Chapter Five
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?”
