Page 30 of My Highland Rogue
He was not up to the task even now.
Harrison hadn’t taken much from either of his parents. He was a dilettante, on his way to becoming a sot, a gambler, an adulterer, and a wastrel, for all that he was the sixth Earl of Burfield. She didn’t respect him one jot. Nor did she like him, but he was still Mary’s son, and for that reason she would ensure that he did his duty. At least she would get him home so that he would be there when his child was born.
Chapter Twelve
A little before noon, Jennifer headed for the cottage.
She wished the day didn’t hint at sorrow. Or winter. Too many wintry days were like this one, gray and dull without a hint of the sun. She wanted the world to explode into color, the yellows, reds, and oranges of a typical Highland dawn. She wanted to see a blue sky, clear of clouds or hints of rain. Most of all she wanted to hear the birds, now strangely silent as if they waited for something precipitous to happen.
When she got to Sean’s home, she could see Gordon through the window, talking to a smiling Sally. Her heart eased a little. Sally wouldn’t be smiling if Sean was worse or had spent a bad night.
Her palms were damp even though the morning was cold. She tucked her hands underneath her arms for a moment, grateful that she’d worn her cloak.
When the cottage door opened, she stepped forward, chastising herself for her shyness. As a girl she’d been braver. She’d pushed her boundaries just as Gordon had shoved against his. They’d been rebels together, but never with eachother. They’d constructed a bubble around the two of them, a protective shield that no one could penetrate.
She’d missed him those five years, so desperately that the ache of it lingered even now.
He looked up, his attention no longer on the path.
“Jennifer?”
She smiled. “Gordon.”
“Did you come in search of me?”
“I did.”
He was wearing a white shirt and dark trousers beneath his coat. Plain clothing, but he’d never looked as handsome.
She didn’t move as he came even closer. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his shirt. She couldn’t help smiling at him. The world was suddenly a beautiful place. Who cared about the weather?
She wanted to throw herself into his arms and hug him as she had so many times. Once he would have embraced her, then they would have kissed. After this morning, however, she knew that once she started kissing him, she wouldn’t want to stop.
He didn’t move. Nor did she. Finally, she stepped back, sending him a tremulous smile.
“Are you ready for lunch?”
“I am,” he said. “Let me get my coat.” A moment later he held out his arm for her and she took it. Together, they headed back to the Hall.
Jennifer pulled him into the kitchen to introduce him to the new cook. Then she gave her theingredients for a treat they’d devised as children, a cross between tablet and shortbread.
“Could you make that for us, Doris?”
“Aye, I could, Miss Jennifer. Is it something you’ll be wanting for today?”
“Most definitely for today,” Jennifer said. “Isn’t it the most marvelous, glorious day, Doris?”
The cook smiled at them. It seemed to him that everyone was smiling in their direction. He took it as a sign that Fate itself recognized that a terrible wrong had been righted.
They ate their lunch together, the meal punctuated by laughter.
Jennifer sat next to him, her chin propped on her hand, her breakfast forgotten as he told her about his rise in London. She hadn’t looked away since he began his story.
“I didn’t want to waste your mother’s bequest,” he said. “It had to count for something, so I considered it my principal. I always repaid it so that it didn’t get smaller.”
She reached over and grabbed his hand as if she wanted to ease his circumstances all these years later.
He told her his plans for the future on land he’d already purchased. His newest music hall, currently being designed by an architect, would rival the Alhambra. He employed over three hundred people. The responsibility to ensure their salaries continued uninterrupted was a constant pressure, yet he seemed to thrive on it.
