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.”
