Her father’s drumming ceased as he brought his palm down on the desk with a bang. Bridget didn’t flinch, but from the corner of her eye, she saw the footman jerk in surprise.
A look of disgust on his face, her father glared at the man. “Out,” he ordered.
The footman bowed his way from the cabin and closed them in.
“What we are doing is saving the Sollier line, Bridget,” her father said. His craggy features settled into hard lines. “We’re going to the continent to extract Oliver. I had your handwriting forged. You’ve sent him to Nantes.”
If her father had forged the letter, then Ollie wasn’t a part of whatever mad, traitorous scheme their sire had concocted. She let go of a budding fear. Ollie hadn’t turned against the Crown. Bitterly, she recognized that her father had.
“If you sent Ollie somewhere they didn’t order him to visit, they’ll think he’s a traitor.”
“Yes. He’ll have no choice but to come with us.” Her father’s smile held satisfaction. “Traversing France without orders, on top of his recent failed missions, will solidify any fears they have that he’s turned.”
Bridget pressed her lips closed over her anger, but knew she couldn’t keep the volatile emotion from her eyes. “And then where are we going, Father? The Americas?” Why not journey to the treacherous colony, after all? They would already be branded as turncoats.
He eyed her for a long moment. “I don’t believe you need to know where yet, Bridget.”
No, she didn’t, because she wasn’t going with him. Alasdair would rescue her, and he would know who to contact, who to tell that Ollie was loyal.
“Why, Papa?” She was dismayed at the pleading, sorrowful note that crept into that question.
He heard the feeling that bled into her voice too, for his disgust returned. Her father despised the weakness of emotion. “Because they brought the Duke of Ceann na Creige home.”
“Alasdair?” Bridget’s forehead furrowed in confusion.
“So, he’s Alasdair now, is he?” Her father’s gaze roved over her. “Well, at least you had some fun before he died. Tell me, did you open your legs for him in the greenhouse, or the curricle?”
Bridget’s open hand swung toward his face.
Her father caught her wrist, his grip hard. “Never start a fight you can’t finish. You’re a disgrace to this family.”
She wrenched her wrist free, ignoring the pain. “Strong words from a traitor,” she spat.
Her father’s eyes went flat. “Britain has betrayed this family,” he hissed. “They brought Lochgeal home, took him out of the field, to preserve his family line. What did they do for Oliver? Nothing. A Scottish duke they coddle. But to the Crown, Scottish barons are less than useless. More an inconvenience than an asset. Something to be squandered.”
“That isn’t the way of things, as you well know,” she cried. “Ollie is the Dagger. You raised him to be what he is. Beat the role into him.”
Her father leaned back in his chair, his emotions veiled once more. “Lochgeal told you that? You’re better at getting information from a man than I would have credited. Now that you’re a widow, wise in the ways of the world, perhaps you can actually become an asset to this family.”
It was on her lips to declare she was not a widow. That Alasdair would come for her. That she would never help her father in any way, ever again. She halted the words. What good would antagonizing her father do? She had no wish to be locked away in the musty little cabin when Alasdair came.
“I still don’t understand, Father. If you were this Dagger, and grandfather was, how can you turn against Britain now?”
He shook his head. “You were never as quick as your brother, but I suppose that’s to be expected from a female. With how witless your mother was, I’m lucky you can write and read.”
Bridget’s hands curled into fists. She forced them open and pressed her aching wrist and sore fingers to her sides. “I simply wish to understand.”
“I told you, girl. The Crown called Lochgeal home to further his line.” He began to drum his fingers again. “Do you know what happens when one of the four families who craft the Dagger falters? We’re dismissed. Replaced by another family eager to sop up the pretense of royal favor. There’s no accolade. No reward. We’re nothing to them.”
Bridget blinked. Four families? Alasdair hadn’t told her that. Did he know? Somehow, she doubted he did. “Then why give away Ollie’s missions? So he would be dismissed? You put him in danger.”
He shook his head. “I wrote to an old friend on the continent, offered to trade Oliver’s targets for assurance of his safety until I could come for him.”
“An old friend?” Bridget prompted, hearing a note foreign to her father’s voice. One she couldn’t name, might that thought be…regret?
He gave a sharp nod. “One I made during my time as the Dagger. The woman I would have taken as my baroness--should have--if not for my damn loyalty to the Crown.”
His green eyes took on a cast Bridget had never seen before. Longing. Wistfulness. And yes, as she’d guessed, regret.
