“Yes. But what I didn’t tell you was that it was because he’d met an Englishwoman and fallen in love.” She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Garrick’s throat tightened at how small she looked, drawn up into a ball like that. “She was already married to a very jealous man. It made no difference that her husband didn’t love her, that he spent his nights with light skirts, or that he’d only married her for her money. She belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let some Scot have her. Samuel didn’t even know who the man was until it was too late. Until he’d lost twenty thousand pounds to him at cards and had his marker called.”
Twenty thousand pounds . . . Good God. Garrick wasn’t certain that his entire earldom was worth that much.
“When Samuel couldn’t pay it, the man had him tossed into debtor’s prison. My family paid the debt and got Samuel out of prison, but we stripped our fortune to save him, down to the last ha’penny. He’d put our family on the verge of bankruptcy, and he hadn’t even saved the woman he loved.” She pulled idly at the fringe on the end of the throw. “You see, when her husband discovered that Samuel was out of prison and that his wife planned to leave him, he was so enraged that he beat her to within an inch of her life.”
She fell silent, watching her fingers as they played with the fringe.
“And Samuel blamed himself,” Garrick said quietly. That would have been exactly what he’d have done if anyone had harmed the woman he loved.
“No,” she breathed, her hand stilling. “Samuel murdered her husband.”
She raised her gaze to meet his. The raw grief on her face took his breath away.
“I found out the night we were supposed to elope,” she whispered. “That’s why I couldn’t go with you. And why I couldn’t tell you the truth. If word had gotten out, when Samuel’s life still hung in the balance—I was too afraid I’d make everything worse for him.”
Garrick stared at her, frozen numb except for the fierce pounding of his heart. Dear God, the hell she must have gone through . . . and he hadn’t had a clue. For ten years, he’d blamed her for not loving him enough to choose him over her family, when she’d been faced with this. Christ, how wrong he’d been!
He yearned to pull her into his arms and hold her close, until her anguish and heartache vanished. But if he reached for her then, he knew she’d only push him away.
“We called in every favor we could,” she explained. She spoke so softly that he could barely hear her, but every whisper cut into his heart at the pain she’d suffered. Was still suffering. “In the end, he was sent to an asylum instead of the gallows. He was there nearly six months when he . . .” When the words came, her sorrow chilled his blood. “He killed himself.”
“Dear God, Arabel,” he rasped out hoarsely. He hated her family for what he’d done to him, but he never would have wished this upon them.
She sucked in a deep breath to gather her composure, but the stilted inhalation only proved how upset she was. “So you can see why the Campbells no longer wanted to marry into the Rowland clan. Too much scandal and gossip, even for us Scots.” A grim smile tugged bleakly at her mouth for only a moment before fading.
He could no longer fight back the urge to touch her and placed his hand reassuringly over hers. “I’m so sorry, Arabel.”
She stiffened, then relaxed as her fingers entwined with his.
“Our misfortune wasn’t over even then, though,” she went on. “In his grief over Samuel and worry over money, Papa fell ill. He was dead by the following spring.” Her hand trembled in his. “David became head of the family. But our fortune had been too diminished by then, the properties all mortgaged to pay Samuel’s debt. A drought cost us the next harvest, and with no way to pay the bank . . .”
“The properties went into foreclosure,” he finished quietly.
She nodded, and her fingers tightened their hold on his. “We had no choice but to move to Edinburgh, to live with my mother’s sister. Mama never truly recovered from losing both her son and her husband, and Aunt Ethel had been housebound for years before. So I took care of them. I’ve been caring for them ever since.”
Garrick squeezed her hand to reassure her, although inside he was outraged that a vivacious young woman like Arabel had been ripped from her home and forced to be a nurse maid. All because of decisions she’d had no part in making. “Surely your brother David helped you.”
She shook her head. “There were no prospects of any kind for David in Edinburgh, or anywhere in Scotland for that matter. So he did the same as you and took a commission in the army. But he was sent to America. When the war ended, he stayed. A wise decision, too, as he had more opportunity there to earn his fortune.”
Anger pulsed through him. Coward. Leaving two old women and his unmarried sister to fend for themselves. But even now, Arabel chose to defend her brother. Was there no end to her loyalty to her family, even when they didn’t deserve it?
“And now you’re engaged to the banker,” he commented, doing his best to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Did your family arrange it?”
She paused, and in that hesitation, he had his answer. But she dissembled, “I want to marry Ewan.”
That was a damned lie if ever he’d heard one. But it proved exactly how much her family still controlled her life. Rather, how much she let them control it. Even now.
Slowly, she pulled her hand away from his, and he let her go.
“I wish we could live here after we marry,” she commented wistfully. “But Ewan isn’t a highlander, and he doesn’t realize how important this place is to me. When he looks at Highburn, all he sees is rock-strewn land good for nothing but a handful of sheep, tenants so poor they can barely pay their rent, a house that’s falling down . . .” A smile tugged at her lips. “He thinks heather is a weed.”
Garrick frowned. “You don’t see all that?”
“I do,” she answered honestly. “But I also see so much more . . . I see the history of this place and of the entire Rowland clan. I see claymores once used to fight for Scottish freedom that were confiscated by the English, now returned to us not as weapons but as reminders of our history. I see tartan, once forbidden but now proudly displayed, representing all that our clan symbolizes, its struggles and successes. And I see its legacy, the greatness we once had and all that we can become again.” Her gaze drifted around the room. Although her eyes could see nothing in the dark shadows beyond the firelight, he knew her mind’s eye saw so much more. “Castle Highburn is clan Rowland.”
Her chin lifted with a touch of pride, her eyes shining. He realized at that moment why her family meant so much to her.
Not simply being connected by blood. Oh, so much more than that! It was her sense of worth among the enormity of the highlands, where a person could feel inconsequential in comparison to the mountains and fields of heather so vast that they stretched to the horizon, where above extended a sky so depthless that on clear days a person’s head swam just by gazing into it. A place filled with a history that stretched back before the Romans and made one believe that his life lasted no longer than a blink of an eye—that time would march on without him unless he grabbed on to his ancestry and held tight.
The highlands and clan Rowland had created and shaped her. They were her identity. Without them, she would feel that she was . . . nothing.
His heart skipped when he realized what their plans to elope must have seemed like to her. Not only the start of a future together, but a complete break with her past.
“Now I hold the future in my hands,” she whispered.
More than you realize. His heart somersaulted with a dull ache born of a decade’s separation from the woman it loved.
As if able to hear his thoughts, she gave him such a smile that it pulsed all the way through him. With her sitting so close that he could smell the scent of heather on her skin, her body warmed by the fire and in dishabille beneath the tartan throw, he longed for her. And for far more than physical pleasure, al
though at that moment he desperately wanted to lay her down and make love to her right there in the firelight. He wanted back the ten years her family had stolen from them, every smile he’d missed, every lilting laugh on the highland breezes, every soft word of love . . .
He wanted Arabel. The Rowlands be damned.
“If I convince you to give me your half of Highburn,” she finished, completely unaware of the thoughts and emotions churning inside him.
He studied her closely. “What would you do with Highburn if it were all yours?”
She smiled with saccharine sweetness. “You mean, after I kick you off the property?”
“That’s a given.” He lifted a brow, then pressed, “What then?”
“I’d return it to its glory, to its rightful place as seat of clan Rowland.”
“I don’t think you can.” He shook his head. “The repairs will be too expensive, the profits from the land too small to afford them.”
“I didn’t mean the house. I meant our legacy.” She paused, barely a heartbeat, but he heard it. And he felt its impact like a bullet to his gut when she added, “Mama has already written to David to ask him to return to Scotland, to bring his American family to Highburn.”
He stiffened, sensing the unease inside her. “How to you feel about that, Arabel? About David living here as laird on your property?”
For a moment, she didn’t move. Then her slender shoulders slumped as she admitted, “I think she should have waited until everything was settled here first.”
“Then write to him yourself and tell him so,” he urged, deeply wishing for her sake that she’d stand up to them. “And your mother.”
She shook her head, and he realized exactly how much influence her family still possessed over her. Enough to let them attempt to take Highburn from her. “She isn’t wrong, though. Aunt Matilda, Mama and Aunt Ethel, David and his family—they can all live right here, and Ewan and I can visit.” A world of determination sounded in her soft voice. “And we’ll be true Rowlands again.”
He stared at her in the flickering firelight, attempting to take in all of her. He’d been given a gift tonight, a chance to glimpse her heart and understand why Highburn was so important to her, why she wanted her family returned to its glory. He understood, and he admired her for it.
But he would never let that happen.
She turned to gaze curiously at him, a new thought striking her. “What did Auntie mean earlier, when she said that you’d left out the beginning of your story?”
His heart slammed painfully against his breastbone. This was his moment to tell her everything. To reveal her family’s actions that night and finally exonerate himself in her eyes. She would learn the truth, that he hadn’t left of his own will. That he’d loved her—in truth, still loved her. Always would.
And by doing so, to further damn her family in her eyes.
His gut knotted. What could be gained by telling her about events now best left to the past, except to cause her more pain?
“Nothing important,” he lied quietly, offering nothing more, not even when she frowned in disbelief.
With that, the evening was over. He stood and held out his hand to help her to her feet.
She rose gracefully, and the tartan throw slipped away to the floor. Once on her feet, she didn’t release his hand. Instead, her fingers warmly held his as she looked into his eyes, searching his face for answers.
She whispered, “Do you remember those days we spent together, before you left?”
In his answering silence, she swallowed softly, nervously, and his eyes dropped to her throat, riveted by the soft movement. He longed to place his mouth right there and feel her pulse against his lips, to prove that she was truly with him and not merely some ghost of his fevered imagination.
She inhaled a deep breath and asked tentatively, “Do you ever think about those afternoons we spent making love in the heather?”
His heart stopped as every muscle in his body went taut. He could barely breathe through the constriction of his chest and the knotting in his throat. Yet her emerald green eyes watched and waited for an answer . . .
“No,” he lied gently, not yet ready to reveal the truth to her.
Something flickered deep in her eyes. Her lips parted, and he waited for her to challenge him, to argue—
Instead, she slowly slipped her hand from his. “Good night, then.”
She left, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.
Once he was certain she was gone, he reached into the small front pocket of his trousers and withdrew the old watch case. He carefully opened it. The timepiece’s workings had been discarded long ago, and in their place . . . the sprig of heather she’d pressed for him all those years ago, still tied with the now faded green ribbon.
Do you ever think about those afternoons we spent making love in the heather?
“Every day,” he whispered.
Day Fourteen
Two weeks until Arabel’s wedding
“Where is he?” Arabel demanded of Jamieson as she charged through the house, not finding Garrick anywhere. The nerve of that man! “Where is Lord Townsend?”
“East wing, miss, top floor,” the butler answered quickly, flattening himself against the wall to let her pass. Wisely so, given the fit she was in. Oh, when she found Garrick, what a piece of her mind she’d give him!
She hurried up the stairs to the second story landing and found the door barring the east wing unlocked. She pushed it open and slipped inside, welcomed by the loud noise of hammers and falling timbers.
With a stunned gasp, she halted in her steps and stared.
The roof was missing. Only the tall trestles of the attic remained, poking up into the sky like the ruins of the old castle on the hill. Blue sky soared where the ceiling had once been, and Arabel’s mouth fell open as she watched two swallows dart past overhead.
What on earth . . . ?
Blinking away her shock, she hurried toward the sound of construction. She reached the nursery and stopped in the doorway to gaze into the room. Rather, into what had once been a room. Now, it was only joists, with the walls knocked down and large pieces of ancient timber marking where the edge of the house had been. Half a dozen men worked at loosening the remaining timbers of the bare frame.
Then she saw Garrick.
He worked with two other men at wrestling a large beam into place. In rough tan breeches and a white work shirt beneath a plain brown waistcoat, his neck scandalously bare, he planted his worn brown boots against the floorboards, bent down, and wedged himself beneath the beam, his shoulder pressed against it. With a groan, he rose up, and his strong thighs shook with exertion as the men levered up the beam, his muscles outlined by the tight breeches. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and revealed sinewy forearms tensed with effort. Arabel stared at his broad shoulders as the muscles rippled across his back, all of her mesmerized at the sight of his hard body straining and flexing.
The beam slid into place. The men released it, slowly relaxing as they moved away from it, then slapping each other on their backs at a job well done. Garrick said something that made the workmen laugh, and he grinned, a wide and bright smile that spun through her, curling her toes inside her shoes.
He looked up and caught her staring.
For a stuttering heartbeat, they froze, staring back at each other. The heat in his gaze sparked a flame low inside her, one which burst into a wildfire when he slowly turned fully toward her to let her look her fill of him. Shamelessly, she did just that. Her eyes trailed over him, taking him in, all sweaty dirty from working and his hair shining in the afternoon sunlight. She slowly lifted her gaze to meet his, and he brazenly returned her stare, his green eyes dark and electric. Even though a knowing grin crooked arrogantly at his lips, she couldn’t make herself look away.
“Welcome, Miss Rowland!”
She startled as one of the men called out to her, breaking Garrick’s spell.
“A pleasan
t surprise t’ have ye up ’ere wi’ us, miss,” another man said with a polite tug at the brim of his cap.
“Aye,” Garrick agreed. As he sauntered forward to greet her, he teasingly tossed over his shoulder to the men, “Ye ken the lass is here t’ supervise?” His brogue came strong and clear, and he winked at her. “To make certain we men’re doin’ it right?”
“I don’t think you are,” she challenged as he stopped in front of her, then removed his work gloves and slapped them against his thigh to knock off the sawdust. “I remember a roof.”
He glanced up and blinked, as if surprised to find open sky overhead. “Odd. It was there just a moment ago.” His eyes gleamed mischievously, and he fought back another grin threatening to blossom at his sensuous lips. “I don’t suppose you’d like an indoor garden in the nursery.”
She blew out a long breath, having reached the end of her patience. “Lord Townsend—”
“We’re tearing down the wing,” he explained, slipping easily back into that imperial tone of the English earl he’d become. He waved a hand at the mess around them. “It wasn’t safe. The roof was already half-caved in. Something had to be done.”
“But tearing it down . . . Isn’t that a bit drastic?” She couldn’t bear to think of the manor house being destroyed. She wanted it to remain as she remembered from her childhood, every last stone and timber.
“It would have been more difficult to repair what was here than to rebuild. And dangerous.” He pulled a roll of paper out from his waistband at his back, unrolled it, and held it up for her to see. “I found the house blueprints in the library. With these, we can rebuild a new wing exactly as it was originally planned.”
She couldn’t argue with that. The east wing was dangerous and needed to be repaired, but this . . . And an earl leading the work crew, no less. “With only six of you working on it, it’ll take weeks to tear down.”
Far past the time they had left in the will’s clause. Her heart thudded. Did he plan on remaining longer, or would he only make a mess of things here and then leave her to clean it up? Or was this a transformation of his revenge, since he wasn’t able to drive her away any other way?
A Match Made in Heather Page 8