Secret Garden

“Oh, you did, did you?” Rhiannon had refrained from calling him because she’d been feeling protective of her brother, not wanting to disturb him during his newlywed year. But now she was a wee bit peeved by his lack of faith in her.

She folded her arms. “I’m doing fine, Malcolm. I’m taking care of the manor and its inhabitants quite well.” The dog’s rubber ball rested against the leg of a chair. Rhiannon rolled it toward him with her toe. “Did you know that Molly was injured? I spoke with the vet and arranged for her care. Soon she’ll be home and all will be well.”

Smiling slightly, Malcolm bent over and picked up the slobbery dog’s ball, covered with pet hair and tooth marks, evidence of Molly’s love for her castle life. “Sorry, Rhi, I’m not trying to upset you. But I was thinking of the gathering next week.” He looked meaningfully at her.

Oh, the gathering. Malcolm was talking about the Highland Games that were held each year in the nearby village. Rhiannon had forgotten.

Their castle had long been the place where the pipe bands assembled to begin the parade that wound through the village and on to the competition grounds. As lady of the castle, Rhiannon’s mum always played hostess.

“Kristy wants to attend the Highland Games this year,” Malcolm said. “She’s willing to be the castle hostess.”

Kristy! So Rhiannon was to be passed over?

Rhiannon felt a burning in her eyes. Surprisingly, it bothered her—cut her to the quick that she would be overlooked for her mum’s job. Still, it made sense. Malcolm’s wife wasn’t agoraphobic as Rhiannon was. Kristin wouldn’t be challenged by standing in the castle’s front drive, greeting the pipers who marched in the bands and the villagers who came to walk alongside them.

“Rhi, I have to make a call,” Malcolm said absently, glancing at a text message on his phone. “Would you like me to walk Colin out?”

“No,” she said, her voice so soft it was barely audible, even to her. “I’ll do it.”

Malcolm snapped up his head. “But he might ask you questions.”

Meaning questions she wouldn’t want to answer.

Her heart drummed. “Yes. I suppose he might.”

“He doesn’t know how to treat you,” Malcolm protested.

“I know.” And that was her biggest fear. Her life was so controlled and there were rules about who she chose to speak to and who she didn’t. Colin had shown himself to be someone who didn’t follow protocol. He was unpredictable and that could be dangerous.

She would have no control with him, which wasn’t good for her peace of mind. And yet... “I wonder what would have happened between us if I’d never been kidnapped,” she mused aloud.

Malcolm made a strangled noise.

“I’m sorry,” she said. She and her brother rarely spoke of the kidnapping; it was their unspoken pact. Malcolm had never forgiven himself for what he thought he’d let happen to her when she was eight years old. “It’s not your fault,” she reassured him. “It never was. You were ten years old. You were traumatized yourself.”

“I wasn’t left alone with those monsters for all that time,” Malcolm bit out. “You were.”

She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly to banish the memory. “Never mind,” she said quietly. “It’s finished. But I have to talk with Colin because I have to say something about his dad. He’s obviously quite broken up.”

She didn’t have a choice about facing him. Once, he’d been her friend. And even if he hadn’t been, wouldn’t her mother have done so, too, if she were here?

That was what the lady of the manor did.

Her hands shaking, she took a deep breath and headed for the stairs, descending with as much grace as she could muster.

When he saw her, Colin rose to his feet. Her cat jumped from his lap and crouched beneath the table, staring warily at Rhiannon. But he’d had his reward—an empty, licked-clean saucer on the floor told the tale of Colin’s generosity to his namesake.

Rhiannon would have laughed if not for Colin’s presence. He stood with a looming charisma that she couldn’t ignore; he had a tall, rangy body, with a rugged masculinity about him that destroyed her composure.

“Rhiannon,” he murmured, in a deep, husky voice.

Nobody spoke her name that way. A long, lazy breath of longing, of desire.

She didn’t know how she dared to keep her gaze on him. She wished she could have studied him from behind a one-way mirror. That way she could look at him to her heart’s content, without worrying about being touched or seen.

He smiled at her, seemingly entranced. His lips moved. So...erotic...and so dangerous, and yet she couldn’t turn away. She’d forgotten that she was wearing her painting smock. Well-worn denim, old and comfortable—it was essentially a halter top that she didn’t need to wear a bra with. It was a weird quirk of hers—she had so many weird quirks, it seemed—but Rhiannon hated wearing a bra when she painted; she preferred to be comfortable. Usually, no one saw her, so she wasn’t concerned about the fact that she showed...well, cleavage. Possibly the outlines of everything she had.