Page 8 of Redemption for the Baron

She reached for Bridget’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Then she gently kissed her cheek and was gone.

Bridget stood in the quiet, the offer still lingering on her tongue. She hadn’t needed tea. She’d just wanted not to feel quite so alone.

Bridget stepped into her room and let the silence settle around her. She had to admit that despite the disappointment, she was grateful for time to herself.

Warmth wrapped around her the moment she stepped inside, a stark contrast to the wind that chilled her skin. Soft candlelight revealed delicate floral wallpaper in muted tones of cream and blue on the walls. It was the sort of room meant to soothe, not impress, and it was a welcome change.

A four-poster bed draped with lacy curtains that slightly billowed in the draft dominated one side of the room. The linens were crisp and white, accented with embroidered pillows that added a touch of elegance without being fussy. The intricate quilt pattern reminded her of the ones back home that lay at the foot of her bed. Her throat tightened, unexpectedly and unwelcome. A homesick sigh pushed through her lips.

The fireplace opposite the bed crackled softly, the flames casting shadows that flickered across the polished wooden floor. Above the mantel hung a simple mirror framed in dark wood, its surface slightly warped with age. To one side of the fireplace stood a comfortable armchair upholstered in deep burgundy fabric. A small table stood beside it with a vase of fresh wildflowers whose subtle scent mingled with the faint aroma of burning wood.

Heavy velvet drapes framed a large window that overlooked the estate’s gardens. Though the night obscured most of the view, she could make out the silhouettes of neatly trimmed hedges and the gentle sway of trees still dripping from the rain. A writing desk sat beneath the window, an inkwell and quill at the ready atop a neat stack of parchment.

Against another wall stood a tall carved wardrobe for her belongings. Next to it, a delicate vanity table bore a lace doily and a silver brush and comb set.

The room was elegant yet understated, lacking the brazen affluence she’d seen in London. As she began to unbutton her damp dress, Bridget allowed herself a small smile. Maybe, just maybe, this place would offer the respite she desperately needed.

She thought of the rolling hills of the Highlands, the scent of heather and peat fires, and the sound of Gaelic songs drifting through the air. Her heart ached for the rugged beauty of her homeland and the fierce pride that came with it. But that world felt impossibly far away just now, almost like a dream.

Before she could collect herself, a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” she called.

The door creaked open, and a young woman carrying fresh linens stepped inside.

Bridget’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Catriona? Is it truly you?”

The maid looked up. Recognition lit her face, followed by a warm, familiar smile. “Lady Bridget! I scarcely expected to find you here.” Her Scottish accent wrapped around the words like a welcome shawl.

She had no idea Catriona had remained in England, let alone here. Bridget’s feet moved before her thoughts caught up. In two steps, she crossed the room and embraced her. “It’s so good to see you! I thought you had gone to Ontario with your family.”

Catriona returned the hug with quiet warmth, then stepped back, her smile still bright. She set the linens on a nearby chair and crossed the hearth to prepare tea. “Aye, my family did go to Ontario. But I married Killian Bain, and we chose to remain. Your father made arrangements for us. We were introduced to Lord Alastair, who offered us positions here.”

“Married Killian Bain, did you?” Bridget’s eyes sparkled with intrigue. “Now,thatis a story I must hear!”

Catriona leaned against the dressing table, a wistful smile playing on her lips as she recalled the moment. “Ah, Lady Bridget, you should’ve seen him. All that strength, all that confidence he carries around like an iron shield, and yet, when it came to asking for my hand, the man was a bundle of nerves.”

Bridget, seated near the hearth, raised a brow. “Killian? Nervous? I find that hard to believe.”

Catriona let out a laugh, shaking her head. “It’s true! I swear it. The man who could face down a raging bull without flinching fumbled his words like a lad reciting his lessons.”

She sat beside Bridget, eyes shining as she continued. “He’d planned it, you see. Had everything arranged just so. Took me for a walk along the river, the sun setting behind the hills like something out of a painting. He was unusually quiet. Far too quiet for a man who always has something to say.”

Bridget smiled at the image, picturing Killian, so steady and sure in most things, suddenly rendered uncertain by love. “And what did he say when he finally found his words?”

Catriona pressed a hand to her chest, feigning deep emotion. “Och, my lady, it was the most poetic speech you’ve ever heard,” she teased, then softened, her voice taking on a more affectionate lilt. “He told me he’d spent years shaping iron and steel, bending it to his will, but that I was the one thing in this world he couldn’t shape, couldn’t force. That he didn’t want to, because he loved me exactly as I was.”

Bridget’s breath caught, just for a moment. The words settled in places she hadn’t expected. The quiet corners where doubt and pride still lingered.

“That’s…” She paused, then smiled faintly. “That’s rather beautiful.” And she meant it. Even if she couldn’t imagine anyone ever saying it to her.

“Aye, well, then he dropped the ring.”

Bridget blinked. “He what?”

Catriona burst into laughter, shaking her head. “Right into the river, mind you! The poor man nearly threw himself in after it. He was sputtering, cursing himself for a fool, soaking wet up to his knees.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “It was the most ridiculous, wonderful thing I’d ever seen.”

Bridget laughed, unable to help herself. “Did he find it?”

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