Her Wicked Highland Spy (The Marriage Maker #10)(25)

My Lady of Danger



The Marriage Maker

Book Eleven

The Marriage Maker Goes Undercover



Summer Hanford





In the world of spies, even love is suspect…



Forced into the role of heir by the sudden death of his older brother, Alasdair Lochgeal is robbed of his one passion, serving the Crown. Equally at home in the catacombs of Paris, the portside alleys of Lisbon or on the dark canals of Venice, his family’s wish for him to marry leaves him bereft in the ballrooms of Inverness. What does a man trained in dealing death know of white-gloved misses?



When Sir Stirling James appears with a final mission, simple though it seems, Alasdair can’t pass up the opportunity, little knowing one white-gloved Scottish miss might end his career for good.





Prologue


Alasdair stood, unmoving, outside the general’s office. He did not pace. He didn’t fidget. His uniform was a study in perfection, his dark hair neatly trimmed. When the door to the general’s office opened, Alasdair’s highly polished boots reflected back the line of sunlight that cut across them.

“He’ll see you now, sir.” The clerk held the door for him.

His expression inscrutable, Alasdair strode inside, passing through that line of light. It slanted in through a gap in a set of brocade drapes, the row of windows the only other exits from the room. The door slammed shut behind him. He didn’t so much as blink, let alone flinch. He came to a halt before the general’s desk and saluted, his gaze straight ahead.

“You asked to see me, sir?” he said in a voice as neutral as his expression. The summons was odd for, though he was nominally quartermaster to the troop, Alasdair didn’t take his orders from the general. Those came via the Raven, directly from the Crown.

“Aye.”

Though he fixed his attention on a point just above the general’s right shoulder, Alasdair noted the way the man shifted, could all but taste his unease in the stale air of the room.

“Sit down, Lochgeal,” the general suggested.

“No, thank you.” Alasdair didn’t believe any danger existed, but preferred to remain unencumbered by a chair in case his instincts proved false.

“Yes, well.” The general cleared his throat. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Your brother is dead. You are now Duke of Ceann na Creige.” The general’s chair grated back. He stood and bowed. “Let me be the first to congratulate you, Lord Alasdair.”

Alasdair stilled inside. His brother dead? With an iron will, he refused any thought, any reaction. “I see. Will that be all, sir?”

“Don’t you wish to know how he died?”

“Was it by treachery?” If so, Alasdair would repay the villain responsible in kind.

“No, ah, a riding accident.”

“I see.” Then there was nothing to do. No blame to dole out. No one to punish.

Still on his feet, the general tugged at his collar. Finally, he dropped his gaze to the desktop. “There’s more,” he muttered. Meaty fingers poked through the missives littering his desk.

Alasdair hid his disgust, for he’d already garnered a week’s worth of troop placement since the start of the interview. The man should be decommissioned, then shot.

“Here it is.” The general fished free a paper. “You’re, ah, relieved of duty.” He extended the page with a trembling hand. “You’re to return to England with all haste.”

Alasdair’s gaze flicked across the document. He knew the Raven’s bold script. She’d signed another name. A man’s. “Is that all?”

“Yes.” The general sounded relieved. “You’re dismissed.”

Alasdair saluted. He turned with sharp precision and marched from the stuffy office. He didn’t slow as he passed the wide-eyed clerk, or the soldiers awaiting the general’s bidding. They saluted him sharply, but made no effort to engage him. His face remained expressionless, yet somehow conveyed the dire outcome awaiting any who might speak to him. He strode through the halls of the general’s commandeered headquarters with purpose.

Yet he had no purpose. None other than to navigate the richly appointed home until he escaped scrutiny. The moment Alasdair felt no eyes on him, he ducked into the nearest room.

A startled squeak issued from a girl crouched before the fireplace. Her maid’s uniform, bucket and broom indicated she was sweeping coals.

“Go,” he ordered.

Leaving her tools, the girl scurried out through a servants’ door. Including the two long windows, that made four exits from the small parlor. Alasdair sank onto a couch along the inside wall. He dropped his head into his hands. For the first time since he’d been a babe, Alasdair Lochgeal, newly proclaimed Duke of Ceann na Creige, wept.





Chapter One


Bridget’s lips pressed closed, effectively cutting off the narration of her lilting voice. She leaned forward, angled Oliver’s letter nearer the candelabra’s flickering candlelight, and reread the sprawling script. The words remained the same. Unease whispered through her.

“Well, lass, what does Oliver say next?” her father demanded from the other side of his large mahogany desk. His eyes, piercing even if they could no longer make out words on a page, narrowed. “Nothing amiss, is there?”