Page 35

B ridget stormed into her chambers, her pulse a relentless drumbeat in her ears.

The heavy air of summer offered no reprieve, thick and suffocating, but it was nothing compared to the chill settling deep in her chest. She hadn’t felt this kind of betrayal in years, not since the Clearances stole everything from her family.

And now she knew why.

Thomas Grenville. Son of Viscount Huntington.

A man who had walked beside her, stood beside her, and kissed her while carrying the name of the man who had ruined her people. She had vowed never to trust an Englishman again. And yet… She clenched her fists, her breath uneven. How could she have been so blind?

A soft knock at the door barely registered before Catriona stepped inside, a folded linen draped over one arm. She studied Bridget for a long moment before setting the cloth down. “I heard you pacing from the hall. Are you trying to wear out the floorboards?”

Bridget exhaled sharply. She turned away, staring at the flames as if their heat could burn away the fury in her chest. “I don’t have patience for jests, Catriona.”

The humor faded from Catriona’s eyes. She took a step closer. “Aye, I can see that. What’s happened?”

Bridget shook her head, pacing to the window.

The reflection in the glass showed her own rigid posture, with her shoulders tight and her jaw clenched.

“Thomas—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Grenville. I should have known there was something he wasn’t telling me.

That his name—” She forced the words past the lump in her throat.

“That name has haunted my family for years. I just never thought it would be his.”

Catriona’s brow furrowed. “His name?”

Bridget turned sharply. “His father. Huntington. The Huntington.” The name felt bitter on her tongue. She whirled back toward Catriona, her voice raw with emotion. “The man who carried out the Clearances. He—” Her breath caught. “He took everything from us.”

Catriona went very still. Something flickered in her expression, an emotion Bridget couldn’t place.

Bridget’s pulse pounded. “I let him stand beside me, Catriona,” she whispered. “I let him get close. And all the while, he knew. He knew. And he never said a word.”

Her chest tightened, rage battling against something far more dangerous, a pain not like anything she had ever experienced.

How could she have let herself forget who she was, what she’d lost?

It would be easier if she hated him outright, if she could erase every shared moment from her mind.

But the warmth of his touch, the way he had looked at her beneath the stars, the way he had kissed her as if she was his salvation…

Bridget shook her head sharply. She couldn’t afford such thoughts. Not now. Not ever.

Catriona exhaled, her gaze unreadable. “And what did he say when you confronted him?”

Bridget’s jaw clenched. A fresh wave of anger rose in her chest. “Nothing. He didn’t even try to deny it.”

He hadn’t denied it. But he hadn’t looked triumphant or indifferent. He had looked… broken.

Catriona tilted her head slightly. “And did you give him the chance to explain?”

Bridget faltered. “What?”

Catriona’s voice softened, but her words cut straight through. “Did you let him explain? Or did you decide you already knew what he would say?”

Bridget stiffened, a sharp retort ready on her lips, but it never came because Catriona was right.

Bridget had confronted Thomas and had pushed him to speak, but she had never really given him the chance. She had wanted an apology, a defense, something to make the betrayal make sense. But his silence had been more damning than any excuse. And yet…

No. She shook her head sharply. This wasn’t about excuses. This was about the truth. And Thomas had kept that truth from her.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bridget said, the words tasting like ash. “Nothing he could say would change the past.”

Catriona watched her, but she said nothing else.

For once, Bridget was grateful. She turned away, pressing her hands against the cool wood of the dressing table, forcing herself to breathe. The sunlight casting long shadows across the room. But none of it could chase away the darkness curling in her chest.

“Did you ever wonder how Killian and I made it here?”

Bridget blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“How we escaped? How we found safe passage?”

Catriona’s voice held a credence Bridget hadn’t heard before. Bridget frowned. “Alastair arranged it.”

Catriona’s lips twitched, but there was no amusement in it. “Aye. And who do you think arranged it for him?”

Bridget’s breath stalled. “What are you saying?”

Catriona folded her arms. “I’m saying it wasn’t just Alastair who got us out, Lady Bridget. It was Thomas.”

The words landed like a blow. Bridget stared at her. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, but it is.” Catriona’s voice softened, but it didn’t waver.

“You think Alastair could have arranged that without help? That he, on his own, knew how to get Scots out under the very nose of the men driving them from their homes? That he could have smuggled us through without a single notice?” She shook her head.

“It was Thomas. He gave Alastair the means. The contacts. The routes. The coin.”

Bridget’s breath stalled in her chest. “No.”

“Yes,” Catriona said firmly. “And he didn’t just help us. There were others. Whole families who made it out because he made sure they had a way.”

Bridget’s knees felt weak. She reached for the edge of the dressing table, gripping it tightly. “Why didn’t anyone say anything?”

“Because Thomas didn’t want to be known.” She met Bridget’s gaze. “Sometimes the truest acts are the quietest.”

Bridget swallowed hard. She wanted to deny it. Wanted to hold on to her anger, her sense of betrayal. But the words wouldn’t come because Catriona was telling her the truth.

He had risked everything. Not just his coin, but his name, his position, his safety. All to undo what his father had done.

The truth settled uncomfortably in her chest. A small, unwelcome part of her whispered that maybe, just maybe, she had known all along.

Her fingers curled into the folds of her skirt, frustration rising. She had been so certain, so absolute in her anger. And now? She exhaled sharply, pushing to her feet. Sitting here would accomplish nothing. She needed to find him.

Bridget strode toward the door, pausing only briefly to steady herself before stepping into the corridor. The hush of the house pressed in around her, and her own realization slowed her steps. Where would he have gone?

She checked the study first, then the library. He wasn’t there.

As she passed the stairwell, she spotted Barrington lingering near the hall, his gaze sharp as he took her in.

“Looking for Grenville?” he asked casually.

Bridget hesitated, then lifted her chin. “Yes.”

Barrington studied her for a long moment before nodding toward the open doors leading outside. “He left an hour ago. If I had to guess, he’s down by the cliffs.”

The cliffs. Where they had last stood, where she had wanted him, where she had let herself feel something beyond duty and loss.

Bridget’s pulse quickened, but she squared her shoulders. She had been wrong about him, and now she had to face that truth.

She nodded her thanks and turned toward the cliffs.

The wind tugged at her skirts as she made her way toward the rocky outcrop. The path was familiar, the same one she had walked with him before. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat, equal parts nerves and anticipation.

But when she arrived, he wasn’t there.

Bridget stood motionless, scanning the jagged cliffs, the restless sea below. She had been so certain she would find him here. Her stomach twisted, disappointment cutting sharper than she expected.

For a long moment, she stood there, listening to the crash of the waves, letting the wind whip at her hair. The wind bit through her gown, but it was the absence of him that chilled her most. He wasn’t there. And now, she had to face what came next, alone.