Bridget sagged in relief. Her hand squeezed Alasdair’s spasmodically. “Thank Heaven.”
“I have arranged this very auspicious match for you, my girl,” the baron said. “You will marry Lord Alasdair and leave immediately. That is the end of it.”
Mutiny pursed her full lips. Her bright green eyes flashed like an oncoming storm.
With a gentle tug of her hand, Alasdair turned her toward him. “Perhaps Miss Sollier and I could speak alone?” He looked at her, not her father, as he said it, his tone calm, beseeching.
She gave a halting nod.
“Very well, but you shall return here when the priest arrives, and marry.”
Bridget shot her father a glare. Mouth set, she pulled Alasdair’s hand, leading him to the doorway. Once free of the office, she didn’t stop. Her other hand holding up her skirt, she headed through the keep with long strides. It didn’t take Alasdair long to realize she sought the orangery.
They stepped from the gray stone halls into a nearly blinding lushness of sunshine, honeyed scents and life. Bridget didn’t slow, didn’t halt until they reached the far side of the orangery, where the jasmine grew. There, she turned to face Alasdair, releasing his hand as if his touch burned.
He looked about, drinking in the room. “Because we nearly kissed here?”
“Because the keep has eyes,” she snapped, her cheeks flushing red.
That grounded him, returned his usual focus. She was right. The keep did have eyes, and the orangery many windows. Some spies could read a person’s words on their lips.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Bridget said, her tone pleading. “Please, Mister…Lord Alasdair. Why is my father insisting we marry?” She searched his face. “Why are you agreeing?”
He stroked the backs of his fingers against her cheek, reveling in the smoothness, pleased she didn’t pull away. “Miss Sollier, I am agreeing for the most selfish, simplest of reasons. I love you.”
“Love me?” she gasped.
He opened his hand, cupped her cheek. His palm tingled at the touch of her silken skin. “Yes, love you.”
She shook her head, the act brushing her lips across his palm. They grazed the scar there. “You met me yesterday.”
Mild shock reverberated through him. She was right. He’d met her yesterday. It didn’t matter. “I love you.”
Confusion filled her green eyes. She dropped her gaze to his chest. Her breath caught. Gentle fingers traced the top of a long scar, revealed by the open vee of his shirt. “What is this from? Did you truly get the scar on your palm from grabbing the wrong end of a blade in error?”
Her touch scoured him. His eyes drifted closed. The sensation of her fingers on his chest overwhelmed reason. Warmed by the sun, the soft air whispered the fleeting scent of jasmine about them. If he’d been through hell for Britain, this was his Heaven.
He snapped his eyes open and caught her hand. He pressed her soft fingers firmly between his. What had she asked? Scars? “I truly did grab the wrong end of a blade. It was not by mistake.”
She nodded. “Are there many more scars?”
“There are.” Not all were marks on his skin, as he was only now realizing, but she could change that. She could heal the others, the ones no one saw. “Bridget, do you…” He was surprised at how difficult the words were. A swelling ache in his throat seemed to block them. “Do you care for me? Could you come to?” It was all he could manage not to stop breathing while she contemplated her reply.
She searched his face, green eyes wide. Her attention moved to his shirt front, the scar there, then came to rest on his lips. Finally, she met his stare.
“Promise me something?” she asked.
He dipped his head in acceptance.
“No secrets. If I leave here as your wife, I will have the truth.”
“You will.” It was an easy promise, but his words came out ragged.
“Then yes, I do care for you, and I believe I could come to care more.” She drew in a deep breath. “I will marry you, Lord Alasdair.”
It wasn’t the enthusiasm he longed for, but the pain within him eased. He released her hand. With sure fingers, he plucked free the pins holding her hair. Thick locks cascaded down in shimmering waves, as silken as he’d dreamed. She made no protest, simply watched him with luminous eyes. Hand shaking slightly, he stroked silken strands back from her face. Footsteps sounded near the entrance to the orangery.
“His lordship says the priest is here,” a voice stated.
Bridget’s eyes flew wide, her head jerking toward the speaker.
“Tell his lordship we’re on our way,” Alasdair said. With firm pressure, he turned her face back to him.
“My pins,” she whispered. “I must fix my hair. Papa will know, that is, he’ll suspect we’ve been…” She blushed and dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Let him suspect what he will,” Alasdair said. “Within the hour, we’ll be married.”
That snapped her attention back up. A line of worry appeared on her brow. Alasdair couldn’t permit that. Burying his fingers in her hair, he brought his mouth down to cover hers. He kissed her firmly, insistently, until she melted against him, all trace of worry gone.
