Page 8 of My Highland Rogue
The oldest part of the house was the largest, with two wings built later, making the Hall look like three sides of a square. The north wing had been destroyed years earlier and never rebuilt. In the middle of the open space was yet another garden, one he knew well. To the rear of the Hall was the river and beyond that Loch Adaire, a spot that had been a haven during his childhood.
Two dozen chimneys spewed clouds of smoke into the pristine Highland air. Hundreds of windows watched him in the afternoon light, seeming to blink in the gold reflected glare.
He’d never had a future here, but when he said that to his father one day, Sean had turned on him angrily.
“What do you think you’re going to do with your life, then, boy?”
“I’m going to be rich,” he’d said.
The sound of Sean’s derisive laughter echoed in his mind.
He was no longer Gordon McDonnell, gardener’s boy. He was McDonnell, wealthy, successful, and, according to the gossips, ruthless. A Highland rogue, someone who was determined to succeed at whatever he chose.
He was back for more than one reason. He’d give his father whatever he needed before hedied, be it absolution or compassion. He understood Sean as he hadn’t five years earlier. Some men did not possess the capacity to love another human being. Sean hadn’t any interest in the gardeners under him, or even his wife or son. Any emotions he had were directed toward the flowers he grew and the vegetables that flourished in his care.
That didn’t make Sean a bad person. Nor did it make him someone to pity. His father was perfectly happy being who he was, and if he had any regrets now, Gordon doubted they centered around people.
He didn’t want to be like Sean, however. Nor had he been for the past five years. He had friends, both male and female. He had men working for him that he cared about. He knew their wives, their sweethearts, and their children. Sean might have chosen plants, but Gordon preferred people.
Turning, he walked back to the carriage, nodding at Peter before opening the door once again.
A few minutes later they descended the hill.
Jennifer glanced at Mrs. Farmer. “Will you be all right without me for a few minutes?”
“Of course we will, won’t we, Your Ladyship?” The frostiness in the midwife’s voice was unmistakable.
In other words, Jennifer shouldn’t have asked. Of course Mrs. Farmer didn’t need her. How dare she assume such a thing?
How was she supposed to endure the woman’s company until the baby was born?
Jennifer made it down the sweeping staircasein record time, remembering when she was a child and the three of them had made a game of trying to slide down the wooden banister. They’d been lucky they hadn’t fallen and injured themselves. Gordon was the bravest one, Harrison next, while she, as the youngest, often won the race.
The years had brought about a great many changes. Gordon had left Adaire Hall. Harrison had discovered vice and occupied himself with all types of debauchery. She was the only one who hadn’t changed, other than growing older.
She got to the front of the house just as Michaels was opening the door. The carriage at the bottom of the wide steps wasn’t one of theirs. She’d expected Harrison, since she’d sent him a scolding letter reminding him of his responsibilities. Instead, the vehicle was a shiny black, obviously new and well equipped. At first she thought her godmother had come to visit, but Ellen hadn’t written to expect her.
A man stepped out of the carriage and time telescoped in on itself. She wasn’t five years older. Instead, she was a young woman flush with love.
She could barely breathe for the memory of it, of him. He was older. His shoulders looked broader, his chest wider. He looked as if he’d grown two inches. He’d always been so much taller than she, but now he dwarfed her.
Gordon.
She was certain that she said something to the majordomo. She must have made some comment, but she had no idea what it was.
He walked up the steps, hesitated only brieflyat the door, then entered, removing his hat. His hair was slightly mussed, reminding her of all those times when she’d run her fingers through it. His coat was a fine wool, equal to anything Harrison wore. His shoes were brightly shined, and his shirt was so blinding white that she almost asked who did his laundry.
How dreadfully inappropriate.
“Gordon.”
He turned and looked at her and time seemed to stop.
Mrs. Thompson was suddenly in the foyer, along with two maids. No, three. Oh dear, it seemed as if the whole of the downstairs was suddenly there, greeting Gordon like the prodigal son. Why shouldn’t they? He had always been kind to every member of the staff, never seeing the hierarchy that naturally developed in large houses where scores of servants were employed. He’d been a favorite five years ago and it seemed that nothing had changed.
She could see the housekeeper smiling out of the corner of her eye. Mrs. Thompson had always had a soft spot for Gordon.
He removed his gloves and the majordomo immediately took them, placing them beside his hat. The man wouldn’t have shown the gardener’s boy such respect five years ago.
