Rogue Scot (Brethren of Stone 4)

Matt clenched his fists at his sides. “Lady Bridget has lost all her possessions in the shipwreck. I will be travelling to London on my normal route and can provide her passage but—”

The man cackled, there was no other word for it. “Lost her possessions?” Then he laughed so hard, he doubled over. “Where is the little chit now?”

Matt crossed his arms over his chest. This hadn’t been at all what he’d expected. “What is funny?”

“Never mind, I’ll ken yer boat.” Then the man turned and left Matt standing in the parlor. With a growl, Matt followed. Whatever McDougal was going to say, it wasn’t good. And Bridget had been right, he shouldn’t have stopped. With that in mind, he followed McDougal. He was certain of one thing, Bridget was under Matt’s protection now and McDougal was not going to hurt her.

* * *

Bridget woke wondering what was happening. While she’d only been on a boat for a week, she’d learned the difference between a sailing vessel and a resting one. The ship had stopped.

Rising, she quickly washed and dressed, heading to the deck. The moment her head crested the hatch, she knew where they were. She’d recognize the village of North Berwick anywhere. And sitting up on the hill, her father’s home.

She swallowed a lump. Glancing off to the left was the very beach where her father had thrown her in the water. It was one of many times he’d lashed out physically but that one had nearly been her end. Ship’s Master Hennessey passed by her and she scrambled out of the hatch as she called his name. “Captain Hennessey.”

He turned and gave her wide smile. “Good morning, lass. Sleep well?”

She gave a quick nod. “I did, thank you. May I ask you a question?” She reached his side and took a deep breath trying to calm her racing nerves.

“Of course,” he gave her a kind smile that crinkled his eyes at the corners. Though his hair was sprinkled with grey, his build was still lean and his jaw strong. He must have been a handsome man, he still was.

“Why have we stopped? This isn’t where Captain Sinclair’s brother lives?” She knew the answer to that. Her father was the only laird in the area.

“No, of course not. We’ll travel another day north. Captain Sinclair has stopped on personal business.”

Bridget’s stomach clenched. Was she that personal business? The answer came barreling down the dock in the form of her father. His shirt was untucked, his hair wild as though he’d just woken, his stride long despite his large stomach. And his face… Bridget knew the look well. He was spitting mad and looking for blood.

The moment he spotted her, he began yelling. “Fer feck’s sake, why can’t I get rid of ye?” He spit as he yelled. She could see it even though he was several feet below her still on the dock.

There was no point in explaining that her ship had nearly sunk, an event she had no control over. In fact, if one of them were more to blame than the other, it was likely him that should take responsibility in the first place. He had sent her to England in the dead of winter on a tiny boat. “How is Fiona?”

His scowl darkened. “Never you mind.” Then he began climbing up the plank.

Bridget took a step back. She tried never to show fear around him but they were surrounded by water and she didn’t trust him not to just toss her over the side of the vessel. “There is no need to yell at me,” she started. “I’m leaving and I’ll take care of my own passage south from here. I told Captain Sinclair not to—”

“How are ye goin’ tae do that?” His face changed in an instant, his features lightened as he gave a loud laugh. “Yer dowry was in the false floor of yer trunk, sunk tae the bottom of the sea. Not even yer auntie will take ye now. Yer fecked well and good and I’m glad I got tae see it.”

The color drained from her face. She’d wondered how he was delivering the funds to England. “No.”

“Yer mother insisted in the marriage agreement that part of her dowry be kept for any daughters. I honored my end of the bargain.” He reached the top and hefted himself over the rail. “I’ll not give ye another penny.”

“How could you do that to your own daughter?” A deep voice rumbled behind her father. Matt. Once again, she had the distinct urge to hide herself in broad chest. Which was ridiculous. She wanted to opposite sort of man from him. One who’d leave her to the management of her own life. Matthew Sinclair would never do that.

Her father snorted. “That’s not my daughter. Born six months after the wedding. I needed the inheritance and she needed a husband quick.” He sneered at her. “Ye’re no child of mine and if I never see ye again, I won’t cry.”

“And Mary?” she asked, her voice quiet but hard. “You’d leave her to fend for herself too.” She didn’t say it. She knew Mary was his but her meaning was implied.

He stepped closer, his face pinching and darkening. “Don’t tell me my business, girl. I clothed her and fed her, didn’t I?” He grabbed the front of her dress, bunching it up in his meaty fist. “Do ye remember that time I tossed ye in the water all those years ago?”

Remember? She was haunted by the memory. “I nearly drowned.”

His lip curled. “I should have thrown ye further.” Then he began lifting her off her feet. For a moment, fear coursed through her but as quickly as he’d picked her up, he dropped her.

She blinked, hardly aware of what was happening, and suddenly he was feet away from her, sailing over the rail of the ship. Matt stood next to the rail watching him fall. As he splashed into the water, Matt’s voice bellowed out, “Raise the anchor. We’re leaving port.”

Bridget stared at him, trying to make sense of everything that had just happened.

She wasn’t his child. Relief made her limp. He was an awful man and she was glad never to have to call him father again. But, nice as that was, it meant she was in the world alone. How would she survive?