Barrington’s voice hardened. “Grenville would never involve himself in his father’s dealings. He’s spent years distancing himself from that legacy.”
Townsend hesitated before speaking again. “That may be true, but the Order isn’t interested in his innocence. They’ve sent a message requesting a meeting at the clearing by the river, and not with Grenville, but with me.”
Barrington’s sharp intake of breath was audible even through the door. “Do you think it’s wise to go? They’re not asking for you by chance.”
Townsend’s tone grew resolute. “It doesn’t matter. If this is the only way to get closer to what they’re planning, I’ll take the risk. As soon as I have my things together, I’ll leave.”
Barrington’s reply was clipped. “Then we’ll be ready for what comes next. But Townsend… be careful.”
Bridget was shaken by the truth she’d just learned. The name alone had knocked the air from her lungs. But it was the truth beneath it, the unbearable collision of past and present, that left her unmoored.
Bridget’s grip tightened on the letters, her knuckles whitening. Her vision blurred for a moment, the corridor tilting at the edges. It was as if she had been thrust back into the past, standing among the ruins of her home, smoke thick in the air, her father’s grim silence cutting deeper than any words.
Grenville’s father. The man whose orders had turned her world to ash. The architect of the Clearances. Of her clan’s ruin. And now his legacy stood in the room beside her.
Her knees threatened to buckle, but she forced herself upright, retreating a step before the men inside could notice her presence. Her mind raced, conflicting emotions warring within her: betrayal, anger, and a confusing pang of sorrow.
She stumbled back a step, her fingers numbing around the forgotten letters. She had to leave before her presence was noticed and before her legs gave out beneath her. But moving felt impossible, as if the years-old grief had suddenly turned to iron around her chest.
The moment Barrington’s and Townsend’s voices faded behind her, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly through the house, the words she had just overheard burning through her like fire. Each step fueled the storm rising inside her. She didn’t need time to think, to process, she needed answers.
She found him in the sitting room, standing near the hearth, flipping absently through a book as if this were just another day. As if nothing had changed.
“Bridget,” he said softly, rising from his chair.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her eyes were blazing.
“Tell you what?” The words left him more cautiously than he intended. His shoulders squared, but his stance remained rooted, as if bracing for a blow he knew was coming.
“How long were you going to let me stand beside you and not know?” Thomas froze, his chest tightening. The accusation in her voice was a blade’s edge poised to cut deep. He took a careful step forward.
“Huntington,” she said, at last. The name left her lips like a curse. “Viscount Everard Huntington.”
Realization flickered in his eyes, and with it, something close to anguish. “Bridget—”
“Do you have any idea what that name means to me? To my people?” She cut in, her voice as sharp as glass, honed by years of unspoken grief. “You bear his name. The same name that sent Catriona’s family fleeing for their lives. That left my people scattered and broken. And you—” She inhaled quickly steadying herself against the wave of emotion rising in her chest. “You said nothing,” her voice breaking.
His jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his gaze steady, unyielding.
Bridget stepped forward, fury burning beneath her skin. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, but it was nothing compared to the tightness in her chest. “You’ve stood beside me, knowing what your father did. Knowing exactly what his name would mean to me. And still, you held your tongue.”
Her breath came in shallow bursts, anger and something dangerously close to betrayal twisting inside her like a vice. “What was your plan, Thomas? To let me care for you, to let me trust you, while you kept this hidden?”
He exhaled slowly, his voice steady but something raw slipped through. “It’s not what you think.”
“Don’t,” she snapped, holding up a hand. “There is nothing you can say. Nothing that will erase what your father has done. Nothing that will make me forget the lives destroyed under his orders.”
Bridget searched his face, willing him to fight back, to defend himself, to give her something, anything, that could make this betrayal sting less. But he simply stood there, the pain in his eyes a mirror of her own.
“Say something,” she demanded, her voice breaking against all she was trying to hold back. “I dare you to defend yourself.”
His mouth parted as if he had words, explanations, defenses, but none came. Instead, his fingers curled at his sides, knuckles white.
The quiet was worse than any denial, worse than any excuse. His silence confirmed everything he had known, and he had chosen to keep it from her.
Bridget turned away, her hands shaking as she pressed them against the window frame. A memory surged. Smoke rose over the glen, a child’s cry cut short, her father’s shoulders still with defeat. The past suddenly felt too near, too real, and the grief she’d fought so long to master roared back with sharp, aching teeth. “There is nothing you can say,” she whispered, her voice hollow now, empty of all the fire it had burned with moments before.
A long beat passed before she heard him shift behind her.
