Alasdair whistled discordantly as he blundered through the upper hall and down the steps of Lomall a 'Chaisteil after changing for dinner. It was easy to guess which floorboards would creak the loudest. He endeavored to step on every last one. Nearing the bottom of the staircase, he jumped down the final few steps to land in a loud clatter. With a grin, he broke off his whistling to curse, then paused as if to collect himself. He set his spectacles askew on his nose and strode down the central hallway.

A strange joy had filled him since reaching Lomall a 'Chaisteil. For one thing, he was on a mission. A silly, piddling sort of mission, but serving king and country nonetheless. For another, one look at the lady of the house and he’d realized there was much more entertainment to be found in Lomall a 'Chaisteil than he’d anticipated.

When she’d strode into the parlor, apron synched tight about the trimmest waist he’d ever seen and an obviously forgotten sprig of jasmine behind her ear, she’d taken his breath away. Far from the clutching female he’d anticipated, Miss Sollier had appeared comically dismayed to find him there.

In all his travels, he’d never beheld anything like her almond shaped eyes, irises a beguiling sun-dappled green. He’d delighted in the way they flashed with ire when he suggested she was old. Those beguiling eyes conveyed none of the veiled, jaded looks of the women who swarmed about him in Inverness. And her skin…porcelain smooth, and luminous when she was angry or blushing.

What made his insult all the more amusing was the unfathomableness of his invented confusion. Even with his skills of observation, honed by years of reading people, if Stirling hadn’t mentioned her age, Alasdair would have taken her for twenty. Her slender frame and heavy, honey braid belied a woman society would place on the shelf. He hadn’t anticipated having to steel himself against such allure.

Equally dangerous was the quick intelligence in her gaze. More than ever, he was pleased with his disguise. Skilled in his occupation, Alasdair didn’t permit many blows to land, but the years hadn’t left him unscathed. In particular, he bore a deep scar across his right palm, where he’d forced back a blade. Generally, he avoided exposing the long-healed wound for the questions it roused. Living here, that would be difficult and he didn’t want to appear as if he tried to hide the mark. The guise of bumbling fool made him unmarriageable and explained that scar, as well as any others she or the servants might glimpse.

She was nimble as well, this Miss Sollier, he thought as he strode down the dimly-lit hallway. Even though he’d sent that vase careening first one way and then another, she’d nearly caught it, and after starting out half a room away. She had caught his hat before he could send the battered wool flying once more. Gave him quite the eyeful, too.

His mind preoccupied with the slender Miss Bridget Sollier’s more beguiling assets, Alasdair nearly missed the hissed, “Mister White,” that slipped from a barely open door to his left.

Instantly, thoughts of Miss Sollier were shoved to the back of his mind. His posture remained outwardly the same, that of the foppish Mister White, but every muscle tensed. Affable smile in place, Alasdair turned and pushed the door open. His other hand twitched, but he didn’t have a blade secreted about him. He was too worried Miss Sollier would be keen enough to notice.

He stepped into a long dining room. The maid, Fiona, backed away as he entered, until she came to stand before a table of ancient, cracked wood, large enough to seat fifty. Curtained windows did little to illuminate the hall, but enough light leaked in for him to appreciate the tapestries, shields and weapons adorning the gray stone. As with every area of Lomall a 'Chaisteil he’d so far traversed, the theme seemed to be centuries-old brooding danger. He slid the door closed behind him.

Fiona, her green maid’s uniform impeccably pressed, dipped a curtsey. “Mister White, they told me they were sending you. This may shock you but I’m—”

“The operative in this house?” He leveled a hard look on the girl. She, like Miss Sollier, was older than she seemed. Old enough to know better. “Never volunteer information.”

Her posture went rigid, her gaze straight ahead. “Yes, sir.”

“What if you erred in your assessment of me?” he continued. “Did they supply my description? I could have waylaid the true operative. You must make the subject tell you what they know until trust is established.”

“I understand, sir.” She darted a glance at him.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“How did you know, sir, that I’m an operative? Were you informed?”

“That there was someone, yes,” he admitted, taking some pity on the girl. “Not who. It’s your scrutiny that gives you away. You must learn to observe without seeming to. Your gaze is too intent. No servant cares that much about every detail of people and rooms. Not unless they’re spying or stealing.”

She sighed. “Then Baron Sollier must know as well.” She lifted her hands in a beseeching gesture before dropping them back to her sides. “This is my final test, to prove I’m ready. I was to find a way into the house and remain for a year, gathering information. If I did so without Lord Sollier realizing who I am, I would pass.”

Alasdair frowned. He had yet to set eyes on his host, but would at dinner. Stirling said the man’s vision was no longer up to the task of reading and writing, but he was still the Dagger, or had been.

“I have little doubt he knows.”

Fiona’s shoulders sagged, but then she brightened. “Maybe if I find the spy, I’ll still pass.”

He leveled a hard look on her. He hadn’t mentioned the spy. She’d given away information again. “How is it they sent you to root out this spy?” He was aware his question was biting.

She winced. “As I said, this was meant to be a test. I arrived before they realized there was a spy. I’ve been trying to find him…” She shrugged, her expression miserable.

He knew what she was dreading. Another year of training. Well, she needed it. “You’ve made no progress?”

“As far as I can tell, only Miss Sollier and the baron have access to the relevant letters.” Frustration edged her voice. “I’ve stayed up nights. I’ve kept the missives in my sight until they leave Scotland by ship. I’ve searched the keep. I’ve followed Miss Sollier on the rare occasions she leaves the grounds, in case someone has befriended her to glean the information. All to no avail.”

Likely because the spy had realized Fiona wasn’t a simple maid as immediately as Alasdair had. “You haven’t followed Baron Sollier?”

She shook her head. “He never leaves.”

Was the Dagger so reduced, then? A half-blind old man moldering in an ancient keep. Alasdair was dismayed to feel a twinge of pity. “You were right to follow Miss Sollier. She is the most vulnerable.”

Fiona nodded. “She reads and writes the letters. She doesn’t realize it, but she sends and receives all of the Dagger’s orders. I’m sure the spy knows as much.”

Miss Sollier must be the key, the only person in the chain of information who didn’t know her brother’s words must be kept secret. A conspirator by accident, for Alasdair couldn’t fathom her deliberately passing along information. Or… He looked Fiona up and down, assessing the likelihood she was a traitor. The simplest way to find out was to employ her.

“I will arrange to accompany Miss Sollier on an outing tomorrow morning. You will go ahead and scout our destination. If the spy is close to the family, they should already know where we’re going and may lurk in wait, so take care. If they’re not, they’ll follow, so be in position to see us arrive.”

“Yes, sir,” Fiona said eagerly. “But how are you so sure they’ll watch you, and where is your destination?”

The second was a good question. “They will watch us because I am an unknown and may be luring her somewhere for a purpose. If you didn’t know I was sent, and I arrived here as I have, wouldn’t you follow?”

Fiona nodded. “I would.”

“There is fishing nearby?” he asked.

To her credit, she hid her surprise almost too quickly for him to read it. “There is a bend on Abhainn Nis, where the water runs deep beside the park. Men fish there.”

He gave a sharp nod. “That will be our destination.”

“But how can you know you and Miss Sollier will go fishing tomorrow morning? I’ve never once seen her fish.”

“Whether the lady fishes or not, we’re going.” And Alex White had remained closeted with a maid for far too long already. “You have your orders.”

Fiona nodded. “I’ll leave that way.” She gestured toward the other end of the room. A massive tapestry depicting a long-ago battle adorned the far wall. He’d no doubt a servants’ door hid behind the thickly-woven fabric.

He nodded again. The door beside him opened. Alasdair raised his hands to his cravat and turned toward the sound as if startled.

Miss Sollier stared into the room with green eyes that rapidly shifted from wide surprise to narrow suspicion. “What is going on here?”

How those eyes flashed. He hid a smile, adopting a frustrated expression instead.

“This young lady was trying to tie my cravat for dinner.” He pawed at the starched cloth as he spoke, disheveling it before Miss Sollier could notice it had been tied. “Thought I could manage, you see, without my servants, but the damnable thing won’t—” He broke off into irritated muttering.

Miss Sollier looked to Fiona.

“I don’t know how to tie it, Miss,” the girl said. “I tried, but I think I only made it worse. My da doesnae wear a cravat.”

Miss Sollier closed her eyes in silent supplication. “Fiona, you’re needed in the dinner parlor.”

“Yes, Miss.” Fiona hurried toward the far end of the room. To her credit, she didn’t so much as glance at Alasdair.

“Stop that before you ruin it completely,” Miss Sollier ordered. She left the door open and moved to stand before him. She batted his hands away. “Stand still.”

Alasdair went still. With sure movements, she set to work on his bedraggled cravat. She’d changed for dinner and now wore an unfashionably high-necked gown, as if mere fabric could conceal her womanliness. Her gilded locks were pulled into a tight, unforgiving bun. Even in the dim light of the dining room, her skin was luminous, like the finest saltwater pearl.

She’d removed the sprig of jasmine, but the elusive scent, mingled with sweet citrus, lingered. He inhaled deeply, quietly, mindful she didn’t hear. It took a disturbing amount of will not to lean toward her. He was assailed by the desire to bury his face in her hair and drink in that scent.

“There,” she said as she stepped back. She raised still-suspicious eyes from his cravat to his face. “In the future, Mister White, please come to me with any such concerns. Do not closet yourself with our maids.”

“Closet?” He made a wide gesture, deliberately knocking his arm against one of the heavy oak chairs. It struck the table with a loud thunk. “This is the dining hall. I was waiting for everyone to come to dinner.”

“We’re not dining here,” Miss Sollier said. “There are but three of us.”

“Oh.” He affected a look of dismay. “I fancy this room. Like we’re kings of old.” He strode to a set of crossed swords. “Why, look at all this history. I don’t have anything like this at my home in Inverness.” He reached for a blade.

As he’d hoped, she jumped forward and grabbed his hand. If was unfair of him, perhaps even unwise, but he wished to see if her skin was as soft as it appeared.

It was softer.

He realized she wasn’t issuing a reprimand and looked down at her. Her cheeks were flushed. Her pulse fluttered in her slender neck. He slid his thumb along the back of her hand, captivated by those beguiling eyes.

A hard tread rang through the corridor, accompanied by what sounded like a hammer striking stones. A cane, applied with force. Miss Sollier’s head jerked toward the open door. She yanked her hand away.

“Come meet my father,” she said.

Alasdair followed her from the room, his skin still warm from her touch. They stepped into the hall to find a tall, powerfully built gentleman striding toward them. It took Alasdair only a fraction of a second to realize his assumptions about the former Dagger were erroneous. The man was not decrepit, nor the least bit pitiable.

The baron’s frame was unbent by age. The cane he assaulted the stone floor with, aside from having a fierce dragon as the handle, seemed to assist with a slight limp. Alasdair would guess a long-ago broken ankle. The baron’s eyes, though they may no longer discern words on a page, were keen as a knife’s edge. Alasdair bowed low as Miss Sollier introduced them.

“Winston sent you, then?” Baron Sollier asked in a deep, rumbling voice. His craggy features were oddly malevolent in the hall’s flickering candlelight.

“He did, my lord.” Alasdair endeavored not to be awed by the man before him. It was difficult to muster the words of the fool Alex White when confronted by the Dagger’s glower. “Said you’re the best. Said I should learn a bit before trying my hand at managing an estate. He made me a list.” Alasdair patted about his coat for a moment, then adopted a look of dismay. “Not in my dinner coat, of course. Lot’s on it, though. Like fishing.”

“Fishing?” Miss Sollier said. “Why ever would you need to learn about fishing?”

“Gentlemanly sport and all that,” Alasdair said. “Only, I’m city bred. Don’t know a thing about fishing. Lord Winston said I must be a country squire, and I mean to do it right. Once I get my feet under me, you see, well, then I can marry.” He gave Miss Sollier a calf-eyed look calculated to send any sane woman running.

“There’s a place for fishing, not far from here,” Baron Sollier said, as Alasdair had known he would. “On Abhainn Nis.”

The baron would have gathered from Alasdair’s use of the name Winston that he was an operative. That was likely the only reason he’d permitted Alasdair to remain in his keep. If he spoke of fishing, Sollier knew he had a reason.

“Truly? I should love to see it. Perhaps observe the fishing. Not, ah, touch a hook myself just yet.”

Miss Sollier gave a slight shudder. Alasdair could guess she was thinking about the mess Alex White would make with a fishing hook.

“When do you wish to observe this fishing, Mister White?” the baron asked, his expression disinterested.

“Tomorrow morning?” Alasdair said brightly. “No time like now, and all that.” He turned another fawning look on Miss Sollier. “Perhaps you could be my guide, Miss?”

She shook her head. “I’m sure one of the footmen would be better—”

“Take the man fishing in the morning, Bridget,” the baron said. He turned from them and set off down the hall.

Miss Sollier looked mutinous. She watched her father’s retreating form for a long moment before turning to glare at Alasdair once more. “Fishing it is, then.” A spark of glee lit her gaze. “I’ll have someone wake you an hour before sunrise, Mister White.”

Alasdair affected dismay. “An hour before sunrise?”

“That’s right, I beg your pardon. Your servants aren’t with you. You’ll likely need two hours to ready.”

“Two?” he protested, entertained by her joy at tormenting him. “That doesn’t sound very gentlemanly, at all.”

“Real fishermen rise with the sun, sir.” She popped her chin into the air and marched after her father.

Alasdair grinned. He followed at his own bumbling pace.