Bridget was shoved into a room and the door closed behind her. Free of restraining hands, she yanked the sack from her head, sucking in air. Her gaze darted about the narrow space. She took in the low bed, bolted to the wall, and the similarly secured table. The walls, floor and ceiling were rough wood. There was an overwhelming stench of mildew. The thin window opposite her had no latch or curtains. The whole room seemed to sway.

Bridget stumbled to the window. For a moment, the tilting horizon and slate-colored water confused her. “I’m on a ship,” she murmured. The horror of being at sea slammed into her. A ship could be going anywhere. How would Alasdair find her?

Alasdair…there’d been so many men attacking him. To what end? Capture? Somehow, she doubted that. Her breath broke in a shuddering sob. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass. Agony cut through her. She gripped the rough wood sill for support, her legs weak.

Tears slid down her cheeks. Her gaze settled on what must be the side of another ship. She lifted her eyes to take in the bobbing, unchanging strip of land beyond. She could feel each slow beat of her heart. Her lids slid closed.

And snapped open again. The ship wasn’t moving. They were docked.

Bridget straightened, squaring her shoulders. She dashed the tears from her cheeks. They were docked. She wasn’t lost somewhere at sea, and Alasdair would find her. She recalled the iron strength of his arms as he shielded her from collision with the ground. She remembered the deep scar on his palm, the wide mark across his chest. Those were suffered in fights he survived and undoubtedly won. Her glimpse of the battle in the forest was brief, but she hadn’t seen a single man land a blow save Alasdair. He would win, and he would come for her.

She drew in a long, steady breath. The first thing to do, then, was to escape the cabin. She spun and took the three steps to the door on quiet feet. Tentatively, she pressed the latch. She was unsurprised to find the door locked.

She turned a slow circle, studying every detail of the cabin. She crossed to the bed and tried to wrench a rough wooden leg free. When that proved futile, she did the same with the other leg, then those of the table. The thick posts wouldn’t work free.

Growing more desperate, she returned to the door. She clawed at the latch, to no avail. She went to the window, but found no purchase to pull off the pane. Finally, desperation welling, she scrambled about the cabin and pried at any board on ceiling, floor or wall that appeared the slightest bit loose.

After more than an hour, all she’d accomplished was bloodying the ends of several fingers. She stood in the middle of the small cabin with her fists balled and worked to suppress new tears, born of frustration. She would not be weepy, and she refused to be helpless.

There must be something she could do. She hadn’t so much as a hairpin, though. Her eyes went wide at her own foolishness. What need had she of a hairpin when she had stays? She reached for the hem of her dress.

Footsteps sounded beyond the door. She went still, the smooth fabric sliding from her sore fingers. With a grating sound, the latch slid back, unlocked from the outside. She watched for a long moment, but the heavy iron latch didn’t move again. The door didn’t open.

She tiptoed to the door and pressed an ear to the wood. The ship creaked. Dimly heard seabirds cawed. The world slid up and down in a smooth lull. She thought, maybe, she could hear something outside the cabin. Shifting feet? Holding her breath, she pulled the door open.

One of their family’s footmen stood outside the door. He bowed. “Lady Bridget, your father asked me to bring you to him when you’re ready.”

“My father?” She stared at the man, dumbfounded.

“Yes, my lady.”

“My father was taken, too?” They’d dared enter her father’s keep?

“That’s not for me to say, my lady,” the footman said. “Shall I show you to him?”

She nodded, bemused but wary. The footman set off. She followed, trying to ignore the way the ship rocked gently beneath her feet. Was their footman the spy? But, he’d been with them for years. How long had they been spied on? He didn’t seem evil. He seemed deferential, as always.

He led her up a set of steep, narrow steps. Bridget blinked in the afternoon light. One look told her the ship was anchored in Inverness’s harbor. The ship was large, three masted, though the sails were furled. She drank in the sea breeze. After the musty cabin, even the biting odor of fish refreshed her. The several men who lounged about the rails wore her father’s livery. They didn’t look rough, like sailors. They were lean, hard men with eyes that reminded her of the maid, Fiona.

At the top of the steep steps, the footman turned and led her to the entrance of a large aft cabin, directly under the bridge. He knocked once, opened the door, and stood aside. Bridget lingered on the deck, craning her neck to look at the dock. The sea breeze fanned her loose hair about her in shimmering waves. The ship was tall, but near the dock. Could she jump the rail and reach land? Were there more men waiting there?

“Bridget, lass, come in,” her father said, his voice as unyielding as always.

The footman stepped toward her. She lifted her chin and marched out of his reach, into the cabin. The room was large and nearly all windows on the three seaward sides, light and airy despite the low ceiling and plain wood walls. Her father sat at a desk that lacked the ornateness of the one in Lomall a 'Chaisteil, but not the bulk. The unadorned legs were bolted down in the middle of the room. Unlike his keep office, no chair stood before the desk.

Her father looked past her, to the footman. “Close the door.”

He obeyed, taking up a position just inside the cabin.

Bridget crossed to the desk and stopped. Her father didn’t look distressed. He didn’t seem like a man abducted against his will. He appeared to be in charge of the vessel, not restrained. His cane leaned against the low bunk behind him. The emerald clenched in the dragon’s mouth gleamed like his eyes.

“What are we doing here, Father?” she strove for a neutral tone.

“We’re leaving Scotland.” He drummed thick fingers on the desktop.

“You know that’s not what I mean.” The ship rocked in its moorings, scraping against the dock, but she stood tall. She refused to grab his desk for support.

Her father’s drumming ceased as he brought his palm down on the desk with a bang. Bridget didn’t flinch, but from the corner of her eye, she saw the footman jerk in surprise.

A look of disgust on his face, her father glared at the man. “Out,” he ordered.

The footman bowed his way from the cabin and closed them in.

“What we are doing is saving the Sollier line, Bridget,” her father said. His craggy features settled into hard lines. “We’re going to the continent to extract Oliver. I had your handwriting forged. You’ve sent him to Nantes.”

If her father had forged the letter, then Ollie wasn’t a part of whatever mad, traitorous scheme their sire had concocted. She let go of a budding fear. Ollie hadn’t turned against the Crown. Bitterly, she recognized that her father had.

“If you sent Ollie somewhere they didn’t order him to visit, they’ll think he’s a traitor.”

“Yes. He’ll have no choice but to come with us.” Her father’s smile held satisfaction. “Traversing France without orders, on top of his recent failed missions, will solidify any fears they have that he’s turned.”

Bridget pressed her lips closed over her anger, but knew she couldn’t keep the volatile emotion from her eyes. “And then where are we going, Father? The Americas?” Why not journey to the treacherous colony, after all? They would already be branded as turncoats.

He eyed her for a long moment. “I don’t believe you need to know where yet, Bridget.”

No, she didn’t, because she wasn’t going with him. Alasdair would rescue her, and he would know who to contact, who to tell that Ollie was loyal.

“Why, Papa?” She was dismayed at the pleading, sorrowful note that crept into that question.

He heard the feeling that bled into her voice too, for his disgust returned. Her father despised the weakness of emotion. “Because they brought the Duke of Ceann na Creige home.”

“Alasdair?” Bridget’s forehead furrowed in confusion.

“So, he’s Alasdair now, is he?” Her father’s gaze roved over her. “Well, at least you had some fun before he died. Tell me, did you open your legs for him in the greenhouse, or the curricle?”

Bridget’s open hand swung toward his face.

Her father caught her wrist, his grip hard. “Never start a fight you can’t finish. You’re a disgrace to this family.”

She wrenched her wrist free, ignoring the pain. “Strong words from a traitor,” she spat.

Her father’s eyes went flat. “Britain has betrayed this family,” he hissed. “They brought Lochgeal home, took him out of the field, to preserve his family line. What did they do for Oliver? Nothing. A Scottish duke they coddle. But to the Crown, Scottish barons are less than useless. More an inconvenience than an asset. Something to be squandered.”

“That isn’t the way of things, as you well know,” she cried. “Ollie is the Dagger. You raised him to be what he is. Beat the role into him.”

Her father leaned back in his chair, his emotions veiled once more. “Lochgeal told you that? You’re better at getting information from a man than I would have credited. Now that you’re a widow, wise in the ways of the world, perhaps you can actually become an asset to this family.”

It was on her lips to declare she was not a widow. That Alasdair would come for her. That she would never help her father in any way, ever again. She halted the words. What good would antagonizing her father do? She had no wish to be locked away in the musty little cabin when Alasdair came.

“I still don’t understand, Father. If you were this Dagger, and grandfather was, how can you turn against Britain now?”

He shook his head. “You were never as quick as your brother, but I suppose that’s to be expected from a female. With how witless your mother was, I’m lucky you can write and read.”

Bridget’s hands curled into fists. She forced them open and pressed her aching wrist and sore fingers to her sides. “I simply wish to understand.”

“I told you, girl. The Crown called Lochgeal home to further his line.” He began to drum his fingers again. “Do you know what happens when one of the four families who craft the Dagger falters? We’re dismissed. Replaced by another family eager to sop up the pretense of royal favor. There’s no accolade. No reward. We’re nothing to them.”

Bridget blinked. Four families? Alasdair hadn’t told her that. Did he know? Somehow, she doubted he did. “Then why give away Ollie’s missions? So he would be dismissed? You put him in danger.”

He shook his head. “I wrote to an old friend on the continent, offered to trade Oliver’s targets for assurance of his safety until I could come for him.”

“An old friend?” Bridget prompted, hearing a note foreign to her father’s voice. One she couldn’t name, might that thought be…regret?

He gave a sharp nod. “One I made during my time as the Dagger. The woman I would have taken as my baroness--should have--if not for my damn loyalty to the Crown.”

His green eyes took on a cast Bridget had never seen before. Longing. Wistfulness. And yes, as she’d guessed, regret.

“She was my final mission. The only one I didn’t complete. I couldn’t destroy such perfection.” Her father’s attention focused once more, his features grim. “So I came home and, as was my duty, married your twit of a mother. That, I did for the Crown.”

Silence fell between them. Her father’s expression turned defiant. His fingers stilled. He narrowed his eyes at her. Bridget could tell he was reaching a decision about her fate. She couldn’t let that decision be to lock her away again.

“I see,” Bridget said softly, for she did see. Her father had given up the only woman he’d ever loved, a spy from the sound of things. A choice he’d made, and he’d let the regret fester for years. Bridget felt a deep, forlorn sympathy for him, for the possibilities he’d lost. “You gave up everything for Britain. Every chance for happiness. How do they repay you? By treating our family as no better than common foot soldiers. Tools for a purpose, to go where we’re told until we break and are replaced.”

That didn’t make his betrayal right. His sacrifice didn’t mean he got to decide for her, and for Ollie, that they would betray their homeland and flee to places unknown. Most of all, her father’s regrets did not give him the right to attempt to have Alasdair killed. She forced her features to remain soft. She would not permit herself to think her father’s plan for Alasdair anything more than an attempt…though the many windows showed the sun lowering, and he had yet to appear.

Her father studied her for long minutes. She kept her shoulders back and her gaze forward, locked on the windows behind him. She made her face a mask, but her mind raged against the slowly lowering sun, herald to the evening tide.

“Do I need to have you locked in your cabin?” her father finally asked.

Bridget permitted a long sigh. “Do as you like, Father,” she said, edging her voice with defeat. “It isn’t as if I can stop you.”

He nodded, a gleam of pleasure brightening his gaze. “I knew you were smarter than your mother.”

Bridget didn’t react to that, knowing the jab for the test it was.

Her father gestured. “There’s a pitcher and basin by the bed. Clean your hands. You’re getting blood on your dress.”

She nodded. Adopting a subservient mien, she did as she was bade.