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.
