Alasdair strode through the keep toward the baron’s office. He’d deposited a still unconscious Fiona in her room, under Miss Sollier’s kind but suspicion-laden attentions. He could only hope Fiona woke soon, and had the presence of mind to keep to her role as a maid when she did. As he walked, the boots he’d pulled on pounded a sure rhythm on the floor. The servants who saw him gaped. One maid even scurried away.

Alasdair supposed he was rather a sight in his clinging breeches and shirt, his boots the only dry article of clothing he wore, but this was not the time for niceties. Whoever the spy was, they were no longer content to remain in the shadows. Fiona had been attacked. Miss Sollier could be next. It was all he could do to leave her side to speak with her father, but she was surrounded by servants as she tended Fiona, and the doctor would appear at any moment. He doubted the spy would attack in a crowded room.

He reached the thick oak door and stopped. Alasdair hadn’t met with the former Dagger alone yet. An odd reluctance twinged within him.

His eyes traced the ornate carvings adorning the door. Woven into the decorative flower and vine pattern were ancient Gaelic symbols for strength, loyalty and honor. Inside, he could hear the steady cadence of a male voice, not the baron’s, and not loud enough to decipher through the door. Alasdair knocked. The monologue broke off.

“Come.” The baron’s hard voice was barely muted by the thick wood.

Alasdair pushed the door open. The windowless room showed no evidence of a second exit. A footman stood before a massive desk, posture rigid. He held a large volume, hand flattening over the page as he turned.

As Alasdair strode in and bowed, he took in the intricately detailed paneling, two heavy couches and a hard-backed chair for guests. A fire burned in the ornamental hearth. The room was almost stuffy.

Alasdair didn’t locate it at first glance, but he sensed a second doorway in the room. The knowledge of it tingled along his spine. He was sure, as he straightened before the baron’s desk, that doorway was behind him.

“That will be all,” Baron Sollier said to the footman.

The man marked his place, bowed, and hurried from the room. He didn’t leave the book, or offer a glimpse of title or content. Well trained, then, and not simply as a footman. Odd, for a retired spy to keep such professional staff. When the door closed behind the servant, Alasdair came to attention, as he would before the desk of any superior officer.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Lord Alasdair?” the baron asked.

Alasdair wasn’t surprised Baron Sollier knew his name. His subterfuge hadn’t been for the benefit of the former Dagger. Alasdair’s use of the name Winston to gain entrance to the keep had assured the baron would know he was an operative, at the least.

“Your maid, Fiona, was attacked today, my lord.”

“The one who fancies herself a spy someday?” The baron snorted. “The girl lacks competence.”

Not how, or where, or worry for Fiona’s present state. Was the baron’s unconcern evidence of previous knowledge, or simply the reaction of a man who’d long since set aside pointless sympathies? “The spy grows more brazen,” Alasdair said. “I fear for Miss Sollier.” He didn’t bother to explain that there was a spy. He wouldn’t insult the other man’s intelligence that way.

“Do you?” The baron eyed him for a long moment, gaze as unyielding as the rest of him. “Is it your mission to fear for her?”

“It is, my lord.”

“And you’ll do what it takes to succeed in that mission?” The words were spoken with a disdainful edge, as if the baron doubted a satisfactory answer.

“Yes, my lord.” Alasdair didn’t permit his tone to vary.

“Then marry the girl and take her to safety.”

Alasdair blinked once, his features immobile. “Marry your daughter, my lord?” Have her as his own? By his side, forever?

“I’ve seen the way you drool over her, and she you.” Sollier’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Like as not, you’ve already compromised her. Can’t say I’m surprised at her. You’re the first gentleman she’s socialized with in years.” His gaze narrowed. “Nor am I surprised at you. Dukes generally take what they want.”

“I have not compromised your daughter.” Alasdair met the baron’s gaze squarely. What did the man take him for?

“But you want to.” There was no doubt in Sollier’s tone.

Alasdair had no answer for that. He did want to, but not in the sullied, underhanded way the baron implied. Not simply to have her and cast her aside. Miss Sollier, Bridget, deserved more than some heated, fleeting encounter with a man she’d never meet again.

“I do not need to wed Miss Sollier to take her to safety. Surely a chaperone can be found to—”

“Who?” The baron cut in. He made a sweeping gesture. “I trust no one else. Someone here is a spy. The whole region may be infested with them. It’s obvious this family has been compromised. There’s no way to know how far it goes.” A meaty hand slapped down on the desk. “You will take her to safety. You will take the curricle and no servants.”

“But, marry her, my lord?” Surely that was unfair to Bridget. She’d never been anywhere, seen anything. She should be permitted to socialize, and dance, and choose a man she could love. Not be forced to wed, as the baron put it, the first gentleman she’d met in years. Especially one who’d spent his life executing the Crown’s least savory deeds.

“You wish to drag her off without marrying her? I’ll not see my daughter ruined. Better she be dead than this family dishonored.”

Alasdair clamped his teeth together, holding in the jolt of anger those words jarred loose. Behind him, a log cracked in the fireplace. The pile of wood shifted and popped.

How could he explain that his disagreement with the plan sprang not from selfish concerns, but respect for Bridget? She deserved some say in her future. It was her happiness they argued over.

“I see,” the baron gritted out. “My daughter isn’t good enough for Laird Alasdair Lochgeal, Duke of Ceann na Creige to wed. She’s only worthy of being your plaything.”

Alasdair leaned forward, balled fists braced on the desk. He glared at the old man, studied each craggy line scored through his face. “Miss Sollier is good enough for any man. Too good for most.”

The baron gave him a hard, satisfied smile. “Then it’s decided.” He reached behind him and rang for a servant. “You will wed.”

Alasdair straightened. “I will ask her. She will decide if we wed.”

A light knock sounded and a footman stepped into the room. “Yes, my lord?”

“Send for my daughter, and a priest. Now,” Sollier barked.

The man didn’t give any reaction to the strange order. Yes, they were very well trained, these footmen. Too well. “At once, my lord.”

“I don’t want the girl worried, or thinking she was forced on you,” Baron Sollier said as the door closed behind the servant. “We’ll tell her who you are, and that you came in disguise to meet her, to see if you wanted her. She’s to know nothing of danger and spies.”

Alasdair thought that was a poor idea, but he nodded. Agreeing was a small price to pay for the chance to get her away from Lomall a 'Chaisteil. More and more, he was sure removing Bridget was the best thing he could do for her. Something was very wrong, something even Sir Stirling—or the Raven—didn’t know.

And despite his nod of agreement, he would tell her the truth once they were safely away from Lomall a 'Chaisteil. If she wished, after that, they could have their union annulled. He would use his influence to see it done.

He turned from the desk and crossed to the fireplace. He held out his hands, as if warming them. In truth, his damp clothing coupled with the thick stones of the keep were making him cold, but his true goal was to better scrutinize the room. He had little reason to think the ruse would fool Baron Sollier, but subterfuge came too naturally to abandon.

The door opened. Bridget hurried in. “Father, I was told you urgently—” She broke off, wide eyes on Alasdair. “Mister White.”

“Come, lass, sit,” the baron ordered.

Alasdair pulled his gaze from Bridget to search for some trace, any flicker of emotion in Baron Sollier’s face as he regarded his daughter. Was the former Dagger that skilled, or that cold?

For his part, as he watched her willowy form cross the room, Alasdair knew the baron was reading his face as easily as most gentlemen could a letter. Alasdair didn’t care. Let Sollier see the affect Bridget had on him. How he drank in her elegance, each movement perfect in balance and form, her spine straight, her shoulders thrown back. If only Alasdair could free her shimmering locks from their dreadful bun, she would be breathtaking.

“I’d like to introduce you to Laird Alasdair Lochgeal, Duke of Ceann na Creige, lass,” the baron said.

Bridget stopped, halfway across the room. She pivoted slowly to stare at Alasdair with wide, luminous eyes. “Lord Alasdair?”

Alasdair bowed. He suddenly regretted he hadn’t taken time to change. No woman should be proposed to by a man in trousers and shirtsleeves. Especially not a woman as perfect as Bridget. “Miss Sollier—”

“Lord Alasdair came here at my request, to decide if he wished to marry you,” the baron broke in. “He does. You shall wed immediately and go to Ceann na Creige. I’ve sent for the priest.”

She swayed slightly. Alasdair leapt to her side. He braced her, a hand on each arm. She looked up at him, incredulous. Her eyes bored into his. She gave her head a tiny shake and pulled away. He let her, startled by how painful her rejection was.

Bridget turned to her father. “You wish me to marry Mister…Lord Alasdair, Papa? Now? Don’t I have a say in this?”

“No, you do not.”

“But, who will read Ollie’s letters for you, and write the replies?”

“There will be no more letters,” the baron said in that same unforgiving tone.

Did Sollier assume his son’s position was so compromised that Oliver would be called home, or did his sureness stem from a more sinister source?

Bridget swayed again. Alasdair hesitated, not wanting to force unwanted attention on her, but she reached toward him, seeking support he was happy to give. Her icy hand clutched his, but her attention remained locked on the baron.

“Is Ollie dead?” she whispered.

Baron Sollier frowned. “What? No, certainly not. Oliver is perfectly well.”

Bridget sagged in relief. Her hand squeezed Alasdair’s spasmodically. “Thank Heaven.”

“I have arranged this very auspicious match for you, my girl,” the baron said. “You will marry Lord Alasdair and leave immediately. That is the end of it.”

Mutiny pursed her full lips. Her bright green eyes flashed like an oncoming storm.

With a gentle tug of her hand, Alasdair turned her toward him. “Perhaps Miss Sollier and I could speak alone?” He looked at her, not her father, as he said it, his tone calm, beseeching.

She gave a halting nod.

“Very well, but you shall return here when the priest arrives, and marry.”

Bridget shot her father a glare. Mouth set, she pulled Alasdair’s hand, leading him to the doorway. Once free of the office, she didn’t stop. Her other hand holding up her skirt, she headed through the keep with long strides. It didn’t take Alasdair long to realize she sought the orangery.

They stepped from the gray stone halls into a nearly blinding lushness of sunshine, honeyed scents and life. Bridget didn’t slow, didn’t halt until they reached the far side of the orangery, where the jasmine grew. There, she turned to face Alasdair, releasing his hand as if his touch burned.

He looked about, drinking in the room. “Because we nearly kissed here?”

“Because the keep has eyes,” she snapped, her cheeks flushing red.

That grounded him, returned his usual focus. She was right. The keep did have eyes, and the orangery many windows. Some spies could read a person’s words on their lips.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Bridget said, her tone pleading. “Please, Mister…Lord Alasdair. Why is my father insisting we marry?” She searched his face. “Why are you agreeing?”

He stroked the backs of his fingers against her cheek, reveling in the smoothness, pleased she didn’t pull away. “Miss Sollier, I am agreeing for the most selfish, simplest of reasons. I love you.”

“Love me?” she gasped.

He opened his hand, cupped her cheek. His palm tingled at the touch of her silken skin. “Yes, love you.”

She shook her head, the act brushing her lips across his palm. They grazed the scar there. “You met me yesterday.”

Mild shock reverberated through him. She was right. He’d met her yesterday. It didn’t matter. “I love you.”

Confusion filled her green eyes. She dropped her gaze to his chest. Her breath caught. Gentle fingers traced the top of a long scar, revealed by the open vee of his shirt. “What is this from? Did you truly get the scar on your palm from grabbing the wrong end of a blade in error?”

Her touch scoured him. His eyes drifted closed. The sensation of her fingers on his chest overwhelmed reason. Warmed by the sun, the soft air whispered the fleeting scent of jasmine about them. If he’d been through hell for Britain, this was his Heaven.

He snapped his eyes open and caught her hand. He pressed her soft fingers firmly between his. What had she asked? Scars? “I truly did grab the wrong end of a blade. It was not by mistake.”

She nodded. “Are there many more scars?”

“There are.” Not all were marks on his skin, as he was only now realizing, but she could change that. She could heal the others, the ones no one saw. “Bridget, do you…” He was surprised at how difficult the words were. A swelling ache in his throat seemed to block them. “Do you care for me? Could you come to?” It was all he could manage not to stop breathing while she contemplated her reply.

She searched his face, green eyes wide. Her attention moved to his shirt front, the scar there, then came to rest on his lips. Finally, she met his stare.

“Promise me something?” she asked.

He dipped his head in acceptance.

“No secrets. If I leave here as your wife, I will have the truth.”

“You will.” It was an easy promise, but his words came out ragged.

“Then yes, I do care for you, and I believe I could come to care more.” She drew in a deep breath. “I will marry you, Lord Alasdair.”

It wasn’t the enthusiasm he longed for, but the pain within him eased. He released her hand. With sure fingers, he plucked free the pins holding her hair. Thick locks cascaded down in shimmering waves, as silken as he’d dreamed. She made no protest, simply watched him with luminous eyes. Hand shaking slightly, he stroked silken strands back from her face. Footsteps sounded near the entrance to the orangery.

“His lordship says the priest is here,” a voice stated.

Bridget’s eyes flew wide, her head jerking toward the speaker.

“Tell his lordship we’re on our way,” Alasdair said. With firm pressure, he turned her face back to him.

“My pins,” she whispered. “I must fix my hair. Papa will know, that is, he’ll suspect we’ve been…” She blushed and dropped her gaze to the floor.

“Let him suspect what he will,” Alasdair said. “Within the hour, we’ll be married.”

That snapped her attention back up. A line of worry appeared on her brow. Alasdair couldn’t permit that. Burying his fingers in her hair, he brought his mouth down to cover hers. He kissed her firmly, insistently, until she melted against him, all trace of worry gone.