Page 6

Alastair Court

T he following morning, Bridget rose and brushed aside the curtain, letting the sunlight spill into the room. She stood at the window, her gaze drifting over the estate’s manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, and the fountain in the middle of the duck pond at the lower end of the garden.

It was all orderly. Sculpted into submission. Beautiful, yes. But not alive the way the Highlands were.

She admired it, even envied its stillness. But it was not hers, not truly. She closed her eyes, lifted her face to the sun, and drew in a slow, steady breath.

The breath steadied her… carried her home to a world where the land stretched wild and unbroken, where the loch gleamed like liquid silver under the early morning sun, and the heather-kissed moors rolled endlessly toward the horizon.

Her world. Her Highlands. Her Home. A place where she belonged, not this world of clipped hedges and sculpted fountains, but where the wind ran free and unbound.

She straightened and stood taller. She was Lady Bridget McConnell, daughter of Laird Duncan McConnell of Glencross, Chief of Clan McConnell. She was Highland born, Highland bred, and there was no English drawing room that could make her forget it.

She opened her eyes, but instead of the sculpted gardens below, her mind offered another image, the man on the road.

Tall, steady, rain-soaked, and silent. His eyes had unsettled her, not for their intensity, but for what they seemed to see.

She had dismissed him as English, irrelevant.

And yet, in a single glance, he had pierced the armor she thought impenetrable. That alone made him dangerous.

“Excuse me, Lady Bridget,” Catriona said softly as she entered the room, setting a breakfast tray on the table.

Bridget turned, the aroma of warm bread and fresh tea drawing her back to the present. “Ah.” She smiled as Catriona poured her tea. “It smells divine. It looks to be a good day. There’s not a cloud in the sky.”

She sat at the table, lifted her cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “I was thinking this morning how difficult it must have been for you, leaving Glencross, your family, everything familiar, to start a new life here. Not every woman would have that kind of strength.”

Catriona set the sugar bowl down, her expression thoughtful. “Your father always said the strongest women make the best wives. I remember him telling Killian that when he asked him, the clan chieftain, for his blessing.”

Bridget leaned forward slightly, interest lighting in her eyes. “I don’t believe you told me the full story of your wedding last night.”

Catriona’s cheeks pinked as she set down the sugar bowl. “Oh, it wasn’t grand, not like the weddings in London. It was just the way we wanted. Small, in the village chapel, surrounded by friends.”

Bridget exhaled, setting down her cup. “I should have been there.”

Catriona’s expression softened. “You were, in a way. Your father gave us his blessing in your name. He even made a toast at the gathering afterward. Said something about how no man with sense would let a good woman slip away.”

Bridget let out a small laugh, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That sounds like my father.”

“It was a beautiful day,” Catriona said with a wistful lilt. “The sun broke through the morning mist just as we left the chapel. The whole village came out, even old Mrs. MacTavish.”

“Mrs. MacTavish! She hasn’t left her house in years.” Bridget laughed, the sound easing some of the heaviness she hadn’t realized she carried.

“She was one of the first to start dancing.” Catriona took a breath. “We danced until the stars came out. Killian nearly put his foot through the floorboards, trying to keep up.”

Bridget smiled, but something inside her ached.

Longing curled in her chest, unwelcome but insistent.

She could picture it, the warmth of the firelight flickering against the stone walls, the scent of peat and heather thick in the air, the sound of fiddles and laughter ringing across the hills. She should have been there.

She took a slow sip of tea, forcing her voice to stay even. “And you? Were you nervous?”

Catriona chuckled. “Nervous? Aye, but not about the marriage. Only that I’d trip on my own skirts and make a fool of myself before I got to the altar, but the moment I saw Killian waiting for me, it didn’t matter.

” She looked down for a moment, her voice gentling.

“That’s how you know. When the rest of the world fades, and there’s only the two of you. ”

Bridget tried to swallow around the raw, hot knot in her throat. That kind of love, steady, certain, all-consuming, was something she dreamed of. But it had never seemed further out of reach than at this moment.

She wiped her lips with her napkin, pushing the thought aside. “I am glad, Catriona. Truly. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s you.”

Catriona pulled a day dress out of the wardrobe and laid it out across the bed. She turned back to Bridget, studying her for a moment before nodding. “And so do you, my lady. When the right man comes along.”

Bridget huffed a small laugh. “If the right man comes along.”

Catriona smirked knowingly. “Och, I wouldn’t be so quick to doubt. Stranger things have happened.”

“That remains to be seen.” She set her cup down, straightened her shoulders, and pushed aside the emotions clawing at her.

This was not a morning for wistful dreaming.

It was a morning for duty. Her breakfast finished, she rose and put the napkin on the table.

“Help me dress. I don’t want to keep Lady Marjory waiting. ”

*

By the time Bridget entered the drawing room, the scent of fresh ink and beeswax polish filled the air. Marjory paced before the writing desk, a note crumpled in her hand. Her husband, Mark Alastair, leaned against the mantel, arms crossed, watching his wife with a bemused expression.

“A dilemma?” Bridget teased as she approached. The tension in the air was palpable, though not the kind that heralded disaster, the kind that meant Marjory had a problem to solve and was determined to solve it perfectly.

Marjory let out a sharp breath and tossed the note onto the desk. “One of the gentlemen has sent his regrets at the last moment. The seating, the teams for the chase, even the numbers for dinner, it’s all in disarray.”

Alastair smirked. “It’s hardly the end of the world, my dear.”

Marjory shot him a glare. “Spoken like a man who has never had to manage a house party.”

Bridget pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh.

“And now what?” Alastair asked, folding his arms. “Will the universe collapse because a chair is left empty?”

Marjory rubbed her temple. “You don’t understand, Mark. It’s not just a missing chair. It’s the balance of the entire weekend.”

He sighed and shook his head. “There are times I think you create these problems simply to have something to fret over.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her. “Or perhaps to keep yourself distracted.”

Before Marjory could retort, the butler appeared at the doorway. “My lord, a Mr. Edgar Tresham has arrived to see you.”

Alastair straightened, surprise flickering across his face before recognition dawned. “Tresham? The professor? I wasn’t expecting him, but this is excellent.”

Marjory arched a brow. “Who is Edgar Tresham?”

Her husband grinned. “A scholar and historian. He specializes in ancient texts and has been invaluable in helping me authenticate some of my rarer acquisitions.”

Bridget noted Marjory’s skeptical expression. “And why, precisely, is he here?”

Alastair shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but I’m eager to find out.” He turned to the butler. “Have him wait for me in the library.”

Marjory waved a distracted hand. “Go, then. Bury yourself in your old books while I sort this out.”

“I do want our house party to be a memorable event. I’ll return as soon as I see why the professor is visiting.” He gently kissed the top of Marjory’s head. “Try not to plot my demise while I’m away.”

“No promises,” Marjory called after him, though a glint of amusement had crept into her eyes.

Bridget watched the exchange with quiet fondness. Whatever tension lingered beneath the surface, Marjory and Alastair were still partners, tied to one another by habit, affection, and something older than titles and expectations.

*

Alastair entered the library to find Tresham standing before the towering bookshelves, his fingers trailing reverently over the spines. The scholar was so engrossed that he did not immediately acknowledge Mark’s presence. He looked as though he had stepped into a sanctuary.

“Good morning, Professor. Your visit is a pleasant surprise.” Alastair walked toward his visitor to see which of his prized tomes interested the man.

“Impressive,” Tresham murmured. “You’ve collected some remarkable works, Lord Alastair. I admit, I had not expected such dedication.”

“Books are one of the few indulgences I allow myself.” Alastair glanced lovingly at the shelves before his gaze returned to his guest. “And, as you know, I’ve been working diligently to restore this library.”

The professor’s gaze drifted back to the shelves, stopping on a particular volume.

“A surviving edition of De Secretis Naturae ,” he murmured, his voice touched with reverence.

“There are very few copies left intact. Many believe its contents to be mythical. It is said to contain knowledge on alchemy, processes lost to time.”

Alastair smirked. “And do you believe in such lost wisdom?”

Tresham’s lips quirked. “I believe that those in power have often sought to suppress what they do not understand and cannot control.”

The professor returned to investigate the spines on the shelf.

His fingers moved to another volume. “ Historia Regum Britanniae, a text filled with myths interwoven into history. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s account is more legend than fact, but it shaped the way many view Britain’s past.” He glanced at Alastair.

“It is interesting that you have both of these works side by side. One speaks of power through knowledge, the other of power through narrative. Together, they shape history or erase it entirely.”

Alastair studied him. “And which do you prefer?”

Tresham’s lips twitched. “The truth, wherever it may lie.”

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant chime of a clock.

“I am here to pay my respects to a fellow collector.” He glanced at the shelves. “I am glad I did.” Tresham hesitated. “I had planned to leave for London tomorrow, but seeing your collection, I find myself regretting that I hadn’t arranged time with you.”

Alastair regarded him thoughtfully, weighing the opportunity.

Marjory had been fretting about the imbalance since the letter arrived that morning, Baron Linwood had taken ill, leaving them one gentleman short.

She had already begun reshuffling seating arrangements, but a last-minute addition would certainly ease her concerns.

Yet it was not only Marjory’s predicament that gave Alastair pause.

He had long since learned that men like Professor Tresham did not speak idly.

The regret in his tone was genuine, but there was something else beneath it, a hunger.

It was the look of a man who had found something unexpected and wasn’t ready to leave it behind.

Alastair let his gaze sweep the library, the warm glow of candlelight flickering over rows of priceless tomes.

He had spent years amassing his collection, curating it with care and discretion.

Only a handful of men could appreciate its worth, not merely in monetary value, but in historical significance. Tresham was one such man.

It was a risk, but also an opportunity.

He nodded at last. “We find ourselves short a guest for our weekend house party. Allow me to extend an invitation. You would be doing us a favor.”

Tresham inclined his head, a thoughtful glint in his eye. “Are you certain? I do not want to impose.”

“Not at all, Professor. Your presence will round out the event nicely.”

Tresham tapped a finger against his chin, his gaze drifting once more to the shelves. “An unexpected turn of events, indeed.” His hesitation was tinged more with calculation than reluctance. “I must admit, the opportunity is tempting.”

Alastair grinned, sensing the scholar’s interest lay less in the company and more in the tomes before him. “I shall send word for your belongings. You’ll find Alastair Court accommodating in every way.”

As he turned to leave, Alastair glanced back. “By the by, you do play Whist, don’t you?”

Tresham hesitated before answering, but Alastair had already turned, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh, a restless habit Marjory had mentioned only days ago.

Tresham’s attention snapped from the books to his lordship. “No, I do not.”

Alastair hesitated only a fraction before waving off the concern. “Not an issue. We’ll be playing here in the library. You’ll be among us, even if not at the tables. Take your time with the books. Should anything pique your interest, I’d be glad to discuss it.”

Tresham’s lips quirked, his gaze sweeping the shelves once more. “I suspect there is more hidden in these pages than meets the eye, my lord.”

Alastair chuckled. “Scholars and their secrets.”

With that, he strode out, already anticipating Marjory’s relief at his solution.