My Highland Rogue Page 3

  He walked up the steps, hesitated only briefly at 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.

  Yet the young man was gone, and in his place someone who was almost intimidating. Suddenly Gordon was a stranger. Had he always had that direct look in his eyes? Or that air of self-possession?

  He’d been handsome as a young man, but there was something new about him. Some quality that made the maids simper and giggle. Even Mrs. Thompson, nearly fifty, had red cheeks as she greeted him.

  Jennifer wanted to banish them all so that she could greet Gordon alone, but of course she didn’t. Instead, she stood back, watching. The foyer was crowded with people now, all of them forgetting their places for the pleasure of welcoming home one of their own.

  He glanced at her and then away, almost as if he didn’t recognize her.

  She hadn’t changed that much in five years. Five very long years.

  He might as well have been a stranger to her, not someone she once knew. Not the man she’d repeatedly kissed on the shore of the loch. She could still recall the press of his lips on hers, how his face felt beneath her fingertips. This man had featured in her dreams for years. As a girl, she’d wanted to love him, to give him her innocence. She’d planned to do exactly that, but he’d disappeared, leaving her alone, confused, and heartbroken.

  Here he was, standing before her, looking prosperous and healthy. Had he married? She wished she could produce a husband. One who was gloriously in love with her, who thought she was the epitome of all things a man wanted in a wife.

  This imaginary husband didn’t exist. There was no one to praise her or smile at her with tenderness. All anyone could say was that she’d been a good chatelaine for Adaire Hall.

  Hardly words to incite any man’s jealousy.

  For five years she’d missed him every day, while Gordon had probably forgotten about her the moment he’d left Adaire Hall.

  Every birthday and Christmas for the past three years she’d written him, telling him of life at Adaire Hall, mentioning people he’d known. In that way she’d felt connected to him, even though he’d never written her back. She should never have written him again. Yet if she hadn’t, he wouldn’t be standing only feet away from her.

  She was not going to remain here and act the part of lovesick idiot. She had her pride and she was going to wrap it around herself like a shawl before she said or did anything that made her look the fool.

  Jennifer looked at Mrs. Thompson. “Is the Blue Suite ready?” she asked, an unnecessary question. All of the guest suites were kept ready in case Harrison arrived with a party of his friends.

  During Lauren’s pregnancy, when the poor woman had felt ill most of the time, Jennifer had assumed the role of mistress of the house. In actuality, she’d been the one to whom the servants had come ever since her mother became ill. Harrison, when he was in residence, was too volatile to be dependable. Nor did any of the staff want to be the subject of his rages.

  The housekeeper nodded. “Yes, Miss Jennifer.”

  If Harrison was here, he would have chastised Mrs. Thompson and the rest of the servants for addressing her so informally. She is Lady Jennifer, he would have said, his booming voice capable of being heard many rooms away. Jennifer preferred the informality. It made her feel as if the staff was an extension of her own dwindling family.

  With the birth of Lauren’s child there would be one more Adaire, however. Even if the child’s father wasn’t here to see it.

  No one said a word to her about putting Gordon McDonnell in one of their most impressive guest suites. He didn’t look like the gardener’s boy who’d left five years ago. Maybe it was his height or the fact that his shoulders were so broad. Or maybe it had nothing to do with his physical appearance, but simply how he stood there, commanding the foyer.

  She hadn’t said one word to him. Nor had he spoken to her.

  The girl she’d been, so desperately in love, still lived deep inside her. That girl wanted to banish everyone, go to him, and kiss him in homecoming. He smiled and something bloomed in her chest. A memory, perhaps, or a wish. She wanted to re-create those nights at the loch when they’d been in each other’s arms.

  Jennifer wanted, desperately, to touch him, to assure herself that he was real. This wasn’t a dream fervently to be wished for five years.

  Gordon was standing only feet from her.

  If they’d been alone, she would have gone to him, put her arms around his waist and her cheek against his chest. In that instant all the troubles in her world would have been lifted from her.

  Yet would he have welcomed her? Even now he didn’t look pleased to see her.

  The smile she determinedly wore was getting more and more difficult to maintain. Tears were just below the surface.

  Had his eyes always been that blue? She could see the imprint of the boy’s face in the man, but the man was so much more arresting.

  She felt as if she were standing in the middle of a storm happening all around her. She was in an enchanted circle, and although she could see the darkness and the lightning racing from cloud to cloud, nothing touched her or could affect her in any way. Here, there was only stillness and a sense of eerie calm.

  “Mrs. Thompson will show you to your room.” There was something wrong with her voice. It sounded thin, as if she were suffering from some malady. A cold, perhaps. That’s what she’d say if questioned.

  The majordomo looked at her sharply, then turned his attention to directing the actions of the footmen.

  “I know where it is, Jennifer,” Gordon said. “Five years have not made me forget Adaire Hall.”

  They’d played in the house on inclement days. As children they’d chased each other—as quietly as possible so as not to disturb her mother. They’d giggled behind their hands and hid in closets. One eventful day Gordon had embraced her, pulled her close and kissed her cheek.

  She’d thought about that kiss for days. The next time they were alone in a dark place, she’d stood on tiptoe, put her hands on Gordon’s shoulders, and her mouth on his.

  His indrawn breath had startled them both, enough that she’d jumped back.

  He might not have forgotten the Hall, but it was obvious that he’d forgotten her.

  “Yes, of course,” she said now, hearing the words leave her mouth. She hadn’t the slightest idea how she’d formed them or how the thought had made it from her mind to her lips.

  She took a step back, away.

  Gordon thanked the people in the foyer, including Mrs. Thompson, nodded to the majordomo, who assured him his valises would be moved to the Blue Suite, then turned and walked back out the front door.

  Jennifer watched as he descended the steps, then turned to his left, heading for the head gardener’s cottage.

  Since Mrs. Thompson had disappeared, Jennifer guessed that the housekeeper was, even now, inspecting the rooms Gordon would occupy.

&nbs
p; Jennifer turned on her heel and left the foyer.

  Gordon hadn’t written to tell her he was coming. She should have expected his arrival, of course, especially after her letter telling him about Sean. Perhaps it would be wise to remember that he’d never written her for five years. Five years of silence from him when a simple word would have eased her broken heart.

  Now he was home again, but it didn’t look as if anything had changed. He still wasn’t speaking to her.

  Chapter Three

  Jennifer headed for her suite. Several years ago she’d moved out of the family wing and into one of the older parts of Adaire Hall. In addition to several modifications to her chamber, she had the estate’s carpenters create a doorway to the room next door, expanding it into a sitting area.

  Harrison hadn’t seemed to mind. He was so rarely home that she wasn’t even sure he knew what she’d done. He was never involved in the upkeep or the day-to-day maintenance of the house, the grounds, the lands, or even the management of the crofters.

  All Adaire Hall was good for was a place to come when he needed to escape some drama in London. She suspected that he had borrowed money against the estate, but she’d never gotten him to admit it. Twice in the last five years they’d had visitors from both Edinburgh and London. The men had all been bankers and they’d inspected the property with the diligence one would expect from an owner. Whenever she’d questioned Harrison about the financial stability of Adaire Hall, he’d responded with anger.

  No one raged quite as well as Harrison.

  Her brother wore a great many facades, depending on the person and the circumstances. Sometimes, she wondered who he was truly. Did he show his real face to anyone?

  Harrison played at being earl, shunning any responsibility in favor of amusements in Edinburgh and London. He spent only a few days each quarter at home, and that only because of their mother. After she died, he hadn’t even pretended to be responsible.

  The fact that his wife was due to give birth shortly to his first child hadn’t made Harrison return, but Gordon’s sudden appearance might accomplish that miracle.

  The two men didn’t get along.

  Even as a child Gordon had been filled with plans. He’d wanted to be more than the gardener’s boy. He’d been tall for his age, with a yearning in his eyes, but he’d always had time for her. He’d been kind, too, always looking out for her when Harrison was cruel.

  Ever since the nursery fire, her mother had been reluctant to see anyone other than her husband, children, and Ellen, her closest friend. After Jennifer’s father’s death, Gordon had been the only other person to penetrate Mary’s isolation. Sean tried to stop Gordon from approaching her, but more often than not Mary Adaire was the one who sought out the gardener’s boy.

  When Gordon appeared in the schoolroom one day and told the tutor that he was to learn along with them, Jennifer knew it was her mother’s idea. While Jennifer had been ecstatic, Harrison had had a tantrum and marched out of the room, only to be forcibly returned by his guardian.

  The three of them had spent years in the schoolroom on the second floor of the east wing, a room not far away from where she lived now.

  It had always been her and Gordon against Harrison in any match of wits. More than once Harrison had instigated a fight, but whenever Gordon fought back, Sean was there to yell at his son. The gardener never forgot that Harrison was the earl.

  Gordon had been her constant companion, her friend, and her confidant until they’d begun to feel more for each other. Then, one day, he was gone. As if he’d never existed.

  Now Gordon was back, but the young man she’d known didn’t seem like the same one who’d entered Adaire Hall a few minutes ago. He didn’t have a ready smile. Nor was there warmth in his beautiful blue eyes.

  Had he changed? Had she been in love with someone who no longer existed?

  Ellen Thornton sent her maid a censorious look, which had no effect on Abigail’s whining.

  Abigail always whined in a genteel fashion. If she wasn’t entirely certain Ellen had heard her, Abigail repeated her complaints.

  She really should fire the woman, but Abigail had been with her for a great many years. In addition, she was certain that her maid had nowhere else to go. She was not about to send the woman out in the snow when her only sin was a dour personality. Ellen could be the same herself from time to time. At least Abigail never complained about her moods.

  Today, however, Abigail was outdoing herself. So far, the day was excessively chilly, the meal had disagreed with her stomach, and she was certain that Fortune would not smile on this errand. Ellen thought that Fortune held more prominence in Abigail’s life than God.

  She didn’t disagree with her maid about this errand. However, there were times in life when one must do what one must do. This was one of those occasions. She was about to trade on her reputation as the widow of a substantially wealthy man in order to bring Mary Adaire’s son to heel.

  Last week she’d received a letter from her goddaughter, and in it Jennifer had explained that Harrison’s wife was due to give birth in a month or so. You would think that such an event would have interested the sixth Earl of Burfield. However, Jennifer was certain that Harrison was still in London, living a hedonistic life as he tried to empty the Adaire coffers with his gambling habit.

  Harrison had never impressed her as having much sense, even as a boy.

  She had a great deal of influence, and she intended to bring all of it to bear against the owners of Harrison’s favorite gaming establishments. So far, she and Abigail had visited three, with the owner of the last one giving her the information that the Mayfair Club seemed to be Harrison’s latest haunt. To that end, she had sent word of her intention of visiting that business. Now the carriage stopped in front of an exceedingly proper-looking building. In fact, if she hadn’t known its purpose, she would have thought that this entire row of buildings was given over to town houses, and quite lovely architecture it was, too.

  Her home was in Edinburgh, but she also had a house in London. In fact, she had houses in seven large cities, thanks to Mr. Thornton, who had gone on to that great salmon fishing river in the sky.

  Colin had been a great deal wealthier than she’d realized when she agreed to marry him. The fact that he was as rich as Croesus hadn’t entered into their union at all. She had liked him, at first. He’d amused her, then charmed her, and once they’d become friends, she’d found herself anticipating his presence.

  “You are insidious,” she’d told him once. “You’re very sneaky. I find myself depending on your counsel and craving time with you. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “It’s a secret,” he responded. “I’m not about to tell you how. Then you might learn that I am but an ordinary man, worshipping at the feet of a goddess.”

  She’d laughed at the time, but that’s exactly how he had treated her in the seven years of their marriage—like a goddess, or an angel. As if she could do no wrong and even when she did make a mistake, he forgave her so quickly and easily that she fell in love even more.

  When he died, she hadn’t thought she’d recover from the loss. It had been Mary who’d made her see the joy of life again, or at least the possibility of it.

  If Mary could make her life have meaning, then surely she could.

  It was for Mary that she was here now, preparing for an encounter with the owner of the Mayfair Club.

  She turned to her maid. “I’d prefer that you remain in the carriage, Abigail. Especially given the delicate state of your digestion.”

  Just as Abigail was about to begin a new litany of complaints, no doubt accompanied by comments about how Fortune would not look kindly on her being left alone, Ellen hurried out of the carriage.

  Her driver, who’d taken on the position of bodyguard—or duenna, as she secretly thought—since Colin died, preceded her up the stairs and insisted on announcing her arrival. Instead of using the brass knocker, he pounded on one of the black panels. Since
Harry was a man of considerable girth, she was very much afraid the door was going to lose in this battle of brawn.

  Fortunately, it was opened a moment later by the porter, a man looking every bit as proper as someone employed in a duke’s household. The previous three establishments had not boasted of a man so tall, thin, and possessed of a shock of white hair like a barrister’s wig.

  “I am Mrs. Colin Thornton,” she said, before Harry could say a word. “I believe I’m expected.”

  The porter bowed from the waist at the same time he sent a frown in Harry’s direction. For the next two minutes the two men scowled at each other.

  She shook her head at both of them. She understood Harry’s possessiveness. He’d worked for Colin for years, and once he’d died, Harry had transferred his loyalty to her. It wasn’t difficult to understand that the porter might have some pride in his own position as well.

  The problem was, their mutual antipathy was preventing her from accomplishing her goal. Namely: finding Harrison Adaire and taking him home.

  “Would you please announce me? I need to speak with your owner,” she said before turning to Harry. “If you’d go and make sure Abigail is all right?”

  There, she’d given each man a task, and after one last fulminating look, they went to do just that.

  Chapter Four

  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.