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.
