Bridget didn’t have Mister White woken two hours before dawn, or even one. She didn’t care to rise that early and so wouldn’t make him. She had delighted in the dismay he’d evidenced at the notion, though. Silly city fop. If he was an example of the gentlemen there, it was no loss that she hadn’t visited Inverness in years.

She rose and breakfasted without sight of Mister White, which didn’t surprise her. After breakfast, her first duty of the day was to assess last evening’s tablecloth. Mister White had spilled not one, but two glasses of wine and a tureen of gravy. She’d had the cloth soaked in vinegar the evening before, followed by suds and water. Now, she rather felt it could use a long day in the sun, assuming the Scottish sky offered any, and might thereby be fully restored.

After discussing that strategy with the housekeeper, Bridget returned to the orangery and the geraniums. The orangery, a gift to her mother from her father, was the only addition to the keep in hundreds of years. While she pruned, Bridget liked to imagine her mother in that room, tending the flowers and trees and basking in the warmth and sweet scents. One of her few memories of her mother was that she’d smelled of oranges.

She’d nearly finished the geraniums when a shuffling sound near the door drew her attention. She turned, dismayed to see Mister White stumble down the two steps to the stone floor. He pivoted in a slow circle, mouth agape and head thrown back to take in the cornucopia and blooms. Sighting her, he stopped. A hand came up to push his spectacles higher on his nose. An affable smile curved his lips.

“Pruning, Miss Sollier?” He strode toward her as he spoke. “That’s a country sort of thing. I should like to try.” He reached for the shears she held.

Bridget yanked the shears behind her back. “Pruning is more of a female occupation, sir.”

“Then it must be simple for a man to do,” he said with a shrug.

Bridget frowned. She would use the shears on him if he made another observation like that.

He held out his hand. “Come now, give them here. I shan’t cut off my fingers. I promise.”

She shook her head. Severed fingers were only one of her fears, should she hand over the pruning scissors. Her gaze caught on a deep scar on his palm. “However did you come by that?”

He looked down, then grimaced. “I may have accidentally grabbed the wrong end of a sword. Healed surprisingly well, all things considered. Palms and fingers always do. I should know. Backs of hands, not so much, but then one doesn’t accidentally grab a sword blade with the backs of the hands, does one?”

Most of us don’t grab a sword blade with any part of our hand, Bridget thought, but was content with a nod. She turned away to hang her pruning shears on their hook, hopefully putting them out of his thoughts, and stripped off her gloves. She tugged at the bow on her apron, but it knotted. He meandered deeper into the room. Giving up on her apron for the time being, she hurried after him. She shuddered to think what chaos he would wreak in her orangery.

“Mister White, are you ready to observe the fishing?” She resisted the urge to grab him by the shoulders, turn him around and give him a shove toward the entrance. “I can meet you in the foyer. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, delicious. Wonderful cook.” He peered around. “Where’s your jasmine?”

“My jasmine?” How did he know she had jasmine? The man was not only peculiar, but suspicious. He reached toward a rosebush. “Don’t—”

A startled curse left his mouth. He jerked his hand back.

Bridget suppressed a sigh and reached to assess the damage. “Let me see your hand.”

“It’s nothing, really.” He yanked his hand behind his back, like a child hiding a stolen sweet.

As she would with a child, she made her face and voice stern. “Give me your hand.”

Slowly, he withdrew his hand from behind his back and extended it toward her. She clasped his long fingers in hers, surprised how small her hand appeared by comparison. She examined the tips of his fingers to find a single spot of blood. She pulled out her kerchief and blotted the red droplet.

“Mister White, you really should be more careful.”

A glance showed him dejected. “I know. I only wanted to see how soft the petals are. The roses on that bush are the precise color of your cheeks when you blush.”

Bridget went still. What did he mean, saying such a thing to her? Flustered, she dropped her gaze to his hand, warm in hers. His right hand. With a sort of dread, she turned it over, palm up.

Though she’d known the deep gouge was there, a shock went through her at the sight of the vicious scar. The wound was old and long healed, but it bespoke of violence. She traced the smooth edges, wondering how deep the blade must have gone to leave such evidence on his palm. She looked up at him, the question on her lips.

He watched her with turbulent, hungry eyes. She blinked, startled, and the look vanished, replaced by amiable blandness. She blinked again, wondering if she’d imagined that first searing gaze. She realized she was holding his hand for the second time in as many days, and dropped it.

“You’re lucky you didn’t lose the use of your fingers,” she said, her voice low and smooth. She took a step back, scandalized by the intimacy of her tone.

“So my valet made me understand.” Mister White offered a blithe smile. “He’s a good one for such things. Injuries and whatnot. He carries bandages and a salve with him at all times.”

“Yes, well, your valet is wise.” And shouldn’t have let you off on your own, even if ordered to. Though perhaps the poor man had simply needed a respite. Mister White was obviously prone to chaos. She imagined even dressing was a challenge. He was likely as apt to fall over his boots as get them on his feet, and must certainly sit down to don trousers.

She blushed. Her mind struggled toward a safer topic. She looked him up and down, finding no fault in his attire. “How did you manage your cravat this morning?”

His expression brightened. He held up his hands again. “Don’t you know, I got it on the first try this morning. That’s the way of it, when you’re fumble fingered. Sometimes things work, and sometimes they do not. I believe I was simply too nervous to tie it yesterday, what with meeting your esteemed father.”

Bridget nodded, unsure what to make of Mister White. The poor man obviously needed to be taken in hand. She didn’t wonder that there wasn’t a Missus White. Not with how silly the man was. Perhaps now that he’d inherited, someone would find him, for women were reputed to put up with much for the honor of being a landed man’s wife.

He turned back toward the rose bush. One long-fingered hand reached out.

“I take it the time has come for our trip to Abhainn Nis?” Bridget said, to forestall him.

He dropped his arm and refocused on her. He pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. “Yes, immediately. Right away. As soon as I see your jasmine.”

Bridget shook her head. “How do you know I have jasmine?”

“Yesterday, you had jasmine just here.” Warm fingers brushed a scattering of loose strands back and tucked them behind her ear.

Heat spiraled outward from his touch. His fingers grazed her neck as he lowered his hand. Bridget drew in a sharp breath, eyes wide. She should slap him, or possibly scream.

She opened her mouth. “Oh.”

Confused, she spun on her heels. A riot of emotions thrummed through her as she hurried toward the jasmine at the back of the orangery. She should be angry. Insulted. He’d touched her.

She suppressed a shiver of delight. That simply wouldn’t do. She was not delighted by this bumbling idiot who’d thrust himself into their lives on claims of friendship with Lord Winston.

Bridget came to a halt before the rows of jasmine, her thoughts similarly brought up short. That was right. He claimed friendship with Lord Winston. Somehow, between Mister White’s strong hands and blundering foolishness, she’d all but forgotten her initial suspicion. Lord Winston was the man who sent Ollie names, and those names hadn’t been right for months. Might Mister White know something about that? Perhaps that was his real reason for being in her home, to learn why Ollie’s missions were failing.

Mister White stopped beside her, so near, her shoulder nearly touched his coat sleeve. She wasn’t to know he knew anything, she reminded herself. Confronting him would only lead to denial. He might even tell her father she suspected something, and she would be barred from reading Ollie’s letters. She would simply have to bide her time.

“It prospers under your care, I see,” he said. “Did you do this all on your own?” His gesture encompassed the many-windowed room.

She looked down at the jasmine. The plants grew dense and lush, thickly clad in star-like blooms. “My mother started this orangery, before I was born. I simply maintain what she created, as best I can.”

She closed her eyes and drank in the scents. Sultry, elusive jasmine. Tangy citrus. The brighter notes of geraniums. She fancied she could even smell the dusky smoothness of the roses in the corner opposite, and sort out traces of various other blooms.

She opened her eyes with a sigh. “I’ll miss this place.”

“Miss it?” he repeated, a sharp edge to his tone. “You’re leaving?”

She smiled, but knew the gesture for the wistful parody it was. “Not yet, but someday my brother will return from the continent and marry, and I shall no longer be needed here.”

“Where will you go?”

She shrugged. “I truly don’t know.”

“There are roses at my…at the manor house. On the country estate I inherited.” He turned from the jasmine to look down at her. “But no orangery. Not yet.”

“I thought you hadn’t been there, to your new estate.” She kept her tone light, but was eager for his reply. Had she caught a disparity? Was this proof he wasn’t who he seemed?

“Not in years.” Longing underscored his reply. “I did spend time there growing up. I’m not so distant a relation as all that.”

She faced him, almost startled by how close he stood. “Then you can’t know the roses are still there.”

“True.” His gaze traversed her features. “I must simply live in hope.” Not taking his gaze from hers, he plucked a sprig of jasmine. He brought the blooms to his face and inhaled deeply, then, with sure fingers, he tucked it behind her ear.

Bridget stared at him, too surprised to move. The backs of his fingers lightly pressed her cheek. He gazed down at her with storm-filled eyes. She fought the urge to lean into that touch, to reach for more.

Her breath came shallow and quick. Every inch of skin tingled at his nearness. Was he going to kiss her, this mysterious Mister White? When he wasn’t playing the fool, and if she looked past his spectacles, he was searingly handsome.

He turned sharply away. “How’s this, I nearly forgot about fishing,” he said in a light tone.

She gave a jerky nod. As had she. “I’ll send for the carriage.”

“Yes, well, you’ll find me in the foyer.” Long, rapid strides carried him back through the orangery and up the steps to the keep.

Bridget stared at the empty doorway. She swayed slightly, her head spinning. What was she thinking, wishing for Mister White’s kiss? He’d appeared in her life not a full day ago. He could be there to spy on her and her father. Or to help them. Or for no other reason than he claimed, to learn about fishing. None of those choices should inspire her to long for his touch.

She put a hand to her forehead, feeling hot. Her fingers grazed the jasmine and she pulled it free. She cupped the little white blooms in her palm, unsure what to do with them. Finally, she tucked the sprig into her bodice. As it was already picked, she would put it in her room, and for that reason only. She untangled the knot in her apron, returned the garment to its peg, then left the lushness of the orangery.

Calling a footman, she sent for the carriage and for Fiona to accompany them, as chaperone, but the girl was nowhere to be found. Not wishing to take any of the other staff from their duties, Bridget decided she would be safe enough seated across from Mister White. They weren’t going far, after all, and the coachman and a footman would be without. It wasn’t as if he would ravish her…or she him.

Once the carriage was ready and they stepped free of the keep, it turned out she was indeed safe from Mister White’s charms. After fumbling his way into his seat, Mister White promptly pulled a book from his pocket, pushed his spectacles higher on his nose, and set to reading. Under her steady gaze, he didn’t look up once. She didn’t know if she should be insulted or relieved. After the intensity of the orangery, his lack of attention rankled.

The resounding silence between them dragged out the short ride. Bridget let out a long, relieved breath when the carriage finally came to a halt. Still, he didn’t look up from the small volume he held.

“Mister White, we’ve arrived,” she said, her words clipped.

“Hm?” He peered over the book at her, then looked about. “Oh, so we have. Fascinating reading, swine. Terribly involved creatures.”

“I shall take you at your word on that,” she snapped. He’d tucked jasmine behind her ear, looked at her with eyes that bespoke of roiling passion, and then turned to reading about pigs?

He marked his page. The book disappeared back into a pocket. He clambered out, somehow taking up nearly all the space in the carriage as he did so, and turned back to offer his hand.

Bridget eyed it for a long moment. Glove encased now, she could no longer see the vicious scar on his palm. She, too, wore gloves. There could be little harm, then, in letting him assist her out.

A jolt of warmth went through her as their hands met. Heat suffused her face. She stepped free of the carriage and into the late morning sun. A light breeze blew off the river. Men, genteel and freeholding alike, dotted the stone promenade. Most had their fishing poles leaned against the railing while they conversed in small clusters, taking advantage of the shade provided by scattered trees.

Mister White still clasped her hand. Her blush grew hotter. She lowered her gaze to the dusty roadway. She should pull her hand from his.

A scream rent the sunny morning, punctuated by a splash. Mister White’s hand left hers. Bridget raised her head, gaze darting about. Men were calling, pointing toward one of the trees, and at the river.

Mister White raced toward the promenade, shedding jacket, vest and cravat as he went. Bridget grabbed her skirt and ran after him, though she’d no notion what they ran toward. Her father’s coachman and footman followed. Mister White reached the river. He vaulted to the balustrade and executed a smooth dive.

She reached the edge a moment later, letting the railing halt her momentum. She leaned out to see strong strokes carry Mister White downriver toward something that floated away. Something large. The color of which was reminiscent of her family’s livery. Perhaps a wet uniform. She leaned farther out, her view blocked by the many male bodies also pressed to the rail.

The mass of men started moving. She went with them as they ran downriver. They left the smooth stone of the promenade for the trimmed grass of the park. When they halted, she pushed her way to the front of the group.

Mister White climbed up the riverbank, a limp form in his arms. Water streamed from his hair. His spectacles were gone. His sodden white shirt clung to a sculpted frame. Dropping effortlessly to one knee, he gently placed the girl he carried on the grass.

“Fiona,” Bridget gasped, hurrying forward. As she knelt, she took in a large welt on the side of the girl’s head and the deep gash on her chin. Cuts and shallower scrapes marred her arms. Bridget couldn’t tell if she was breathing. “Is she dead?” she whispered.

He leaned low, bringing his ear near Fiona’s mouth. The relief on his face as he straightened sparked a like emotion in Bridget. “She’s breathing,” he said.

“I saw her fall out of that tree, right into the river,” a man said, pointing back the way they’d come.

“Not fall, pushed,” another said. “I saw someone else up there. There was lots of rustling, like there was a struggle.”

“What was the lass doing in a tree?” a third asked. “She your servant, miss?”

Bridget nodded. “She is, but I have no idea what she was doing in a tree.”

“Not fighting,” someone else in the crowd said. “Meeting her lover, no doubt.”

“In a tree?” the second man scoffed.

“Folks like all sorts of strange things,” another observed. “I have a cousin, he likes a horse whip. On him, not the missus, mind. He’s a good sort of fellow.”

Bridget’s cheeks flamed. Resolutely, she tried to block out the rest of the conversation going on around her. She stared intently at Fiona’s hand, studying the shallow nicks and scratches. Mister White seemed to be checking for breaks in her limbs. Apparently satisfied, he lifted her into his arms.

“We have to take her home,” he said.

Bridget stood. “Yes,” she agreed, but her mind reeled. Why under Heaven had Fiona been in a tree? Had someone pushed her, or had she been spying on them and fell?

Her gaze went from Fiona’s closed lids to Mister White’s muscled chest. He hadn’t evidenced any clumsiness when he ran to save her. Bridget could still picture his long form in the air, arced to split the sparkling surface of the river in a perfect dive.

“I’ll get the carriage,” her father’s coachman said.

Bridget started. She looked over her shoulder to see him jogging away.

The footman who’d accompanied them remained, holding Mister White’s discarded clothing, which included his gloves and the rumpled hat. “Shall I fetch the doctor, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mister White said. “Can you go from here? Does he have a carriage or do we need to send for him?”

“It’s not far,” the footman said. “I’ll have the doctor bring me up, sir. We’ll meet you there right quick.” He turned to Bridget and proffered Mister White’s clothing.

She accepted the bundle, the clean masculine scent of it washing over her. She looked down, taking in his bare feet. Clear as his dive from the balustrade was in her mind, she couldn’t for the life of her recall when he’d shed his boots. He must have removed them before she looked up, before he started running.

Mister White surveyed what remained of the crowd. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we need to get this young lady home.”

They nodded. Many had already moved away. Some had returned to fishing. As she followed Mister White to the carriage, Bridget tried not to listen to the talk around her, which ranged from bizarre speculations as to what Fiona had been doing in the tree to other tales of strange habits between men and their wives.

Bridget climbed into the carriage unassisted to find Mister White’s boots inside, confirming her suspicion he’d left them by the carriage. He climbed in after her, managing the act with little effort, even burdened as he was. Cradling Fiona in his arms, he took the seat opposite Bridget. He knocked on the ceiling and they set out.

She watched him for a long moment, wondering if he would offer any explanation for his behavior or the strange events of the morning. He did not, and merely regarded her with calm eyes.

“You aren’t who you say you are,” she finally said.

“No, I’m not.”

Again, she waited, but he said no more. Frustration flared up. “More is going on here than I know.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mean to tell me what, I take it?” she snapped. How could he be so calm? He was holding a girl who’d almost drowned in the river. He’d rescued her.

“I have to speak with your father.” His tone was tinged with apology.

“Fine.” Bridget hugged her armful of clothing closer. She glared at him, but he seemed immune to her anger.

In his arms, Fiona murmured. She didn’t open her eyes, but turned, huddling up against his chest. A surge of jealousy shot through Bridget. She shook her head to dispel such an unacceptable feeling.

“Here,” she said. She leaned across the carriage and tucked his jacket about Fiona. She tried not to notice when the back of her hand brushed along his shirtfront. “She’s soaking wet. She’ll get cold.” If any woman could get cold while in those arms.

He watched her efforts without comment. When she had the coat secured about Fiona, Bridget smoothed his vest and folded his cravat. Feeling the weight of his gaze upon her, she turned toward the window and picked out familiar landmarks as they wound their way up the steep road to Lomall a 'Chaisteil.