Five years had passed since he’d seen Jennifer and, although Gordon had expected her to change, he hadn’t anticipated that she would grow more beautiful. Even her voice was different, soft and musical. When she’d spoken his name, it had been a honed weapon, sliding into his heart.
She was . . . His thoughts ended in an odd blankness. He didn’t know what the word was to adequately describe her now. It seemed to him that it was lush, although that didn’t quite fit, either. Her lashes were thicker. Her lips were fuller. The color on her cheeks was not quite pink but closer to coral. Her figure was different, too. There the word lush fit perfectly. Her waist looked as small, but her breasts were larger.
The desire to take her into his arms and greet her properly had been so strong that he’d found it easier to avoid looking at her.
He’d wanted to touch her, to feel the shape of her back again as well as the slender beauty of her arms. Most of all he’d wanted to kiss her, even if everyone stared. Let them stare. After an hour or so he’d have enough of kissing Jennifer, but only for a while.
He’d thought she would greet him, but she hadn’t. After saying his name, she’d not addressed him at all. He’d never thought Jennifer cold, but she hadn’t said a word to him. Nothing to indicate that he was welcome.
Evidently, McBain had been right all this time.
He followed the path around the east wing, his gaze on the panorama of branches overhead. Autumn had already come to this part of the Highlands and stripped the trees of their leaves. It was a sign of Sean’s illness that they hadn’t been gathered up lest they mar the perfection of the grounds of Adaire Hall.
To his left was a large bed of Whin, or Conasg, in Gaelic. He’d learned all the Gaelic names of Sean’s plants for the countess, a bit of bragging he was pleased to do for her sake. The Whin had been one of the flowers he’d given her that first day. It wasn’t a particularly attractive plant, but when all its flowers bloomed, sometimes even in winter, they produced a golden-yellow, almond-scented array.
The land dropped down, undulating toward the river. Most of the outbuildings were located behind one of the rolling hills in a spot where they weren’t easily seen from the Hall. The gardener’s cottage, along with the ghillie’s residence, was situated at the end of the path he took.
He was nearly at the home of his childhood, the place he despised above all others.
He’d learned a great deal at Adaire Hall, but even more once he was away from it.
He discovered that the wealthier a man was, the less he tipped. The best tippers were those who’d escaped complete poverty and were on their way to some measure of success. Men who had the most to lose were often the least guarded about their actions. Having a title wasn’t a predictor of a man’s character. How a man treated a woman had nothing to do with his rank or status in life. Sometimes, the most vicious man was also the most exalted. Women could be as brave as any man, and just as resourceful.
In the past five years he’d also learned a great deal about himself. For long swaths of time he could forget about his past, but it still came back to haunt him at odd times. He was prosperous, whispered about, and the object of speculation. He enjoyed cultivating an aura of mystery. The more people wondered about him, the more apt they were to come to one of his music halls or club. Yet there was something lacking in his life, something that had to do with this place.
In the time it took to walk the graveled path, time reversed itself. He felt like he was eight years old again, forming his knowledge of the world and of himself one bit of truth at a time.
His relationship with his father had always been tenuous at best. He and Sean had always clashed. Nor had his father ever expressed anything other than disappointment in him. Never once had he said, “Good job, Gordon.” Or, “I’m proud of you, boy.” He’d never heard Sean say anything affectionate to Betty, either.
Sean was only happy when he was working in the earth, when he’d coaxed a bloom in the spring or a line of hedge he recently planted flourished. His happiness was measured by the order he created in the Celtic Knot garden or any number of places at Adaire Hall. The great house was his life. The gardens were the source of all his love.
The moment he’d read Jennifer’s letter, Gordon knew he’d have to return. His reluctance had been instant, borne of a memory of a scrawny child hoping for any crumbs of kindness from the two people in the world who should have cared for him but hadn’t.
The cottage huddled like a mushroom on the landscape. The new thatching made it appear even more top-heavy. Two front windows let in the light on either side of the rounded wooden door and appeared like eyes gleaming in the fading sunlight.
Jennifer had told him once that she thought the cottage looked as if it were enchanted. Like special brownies lived inside. She was only nine at the time, and he ten, but even then he hadn’t wanted to tell her the truth. The cottage had never been a happy place.
Sean hadn’t approved of his friendship with Jennifer. His father always went on and on about how the guardian wouldn’t like it, how the earl would disapprove, never mind that the earl was ten-year-old Harrison, already well on his way to being a prig.
However dislikable Harrison was, Gordon was told to treat him—and any of the members of the Adaire family—with the respect due their rank, understanding that he was the gardener’s boy, nothing more.
He tried to obey, but he never could when it came to Jennifer. Whenever he could escape Sean, he would steal away and Jennifer would meet him, either on the shores of Loch Adaire or one of the paths through the hills. She’d been his partner in adventure, his friend, and then so much more.
Now he knocked softly, but when he didn’t hear anything, he grabbed the latch and pushed open the door.
The cottage was surprisingly spacious, having a main room, a small kitchen, and two rooms in the back. One of those had been his, and the larger one had belonged to his parents.
After closing the door behind him, he stood in the main room looking around. He had the curious sensation of having stepped back in time. Nothing had changed in five years.
No, there was one change. Betty was no longer here.
He walked to the fireplace and picked up a framed charcoal drawing on the mantel. Years ago, an itinerant Irish worker had come to Adaire Hall. He’d worked for Sean, who had labeled the man a drifter. He hadn’t spent his time playing cards or drinking. Instead, the man was given to scribbling in a book of blank pages.
When he left the Hall, he’d given Gordon one of those scribbles, a portrait of Betty. He’d been eleven years old at the time and amazed at the man’s talent. Now, looking at the lifelike portrait, he could almost hear his mother’s voice.
Betty had never been maternal. Everything she’d done for him, from sewing a rip in his shirt to feeding him, had been accompanied by grumbling, condemning looks, and a switch more than once. He’d wanted to ask why she disliked him so much, but the question would have been answered with another beating.
The portrait was uncannily accurate and not the least complimentary, a fact that Betty evidently hadn’t seen. Her cheeks were full, her face round. Her mouth was small, pursed in this portrait just as it had often been in life. Her eyes were brown and narrowed, an expression that was commonplace. As if Betty didn’t see anything pleasing about the world around her.