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B ridget McConnell sat alone in the dimly lit carriage, the lantern’s flickering glow barely warming the velvet-lined interior. The road was damp and uneven, the steady rhythm of the carriage doing little to soothe the restlessness coiled inside her.

The rain had stopped, the clouds parted to reveal a star-scattered sky, but she was already soaked to the skin. Mud clung to her hem, her hands… and her thoughts.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, but it offered no relief.

The air inside the carriage felt thick, a mixture of stale upholstery and the faint lavender sachet tucked into the folds of her belongings.

Her fingers toyed with the ribbon of her reticule, twisting it tighter with every passing thought.

As the carriage trundled forward, the surrounding landscape shifted from open countryside to dense woodland.

Towering oaks lined the narrow road, their twisted branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers.

The mist had settled low, clinging to the earth, creeping between trunks and stones, blurring the path ahead.

She peered out the rain-streaked window, catching glimpses of movement beyond the trees.

Likely nothing more than the wind disturbing the underbrush, but the unease that had plagued her since leaving home twisted tighter in her chest. She was a stranger here, venturing into a world that was not hers.

The thought made her sit straighter, as if posture alone could shield her.

Her thoughts strayed, uninvited, to the man on the road.

The one with steady hands and piercing blue eyes.

He had touched her only briefly, steadying her when she slipped, but the memory of it lingered like warmth in her skin.

Foolish. He was English. One of them . And yet, he had neither postured nor presumed.

He had worked beside her in silence, not dismissive, not commanding, just… present.

She sighed and leaned back against the worn seat. Her father’s parting words echoed in her mind, his voice steady, filled with the quiet authority he wielded so well.

It wasn’t just memory. It was longing, for the Highland dawn, the bracing bite of the wind off the loch, the scent of peat smoke curling through the heather.

Those were her mornings, not this world of curtained coaches and careful expectations. Her world had been fierce and cold and bright. It had never made her feel… small.

And yet, this morning, she did.

The decision to leave had not only been a journey of miles, but of allegiance. Leaving Glencross hadn’t just been saying goodbye to hills and kin. It had meant agreeing to a plan crafted in strategy and hope.

Her father had said it plainly. A Highland daughter, yes, but one bound by duty. If she did this well, the English might soften. The violence might ease. Her people might yet endure.

But it hadn’t felt like power. It had felt like being bartered.

The memory of the captain rose again, uninvited. Not because of what he’d done, but because of what he hadn’t. He hadn’t insisted. He hadn’t dismissed her. He had worked beside her, said little, and looked at her as if he saw her, not her name, not her title, just… her.

It had rattled her more than any challenge might have. She didn’t know what to make of a man who met her strength with steadiness. That was not English. That was dangerous.

The carriage jolted, rousing her from her thoughts. She shifted in her seat and glanced out again. The mist was lifting. The landscape had changed to sculpted shapes. To the kind of land ruled by ledgers and topiary shears.

This was his world. And soon, it would be hers.

“Bridget, lass, you carry more than just your own fate on your shoulders. Remember that.”

She did remember. Every mile of this journey weighed heavier than the last, not because of the roads, but because of what they meant. She wasn’t here for comfort or companionship. She was here to serve a purpose. An alliance. A promise forged in ink and blood.

How could she forget? The burden of duty had never been a light one.

She had left Scotland with the knowledge that her presence at Alastair Court was more than a mere visit.

Her friend Lady Marjory Alastair needed her, of that much she was certain.

And yet, there was something else, something unspoken, that had drawn her here.

Not him. Certainly not him.

But the image returned. The height of him. The line of his shoulders. The blue of his eyes, too clear, too sharp, too steady.

She pressed her fingers to her temple and forced the thought away. A uniform and a strong jaw didn’t make a man less dangerous.

Bridget saw the estate as the carriage came up the Alastair Court drive.

It was a far cry from the rugged Highlands she called home.

In the dark, she could just make out the estate’s manicured lawns and architecture.

Stone walls stood in clean lines, shaped by order and wealth.

Nothing like the wild crags of her childhood, but no less commanding.

It was unfamiliar, imposing, yet impressive.

The carriage came to a halt with a jarring lurch at the grand entrance.

Bridget, drenched and weary, cast a brief glance at the imposing facade as she stepped down.

She squared her shoulders and pushed aside her discomfort.

There was no place for hesitation now. Not here.

Not in England. Whatever lay ahead, she would meet it standing tall.

The butler opened the door with practiced ease. “Welcome to Alastair Court, Lady Bridget.” The butler bowed slightly. “Lady Alastair is expecting you. This way to the drawing room.”

Her gaze drifted to the drawing room to her right before she decided she dared not move from the foyer’s marble floor, where a muddy puddle was forming. “I’ll wait here, thank you.”

“Very well, my lady.” The butler hurried down the hall.

As she waited for Lady Alastair, the gravity of her mission clung to her like an ill-fitting cloak, tugging her thoughts back to her father and the argument before she left Glencross.

The image of her father pacing the room, his jaw tight with frustration, played vividly in her mind. Every line of his face had been worn deeper that night. The memory of their heated exchange played in her mind, each word still fresh and vivid.

“Bridget, do you understand what’s at stake here? The Clearances have ravaged our lands. We need an alliance to protect our people, our heritage!”

Anger surged through her, hot and unrelenting. Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms as she stepped forward.

“And you think marrying me off to some English lord will solve all our problems? I suppose I should be grateful Viscount Huntington’s wife still suffers him, or you would send me packing off to be his bride!”

A shadow passed over her father’s face, his mouth setting into a hard line. “This isn’t a game, Bridget. And you’re not some piece of land to be traded.”

“Then stop treating me like one!” Bridget turned sharply, staring out the window as if that would make the situation better.

“I’ve seen English suitors in London, Father.

They smile and charm, but they only want to smooth the edges, erase the fire, and make me something docile and English.

I won’t stand for it. I won’t lose myself to their civility. ”

Her father’s voice softened, but the gravity of his words remained. “You want our family torn apart?” He stepped in front of her, blocking her restless path. “You have no idea what that would do to you.”

Her resolve wavered, if only for a heartbeat.

Her father’s expression softened for a moment, his voice dropping to a more somber tone.

“Bridget, lass, you are the fiercest person I know. But there are times when strength isn’t enough. We need alliances. You can make a difference, not just for yourself but for all of us.”

She crossed her arms. “And what would some English nobleman want with the likes of me?” Bridget challenged, her eyes flashing with defiance. “They’ve already taken their tribute in coin, land, and people. They have left us little else.”

Her father held her gaze. “Because, Bridget, you are a woman of extraordinary worth.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The certainty in it held her still.

“If I wanted empty flattery, Father, I’d speak to my reflection.”

“It’s not flattery. It’s the truth.” He exhaled. “You are fierce, unyielding, a trait that commands respect. You bring with you the resilience of the Highlands and the knowledge of how to manage land and people. That is no small thing. Our name still has influence, even across the border.”

“And yet, I would still be the one expected to bend.”

“Bridget, I don’t wish to see you unhappy. But this doesn’t have to be a sacrifice. Use your wit, your courage. Seek out someone who sees beyond titles and wealth, someone who values the woman you are.”

Between them, the fire snapped and crackled, the only sound in the tense quiet. For the first time, she let herself consider his words.

“It’s a heavy burden you place upon me,” she said, still gazing at the flames.

He gave a small, rueful smile. “Aye, lass, I know. But you’re strong enough to bear it. After all, you’re the daughter of the Laird of Glencross.”

Bridget tore her gaze from the flames, inhaling deeply as if steadying herself for battle. The air felt too thick and the room too small.

“I will consider it,” she conceded quietly. “But I make no promises.”

Her father gave her a small, knowing smile. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Even now, his words echoed in her mind, lingering like an unfinished conversation. She had seen the men her father spoke of. They were filled with empty promises and empty smiles. No one had proven to be worthy. No one had met her fire without trying to extinguish it.