Prologue
June, 1865
Adaire Hall, Scotland
“I’ll be damned if I know why she did it, but the Countess of Burfield left you a bequest.”
Gordon McDonnell turned from the window and stared at the man who’d just spoken.
Richard McBain was the advocate for the Adaire family. For a number of years, he’d also served as the guardian for the underage Earl of Burfield, who’d ascended to his title at the age of five.
Gordon had had a few encounters with McBain in the past. Whenever they happened to meet—or he was called into the study—it was never to his advantage.
At first he thought that McBain had somehow discovered his relationship with Jennifer Adaire.
Jennifer was Lady Jennifer, the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Burfield. Gordon was only the gardener’s boy, a title he’d been called ever since he was little. He’d grown to heartily despise it.
He had plans for his life, plans that didn’t include becoming a gardener like his father. Gordon didn’t care if anything bloomed or grew under his care. He preferred the wildness of the terrain surrounding Adaire Hall to the cultivated plants in the various gardens.
His mind registered what McBain said, but it still didn’t make any sense. “What do you mean, the countess left me a bequest?”
“Evidently, the woman saw something in you I don’t understand.”
McBain had always talked to him in that same tone. He’d learned to ignore it.
“I didn’t expect that,” Gordon said.
Perhaps he should have. The countess had always been kind to him, and he’d always liked her. Their unusual relationship had begun when he was only seven.
One day, he’d seen her nurse wheel her out to the terrace so that she could enjoy the sunshine in the garden. He had dared his father’s anger and had plucked some flowers for her, then walked up the three steps and thrust them at her.
“It’s a bunch of posies, ma’am, to make you smile.”
“You’ll address her correctly, boy,” the nurse had said. “It’s Your Ladyship to you.”
Gordon hadn’t corrected himself, merely continued to stare at the countess.
The countess’s vision had been badly damaged in a fire. She saw shapes and some colors, but little more. That day she’d reached out and felt his face, placing her palms against his cheeks.
“What is your name?”
“Gordon, ma’am. Gordon McDonnell. Your Ladyship.”
“Sean McDonnell’s lad.”
“Aye, the same.”
“And you picked your father’s flowers to give to me.”
“I think they’re your flowers, ma’am. Your Ladyship. I merely borrowed them for a time.”
The countess had taken the flowers and brought them to her face, telling him that they smelled of spring.
From that moment on, whenever the countess came to the garden Gordon went to see her. Their relationship was less that of the gardener’s boy and countess than it was friendship, of a sort. He told her of his dreams. She shared some of her thoughts with him. In addition, she taught him a number of things that he’d never have learned otherwise, like how to handle his anger and how to speak properly.
He turned back to the window, unwilling to let McBain see his expression.
Her death hadn’t been any easier than her life. After she’d died, he’d heard more than one person say that it was a blessing she’d finally been released. His first reaction to that comment had been anger. The world was less interesting because she was no longer in it. It was certainly less friendly.
“I tried to talk her out of it,” the advocate said. “I don’t know what you’re going to do with the money, but I doubt you’ll put it to good use.”
Then McBain mentioned an amount that had Gordon turning and staring at him incredulously.
“How much?”
McBain repeated the amount.
“And it’s all mine?”
“It’s all yours.”
He’d just been given a fortune.
“It’s the perfect time, I think,” McBain said, “to tell you that you’re no longer welcome at Adaire Hall.” The advocate smiled, an expression that reminded Gordon of a cat that had just devoured a plump mouse.
“It’s been brought to my attention, McDonnell, that you have ideas above your station. I’ve been asked to explain to you that any further advances to Lady Jennifer are unwelcome. Therefore, the easiest thing for everyone would be for you to leave Adaire Hall immediately.”
He stared at McBain.
“It’s no secret that you’ve been causing Lady Jennifer trouble. You’ve been too persistent in your attentions.”
“I don’t understand.” Jennifer wouldn’t have made that comment.
“It’s simple enough,” the advocate said, standing. “That relationship is over.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Spare the young woman some embarrassment, McDonnell. Pretend, in this instance, that you have the manners of a gentleman. She’s just left for Edinburgh and expressly asked me to convey to you that she would like you gone before she returns. She’s not the only one who’s anxious for your departure. The Earl of Burfield feels the same way.”
The Earl of Burfield. That was a laugh. Jennifer’s brother had always been an idiot. In the past few years he’d coupled his idiocy with being an ass.
“I might add that your father agrees.”
Was he supposed to be surprised at that news? He and Sean had clashed ever since he was a child.
“Maybe my father and Harrison want me gone,” Gordon said, “but not Jennifer.”
Just last night they’d met at the loch, spent hours talking, and ended the night by kissing. She couldn’t have changed her mind in a matter of hours. Not Jennifer.
“She’s not going to return from Edinburgh until you’re gone. Your father has packed your belongings, McDonnell. The sooner you’ve left, the better for everyone. You’ve been a disruptive influence around here for too long. Unfortunately, the countess didn’t agree with my assessment of you.”
Evidently, he had one more reason to be grateful to the countess.
“Neither of your parents have expressed a wish to see you before you leave. Nor has the earl. There’s a carriage at the front door. It will take you to Inverness.”
“I’m not leaving until I talk to Jennifer.”
McBain approached him slowly. “Understand this, McDonnell, Lady Jennifer doesn’t want anything to do with you now or in the future.”
Gordon faced the older man down. He was nearly a foot taller and bigger than the advocate. He wasn’t intimidated.
When he didn’t speak, McBain continued. “She regrets meeting you at the loch, McDonnell, and allowing you to kiss her. Is that plain enough for you? Face it, man. You were an amusement and now you’re not.”
McBain’s tone had softened, and there was something that sounded like pity in his voice.
Had he been wrong? Was it possible that Jennifer felt that way? No, McBain was an idiot to think he’d believe that of Jennifer.
The advocate returned to his desk, reached into the drawer, and pulled out a stack of notes. Gordon immediately knew what they were. He and Jennifer left notes for each other all over Adaire Hall. In the coop, in the forks of a tree they’d learned to climb just beyond the house, in a loose brick in the fireplace in a room adjacent to the schoolroom—anywhere they could find that would be private. If Gordon couldn’t meet Jennifer after his work was done, or if she couldn’t join him because of her obligations, they always communicated with each other.