Page 11 of Redemption for the Baron

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 atthe 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 timeBridget 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.”

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