Bridget arched against the plush, upholstered chair as she stretched, lifted her gaze from her work, and permitted her attention to wander the bright, airy room. On the second floor of their manor in Ceann na Creige, the high-ceilinged chamber’s windows were thrown wide. Afternoon sunlight, a warm breeze, and a murmur of voices drifted in.
She decided she’d had enough work for one afternoon. Marking her place, she closed the book before her. She had no desire for dreary, secret-passage-filled rooms, or any need to hide her work. The cyphers she developed for the Crown existed only in her head. The books were for inspiration, for ideas, but only Bridget could put the snippets she read together with meaning.
Once her work was done and she passed each cypher on to the Crown, she supposed abducting her would do some good, but she had no fear of that. Even if someone should discover the Duchess of Ceann na Creige was now in charge of creating Britain’s most secret cyphers, Alasdair would never permit anyone to take her.
Thinking of her tall, capable husband, Bridget stood and strode to the windows on the west side of the room. Without, young men and women practiced various feats, designed to defend. Alasdair had begun training them as soon as he regained most of the mobility in his shoulder. She’d worried, at first, that teaching others to kill would haunt him, but he assured her not. In his words, he wasn’t teaching them to kill. He was teaching them how not to die. Fiona was his best pupil.
He wasn’t below, however. Only the students who resided with them practiced in the yard. Bridget frowned. While she was apt to cry off work early in the afternoon, declaring her mind spent for the day, Alasdair never tired of training. There was not an ounce of softness to him. At least, not in his powerful form.
A knock sounded. Bridget smiled. She knew from the complete lack of approaching footfalls who stood without. “Come in.”
Alasdair pushed the door open and stood framed in the doorway. She took in his polished boots, black trousers and vest, and rolled up shirt sleeves. So, he had been training. From the smile on his face, his reason for coming to her was a happy one.
“A wagon has arrived for you.”
Bridget raised her eyebrows. “A wagon?”
“Yes. A gift from Lord Oliver. I set them to unloading it in the orangery.”
From Ollie? For the…Bridget let out a gasp. She raced across the room. Alasdair stepped aside to permit her to pass.
Skirt held high, Bridget ran through the daylight-filled halls of the manor. She flew down the stairs and along a wide corridor. She burst into the kitchen, startling the servants, and sped across the aroma-filled room to a recently added door. She pushed past the door into the newly built orangery to find the last of the workmen slipping through the outer entrance. She dropped her skirts, a broad smile overtaking her lips, and crossed to the far side of the room at a more decorous pace.
She passed her geraniums, petunias, roses and lilies. She didn’t spare a glance for her coddled, fledgling orange trees that marched down the center of the orangery in their enormous urns. Purposeful strides took her to the low tables along the far wall where, now, pots of jasmine stood in neat rows.
Her mother’s jasmine. Bridget’s jasmine, that she’d tended since she was a girl. The other plants in the orangery Alasdair had built her were carefully selected, and new, but she’d yet to settle on any jasmine. Many times, Alasdair had asked her about the final, empty tables. Bridget hadn’t been able to make the purchase, though. Her mother’s jasmine was the one thing she’d missed from Lomall a 'Chaisteil.
“I wrote to your brother,” Alasdair’s voice, behind her, was quiet.
Bridget nodded. She ran a hand over the star-like blooms. The petals tickled her palm. Their elusive, sultry scent washed over her. “I would never have asked for them. They were a part of Lomall a 'Chaisteil.”
“I know.” Alasdair came to stand beside her. “But you wanted them. This is only half.”
She nodded again. She would divide them and grow more. She would fill the orangery with jasmine.
“You’re pleased?” A foreign note of uncertainty underscored the question.
Bridget turned, aware she was the only person he would ever permit to see so much emotion. “I am pleased, and I love you.”
His gaze never leaving hers, he plucked a sprig of jasmine. He smoothed loose locks back from her face. With sure fingers, he tucked the sprig behind her ear. “There.”
Bridget smiled. Alasdair was so serious. He studied her as if she and the exact placement of jasmine were the most important things in the world. The fate of nations might hang in the balance for the intensity in his eyes.
“Now I am perfect?” She’d meant to tease but, with Alasdair so near, her words came out more breathless than amused.
He nodded, expression grave. “Yes. Perfect for this.” He kissed her ear, just below the jasmine.
A shiver of delight ran through her.
“And this.” He kissed her neck, inhaling deeply.
Bridget’s head tipped back. Her lips parted as she drank in the sensation.
“And most definitely for this.” He brought his mouth down on hers.
There, in her own home, far from the crags of Lomall a 'Chaisteil, the beguiling scent of jasmine heavy in the air, Bridget wound her arms about Alasdair’s neck and returned his kiss. There was no better place, no better man, in the world.
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