Chapter Four
Alasdair whistled discordantly as he blundered through the upper hall and down the steps of Lomall a 'Chaisteil after changing for dinner. It was easy to guess which floorboards would creak the loudest. He endeavored to step on every last one. Nearing the bottom of the staircase, he jumped down the final few steps to land in a loud clatter. With a grin, he broke off his whistling to curse, then paused as if to collect himself. He set his spectacles askew on his nose and strode down the central hallway.
A strange joy had filled him since reaching Lomall a 'Chaisteil. For one thing, he was on a mission. A silly, piddling sort of mission, but serving king and country nonetheless. For another, one look at the lady of the house and he’d realized there was much more entertainment to be found in Lomall a 'Chaisteil than he’d anticipated.
When she’d strode into the parlor, apron synched tight about the trimmest waist he’d ever seen and an obviously forgotten sprig of jasmine behind her ear, she’d taken his breath away. Far from the clutching female he’d anticipated, Miss Sollier had appeared comically dismayed to find him there.
In all his travels, he’d never beheld anything like her almond shaped eyes, irises a beguiling sun-dappled green. He’d delighted in the way they flashed with ire when he suggested she was old. Those beguiling eyes conveyed none of the veiled, jaded looks of the women who swarmed about him in Inverness. And her skin…porcelain smooth, and luminous when she was angry or blushing.
What made his insult all the more amusing was the unfathomableness of his invented confusion. Even with his skills of observation, honed by years of reading people, if Stirling hadn’t mentioned her age, Alasdair would have taken her for twenty. Her slender frame and heavy, honey braid belied a woman society would place on the shelf. He hadn’t anticipated having to steel himself against such allure.
Equally dangerous was the quick intelligence in her gaze. More than ever, he was pleased with his disguise. Skilled in his occupation, Alasdair didn’t permit many blows to land, but the years hadn’t left him unscathed. In particular, he bore a deep scar across his right palm, where he’d forced back a blade. Generally, he avoided exposing the long-healed wound for the questions it roused. Living here, that would be difficult and he didn’t want to appear as if he tried to hide the mark. The guise of bumbling fool made him unmarriageable and explained that scar, as well as any others she or the servants might glimpse.
She was nimble as well, this Miss Sollier, he thought as he strode down the dimly-lit hallway. Even though he’d sent that vase careening first one way and then another, she’d nearly caught it, and after starting out half a room away. She had caught his hat before he could send the battered wool flying once more. Gave him quite the eyeful, too.
His mind preoccupied with the slender Miss Bridget Sollier’s more beguiling assets, Alasdair nearly missed the hissed, “Mister White,” that slipped from a barely open door to his left.
Instantly, thoughts of Miss Sollier were shoved to the back of his mind. His posture remained outwardly the same, that of the foppish Mister White, but every muscle tensed. Affable smile in place, Alasdair turned and pushed the door open. His other hand twitched, but he didn’t have a blade secreted about him. He was too worried Miss Sollier would be keen enough to notice.
He stepped into a long dining room. The maid, Fiona, backed away as he entered, until she came to stand before a table of ancient, cracked wood, large enough to seat fifty. Curtained windows did little to illuminate the hall, but enough light leaked in for him to appreciate the tapestries, shields and weapons adorning the gray stone. As with every area of Lomall a 'Chaisteil he’d so far traversed, the theme seemed to be centuries-old brooding danger. He slid the door closed behind him.
Fiona, her green maid’s uniform impeccably pressed, dipped a curtsey. “Mister White, they told me they were sending you. This may shock you but I’m—”
“The operative in this house?” He leveled a hard look on the girl. She, like Miss Sollier, was older than she seemed. Old enough to know better. “Never volunteer information.”
Her posture went rigid, her gaze straight ahead. “Yes, sir.”
“What if you erred in your assessment of me?” he continued. “Did they supply my description? I could have waylaid the true operative. You must make the subject tell you what they know until trust is established.”
“I understand, sir.” She darted a glance at him.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“How did you know, sir, that I’m an operative? Were you informed?”
“That there was someone, yes,” he admitted, taking some pity on the girl. “Not who. It’s your scrutiny that gives you away. You must learn to observe without seeming to. Your gaze is too intent. No servant cares that much about every detail of people and rooms. Not unless they’re spying or stealing.”
She sighed. “Then Baron Sollier must know as well.” She lifted her hands in a beseeching gesture before dropping them back to her sides. “This is my final test, to prove I’m ready. I was to find a way into the house and remain for a year, gathering information. If I did so without Lord Sollier realizing who I am, I would pass.”
Alasdair frowned. He had yet to set eyes on his host, but would at dinner. Stirling said the man’s vision was no longer up to the task of reading and writing, but he was still the Dagger, or had been.
“I have little doubt he knows.”
Fiona’s shoulders sagged, but then she brightened. “Maybe if I find the spy, I’ll still pass.”
He leveled a hard look on her. He hadn’t mentioned the spy. She’d given away information again. “How is it they sent you to root out this spy?” He was aware his question was biting.
She winced. “As I said, this was meant to be a test. I arrived before they realized there was a spy. I’ve been trying to find him…” She shrugged, her expression miserable.
He knew what she was dreading. Another year of training. Well, she needed it. “You’ve made no progress?”
“As far as I can tell, only Miss Sollier and the baron have access to the relevant letters.” Frustration edged her voice. “I’ve stayed up nights. I’ve kept the missives in my sight until they leave Scotland by ship. I’ve searched the keep. I’ve followed Miss Sollier on the rare occasions she leaves the grounds, in case someone has befriended her to glean the information. All to no avail.”
Likely because the spy had realized Fiona wasn’t a simple maid as immediately as Alasdair had. “You haven’t followed Baron Sollier?”
She shook her head. “He never leaves.”
Was the Dagger so reduced, then? A half-blind old man moldering in an ancient keep. Alasdair was dismayed to feel a twinge of pity. “You were right to follow Miss Sollier. She is the most vulnerable.”
