Page 10 of Redemption for the Baron

Catriona shook her head lightly. “It’s no trouble at all, my lady. I’m happy to assist you.”

Bridget offered a gentle smile. “I appreciate your kindness, but I insist. You should get some rest. We can catch up more in the morning.”

Catriona curtsied gracefully. “Good night.”

As she moved toward the door, Bridget added, “And give my regards to Killian.”

A soft blush touched Catriona’s cheeks. “I shall. He’ll be pleased to hear you’re here.”

With a final smile, Catriona slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Bridget listened to the fading footsteps in the corridor before letting out a soft sigh.

As she slipped beneath the water’s warmth, the ache in her limbs began to fade, but the tightness coiled in her chest did not. Lavender and rosemary curled in the steam, their soothing scent failing to quiet the unrest in her mind.

Catriona and Killian had built a life here, finding a way to survive even as the echoes of the Clearances followed them. She had done the same, hadn’t she? Yet, as she stared at the flickering candlelight reflecting off the bathwater, she wasn’t so sure.

Her fingers drifted absently across the surface, sending ripples cascading outward. Then, unbidden, another image surfaced, storming-blue eyes, steady hands, and a knowing smirk beneath the brim of a rain-soaked hat. The Englishman. An irritation. A curiosity. And, most troubling of all, a distraction she could not afford.

Bridget exhaled sharply, sinking lower into the water. She had come to England with a purpose. And she would do well to remember it. She remained in the bath until the water cooled and her limbs grew heavy with fatigue. Only then did she rise, wrapping herself in a towel and moving slowly, as if the air itself resisted her return to the world beyond the warmth.

She dressed in silence, donning a fresh linen nightdress and wrapping herself in a thick woolen shawl. The air had cooled since she’d arrived, and the warmth from the bath only lingered so long. She crossed to the window and pushed back the heavy drapes. Moonlight filtered through the mist, casting a soft glow across the gardens. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, its cry both eerie and comforting in the stillness.

The night held its breath, the hush stretching long and wide, as if the world itself waited for what might come next.

Bridget pressed her fingers to the cold glass. So much depended on her success here, her family’s hopes, her people’s survival, her own heart’s stubborn need to matter beyond titles and ties.

She would do her part. But she would not be molded.

She would not be traded. And she would not be silenced.

She let the curtain fall and turned back to the room. The fire had dwindled to embers, but it was enough. Tomorrow, the masks would rise. But tonight, for a little while longer, she could simply be herself.

Chapter Three

June 26, 1821

Alastair Court

The 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.”

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