ride as good as ye and my arrows fly straighter too.”
Ewan rubbed his ear. “Well, I can—”
“What ye can do,” Joanna said mildly, “is stop dripping on my clean floor.”
The three of them looked down at the puddle that had accumulated. “’Tis Ewan’s fault,” Rauri said.
“I would nae be wet if ye hadn’t pushed me into the burn,” Ewan argued.
Alasdair laid down his fork. “Do ye lads need to be taught a lesson?”
Naill, Gavin, and Braden laid down their utensils too.
“Outside, lads?” Alasdair asked.
The boys paled and shook their heads. “We will clean it up,” Ewan said and rushed off.
“Aye,” Rauri agreed and followed his brother.
Margaret looked around the room with a self-satisfied expression and started to take a chair.
Alasdair smiled pleasantly. “Do sit, sister. I want to hear about this eejit who was chasing ye today. A beau, did Ewan say?”
Margaret shoved the chair back. “I think I will go help my brothers.”
Alasdair raised a brow as he watched he leave.
Bridget doubted that Margaret would have a reprieve for long.
* * * * *
Bridget retired to her bedchamber after Joanna had shooed her out of the kitchen when she offered to help clean up after supper. Ewan and Rauri had been assigned that task since they’d left mud tracks throughout the house. Besides, Joanna had told her every one of her boys had learned if they wanted to have meals, they either needed to cook them or clean up afterwards.
Picturing Alasdair and his three grown brothers washing dishes made Bridget smile. Their large, strong hands were more fitted to the hilt of a claymore than a fine china cup. Joanna actually used bone china, which was a surprise considering how fractious all the men were. Interestingly, Bridget hadn’t seen a chip or crack on anything.
She looked around the chamber she’d been given. Simply furnished with a sturdy four-poster bed, it had a large armoire on one wall and a small writing desk and dresser on the other side. All the pieces, including two chairs that sat close to a brazier, were of sturdy oak. The counterpane and curtains were dark blue, the walls a pale yellow. A serviceable room with no frills. Bridget liked it.
She had loosened her hair to comb it when a knock on her door made her nearly drop the brush. Would Alasdair not observe propriety and seek to speak to her in her chamber? He did have the room next to hers. Bridget felt that strange flutter in her stomach again, as though a bevy of quail had been startled.
Before she could reach the door, it opened and Margaret stuck her head through. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” Bridget laid the brush down and turned away from the mirror. The girl had taken off the muddy boots and replaced them with satin slippers that seemed incongruous with the breeches and shirt she was still wearing. Bridget gestured to the other chair in the room. “Please have a seat.”
“Thank ye,” Margaret said as she shut the door and plopped down in the armchair close to the unlit brazier. “I figure if I stay in here talking to you, Alasdair will give up trying to corner me.”
Bridget doubted that Alasdair would give up on anything once he put his mind to it. Still, she smiled. “He wants to ask about your beau?”
Margaret’s cheeks turned pink, which surprised Bridget, considering how vehement the girl had been about calling the man an idiot earlier. Perhaps Alasdair’s sister did harbour a liking for the eejit after all. Bridget had no personal experience with such feelings since she’d never had the opportunity to be smitten, but she’d seen that same blush on her sisters’ faces when they’d talked of their future husbands.
“Would your brother disprove of the young man?”
Margaret shrugged. “John is the farrier’s son. I doona even ken if I like him that much. He just says nice things to me, unlike my brothers.”
“Brothers can be annoying sometimes,” Bridget replied. “I have two bossy ones myself.”
Margaret gave her a wry look. “Try ten.”
“Ye have me there,” Bridget said. “Two are bad enough when they start trying to order me about.”
Margaret’s brows rose. “Try? They doona succeed?”
Bridget smiled again. “Nae often.”
“How do ye do it? Tell me.”
“’Tis hard to explain. I doona ken if there is any one specific thing unless it is that I am as stubborn as they are.” Bridget paused. “I always ken they care though, even when we fight.”
“Och, aye.” Margaret said. “I ken my brothers do too, even the oafs. I just want to make my own decisions.”
“As do many women,” Bridget answered, “although we are nae usually given the chance.”
“’Tis nae fair!” Margaret thrust her chin out. “I am six-and-ten. Alasdair will probably find a proper husband for me in a year or two.”
“Nae John, the farrier’s son?”
Margaret shook her head. “John is but a year older than me. Since Alasdair’s begun kelp farming on Skye, he will probably seek an alliance with the MacKinnons, or maybe the MacDonnels or MacKenzies.”
Bridget could sympathize since her own marriage to a Cameron had been for such an alliance. Of course, neither her father nor Brodie’s had had an inkling of the secret Brodie had shared with her. “Sometimes such things are nae all that bad.”
“Perhaps nae, but I would like to see Glasgow first. And Edinburgh. Maybe even London. My mother went there when she was young and told of beautiful balls and parties.”
Bridget doubted London was ready for Margaret. For certain, Society’s ton was not. According to Jillian, women were to have no opinions or, if they did, they were not to express them in public. Bridget could imagine the reaction of the ultra-proper matrons if Margaret walked into a fancy ballroom dressed as she was. More than likely, the floor would be littered with swooning ladies.
“Do ye think ye would like such things?”
“I doona ken. I just want to see a bit of the world.”
Bridget couldn’t fault the girl for that. Didn’t she want exactly the same thing? “Perhaps ye will get a chance. I ken Robert goes to Glasgow to see to his ships.”
“Aye. So does Alasdair, but they never take me.”
“Mmmm.” Glasgow. An idea was beginning to form in Bridget’s mind, although she thought it better not to share it with Margaret just yet. “Perhaps we can change their minds.”
Margaret brightened. “Really? How?”
“Let me think on it,” Bridget answered. “Let me think on it.”
* * * * *
Alasdair entered the marine building the next morning, said hello to the harbour master, and went into the small office Robert rented. Alasdair had no real reason to be there this morning since no ships were anchored in the loch, but staying at the house and spending the day in Bridget’s presence might just drive him barmy.
He raked a hand through his hair as he sat down at the desk. He’d had the devil of a time getting to sleep last night knowing she was in the room next to his. He’d been sorely tempted to knock on Bridget’s door to inquire if her chamber was adequate, but he knew that was just an excuse. He should never have given her that room, idiot that he was. Even though lustful thoughts were inappropriate, he had to be honest with himself. He wanted to see Bridget in her night rail with her hair loose. Hell, he wanted to see her naked with her hair loose. When he had finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams had been filled with images of the flame-haired woman with eyes the color of fine whisky looking at him in wild abandonment. Thankfully, there was no adjoining door between the rooms or he might have given in to temptation.
Damnation. What in the world was wrong with him? What had happened to the ironclad willpower his brothers admired him for having? He was nearly thirty and he’d had his share of women. None of them had ever caused him sleepless nights, nor had they given him fantasies he wanted to fulfill.
By the saints, he remembered how his cock had stirred when Bridget had stitched his wound last spring and she’d leaned so close to his shaft. He’d used his willpower to put the incident out of his mind, knowing she was a married woman.
She was a widow now.
Alasdair shook his head, picked up some loose papers and stacked them together. Bridget had only been widowed a few months. She had said she needed a change. That’s why she had come to Arisaig. Obviously, she needed time to grieve. He would not be loutish and infringe on that. Perhaps a trip to Glasgow to slack his lust would be good once Robert returned. He could use the excuse that he needed to see how the displaced crofters who were now working with the soda ash production were doing.
For now, he would stay away from the house as much as he could. Seeing Bridget at supper would be hard enough. He didn’t even want to think about another sleepless night.
The door to the small office opened. Alasdair looked up and nearly dropped the papers. Bridget stood in the doorway. Had he somehow conjured her?
She looked equally surprised to see him. “What are ye doing here?”
“I came to check to see if any paperwork needed tending while Robert is away,” he said. “Why are ye here?”
“For the same reason.”
Alasdair wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but then maybe it was her slightly spicy scent that had distracted him. “The same reason?”
“Aye.” Bridget closed the door and crossed over to the desk. “I ken Shauna helps Robert with the books. I plan to take that over for her until the bairn is born.” She held out her hand, palm up. “Might I see those?”
He looked at her hand, not small and delicate or soft and lily white. Hers was a strong hand with long fingers. He noticed a callus on the thumb. Unbidden, the thought crept into his mind of how easily Bridget could wrap those long fingers completely around his shaft and rub her thumb across his tip, the callus providing good friction.
She wiggled her fingers impatiently, and he blinked, his wayward mind snapping back to reality. Alasdair handed her the stack, allowing his hand to brush against those long, lovely fingers. A pleasant shock rippled through his arm, and he thought Bridget made a strangled sound, but she looked serene as she took the papers.
He dropped his hand. What the hell was he doing? He must be losing his bloody mind. “Ye really doona need to work in the office. When Aiden—he’s the second oldest of us—returns with Robert, he can handle the office.”
“Nonsense,” Bridget said briskly and propped herself up on the desk to read the invoices. “I cannae simply sit around doing nothing.”
Alasdair really wished she wasn’t sitting on top of the desk right now. He could see the curve of her thigh where the muslin of her gown was pulled tight. Her curvy bottom was much too close to where his hand rested. He had the strongest urge to trace that curve.
He jerked his hand back abruptly. Had Bridget bedeviled him somehow? The MacLeod clan believed they were descended from a faerie queen, even keeping what they called a faerie flag at Dunvegan on Skye. Were the Fae somehow tampering with him? Having a bit of sport?
The sound of a female voice speaking to the harbour master broke into his thoughts. He heard footsteps and the office door opened.
“Your mother said you would be here,” the young woman said and then stopped and narrowed her eyes at the sight of Bridget still perched on the desk. “Who are you?”
“This is Bridget MacLeod, Shauna’s sister. She’s come to visit,” Alasdair said and then turned to Bridget. “Meet Isobel Howard, the parson’s daughter.”