Although Isobel said a proper hello to the introduction Alasdair made in the office, Bridget didn’t think it sounded all that friendly. The girl had an English accent, which surprised Bridget, but it could account for the tone. To Highlanders, the English always sounded as though they had a toothache.
Isobel was attractive in a delicate sort of way with light blonde hair, pale blue eyes, a porcelain complexion, and looked to be in her early twenties. By English standards, she would be close to spinsterhood, but the Scots didn’t give much substance to such drivel.
Bridget handed the invoices back to Alasdair and slipped off the desk to go to a small bookcase that held ledgers on the top shelf. “I would like to look at these.”
Isobel arched a brow. “You are concerning yourself with shipping business?”
“Aye. Shauna helps Robert, but she willnae be able to much longer since she is with child. I have done accounts for my brother, Ian, so I thought I would help out here until Shauna is recovered.”
“That will be months.”
“Aye, it might.” Isobel didn’t sound pleased to hear that, but it could be the haughty tone the English used. Bridget decided to change the subject since Alasdair was looking none too happy either. She hoped he wasn’t going to argue about her working in the office. Bridget smiled at Isobel. “Ye sound English. What brought ye and your father to Arisaig?”
“My father is Scot. My mother was English.” She lifted her chin slightly. “I was educated in England.”
That explained the accent then. “I have two sisters by marriage who are from London, as well as a cousin by marriage.”
“I have visited London with my mother,” Isobel said.
“Life is much simpler here. Did it take your mother long to adjust to the Highlands?” Bridget asked.
Isobel hesitated. “My mother never saw the Highlands. We lived in Glasgow.”
“Isobel and her father came here a year ago, after her mother passed away,” Alasdair said.
“Och, I am sorry I asked,” Bridget replied, feeling sympathy for the girl. “I tend to be a wee bit nosy sometimes.”
“She had been quite ill.”
“I am sorry,” Bridget said again. “I hope ye like it here.”
“Actually, I had thought to return to Glasgow once my father was settled. I have an aunt there. However—” Isobel smiled at Alasdair, “—Mr. MacDonald has been very helpful in acquainting me with Scottish life.”
Bridget glanced at Alasdair, but he didn’t meet her eye. She thought she saw the faintest trace of pink brush across his cheekbones.
“Truthfully, ye might say my brothers were equally helpful,” he said.
“Of course they were,” Isobel said quickly, “but you have gone out of your way to explain things to me.”
Bridget glanced at Alasdair again. That was a trace of pink touching Alasdair’s cheeks. Did the man have a personal interest in Isobel? An odd spark of something Bridget couldn’t identify flashed through her. She remembered the pleasant jolt she’d felt when Alasdair’s hand had brushed hers just minutes ago. She’d never experienced such a sensation from a mere touch. It had intrigued her so much that she’d perched on the edge of the desk close to his hand just to see if she might feel it again.
“We were all glad when your da agreed to come here,” Alasdair said. “I wanted to make sure ye were comfortable.”
Isobel looked disconcerted and then smiled brightly. “Well, you have done that. In fact, Papa sent me to remind you of the church picnic this Sunday.”
Alasdair nodded. “My mither wrote it down. We will be there.”
“I have instructed our cook to prepare a chicken the way you like it,” Isobel said.
“Thank ye.”
Isobel lowered her lashes and gave Alasdair a sideways look. “I will save you a place beside me then.”
Bridget opened one of the ledgers as Alasdair muttered some pleasantry. How foolish she was to have gotten affected over a touch of his hand. She wasn’t a silly school girl. He had probably not even given it a thought since it was obvious that Isobel Howard had set her cap for him.
Alasdair sensed the moment Bridget withdrew from him, not that she had moved from her location near the bookcase. Nor had her facial expression changed. The woman would make a good faro player—or maybe that American game of poker that Robert had taught them—since she kept her face impassive. What Alasdair felt was a sudden chill in the air as though someone had left a door open on a blustery, winter day even though it was July.
He thanked Isobel for her invitation and escorted her to the door. “My brothers and I will see you at the picnic,” he said before she could brook another topic of conversation. She didn’t look pleased about leaving, but English manners won out. At least this time.
Alasdair closed the door and turned toward Bridget. “Why don’t ye bring the ledger to the desk? I can go over some of the entries with ye.”
She turned a page without looking up. “I can understand the figures.”
“But—”
“I have done accounts before.”
Damnation. He hadn’t meant to insult her. Why was Bridget being so prickly? He was tempted to stomp over, take the book out of her hands, and carry it to the desk himself. Instead, he walked slowly toward her, stopping when he was a hair’s breadth from her. He stood much too close for propriety, but it was if a magnet had propelled him. Alasdair reached around Bridget to remove the other ledgers, his arm bumping hers as he did. He felt that pleasant shock ripple through him again, but this time no sound escaped her. She didn’t move, rigid as a marble statue. Even her breathing had stilled. He caught the scent wafting from her hair that reminded him of baked cinnamon apples. Its warmth a contrast to the coolness of the air surrounding her.
He stepped back and returned to the desk, putting the ledgers down. “Each of these represents one of the kelp farms on Skye. Ye will want to acquaint yourself with them.”
“Thank ye. I will,” she said and turned another page.
Alasdair studied Bridget since she wasn’t looking at him. No book—certainly not one filled with columns of debits and credits—could be that interesting. She was upset about something. He thought back to the conversation with Isobel. The picnic… Alasdair brightened, pretty sure he knew why Bridget was upset.
“Consider yourself invited to the church picnic. Everyone is. Ye will enjoy it.”
Bridget gazed intently at a page. “I doona care to impose.”
“Ye are nae imposing. Ye will come with me.”
She looked up, one brow slightly arched. “I think Miss Howard is expecting ye to sit with her.”
Alasdair shrugged. “Ye can sit on my other side.”
“Nae.”
“Nae?”
Bridget shook her head. “The lass is interested in ye.”
He opened his mouth and then closed it, not sure how to respond. Isobel was interested in him, but lasses always were interested in him and his brothers. It was just the way of it, although he could hardly say that without sounding like an arrogant braggart. “’Tis nae only me. She likes my brothers too.”
Bridget’s eyebrow rose higher. “She said ye, nae your brothers, was helpful in acquainting her to Scottish life.”
If Bridget were not using such a matter-of-fact tone, or if her expression were anything but bland, Alasdair might think she was jealous. He squelched the thought. Bridget had given him no reason to think she was jealous, although the idea made him feel a bit smug.
“Robert’s father—my stepfather—was the one who convinced Reverend Howard to come here from Glasgow,” Alasdair said. “As the eldest of our branch of the clan, I took it upon myself to help the lass understand Highland life is different from the lowlands, nae to mention the nearest city is Glasgow, several days ride from here.”
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