Sarah Gabriel (19 page)

B
ending down, Sophie pushed aside a tangled clump of weeds. The pathway that led to the kitchen door was edged by unkempt rows of old leaves and new weeds entwined with exhausted ivy. She found remnants of the flowers and herbs that had once flourished here—grayish clusters of dry lavender, the sword leaves of iris, a few crisp marigold heads from another year. Stroking the plants, easing aside the mass of ivy, she saw curled rosemary leaves, knots of thyme, mint leaves, other herbs. She crushed a few leaves, finding traces of their delightful scents.

Connor had told her that nothing would grow at Glendoon, but she saw growth everywhere, in the kitchen garden and elsewhere in the yard. However, it was sparse, lacking will and vitality.

Pausing for a moment, she made her decision. Then she bent her head and slid off the little silver necklace that she always wore. Holding the delicate chain in her right hand so its sparkling crystal hung suspended and perfectly balanced, she waved it gently over the patch of garden in front of her, where Mary’s marigold and lavender shoots had already wilted. Winking and sparking in the light, the pendant swung back and forth and then took on a circular path.

Closing her eyes, she put out her left hand and moved it slowly over the tiny, weak plants, over the patch where the crows had pecked at the seeds, over the brownish tangle of old plants and the bare spots where the soil was weakest. Sweeping her hand slowly and letting the delicate fairy stone dangle, twinkling in its circular path, Sophie closed her eyes and let the fairy magic pour through her.

This she knew, this she understood, the use of the Fairy’s Gift to heal and encourage flowers and other plants. Inside, she sometimes felt a power that she could not quite explain, a subtle feeling that swirled through her. Over the years of working with plants and flowers, she had learned to summon it when she wanted.

And she had learned, too, that the pretty little pendant gave her a stronger sense of the power. Growing up, she had thought of the necklace as just a symbol of the fairy ancestry of which her family was so proud, and she was pleased to wear it for that reason. But she began to realize that sometimes it shimmered and sparkled almost unnaturally, and grew warm or cold, as if it held a force within it. One day she discovered, by waving it over a bed of tulips, that
the pendant itself seemed to increase her gift for making things grow.

At the convent, she had used it secretly, almost guiltily, sure that the nuns would never have understood. As she waved her hands over the plants one day with the silver chain draped around her fingers, she looked up to see old Sister Berthe standing nearby, watching her.

“Good,” the genial little nun had said. “You’re praying over the plants. I do that, too. It helps them grow, just like magic.” She had winked before walking past her. “It’s just love, after all. Only love, and all living things need that.”

Only love, after all. Sophie let out her breath, finishing her private ritual, and slipped the fine silver necklace back over her head. Perhaps some love and magic would help the sadly neglected garden patches at Glendoon.

She stood, brushing her hands. But much of Glendoon was in a state of neglect, she told herself. The castle was a temporary thieves’ den, not a home—or so Connor insisted, even though the rooms were filled with his family’s legacy.

Turning, she heard a shout, and looked past the curtain wall to the hills beyond. She could see Connor and another Highlander—Neill or Andrew, she thought—walking toward Glendoon. Tam the spaniel trotted beside them, and the terriers scampered ahead. In the distance, chasing before them in a haphazard way, were several sheep.

She had not seen Connor yet this morning, and she felt a thrill of excitement to see him approaching unexpectedly in the middle of the day. He had not come to her last night, and she awoke yearning for
him, remembering how he had explored her body, rousing her passions to a fever peak—and she had missed him so much then that she ached.

But she tried to tell herself that it was nonsense.

Drawing a quick breath, she turned away to see the old wolfhound, who ambled toward her and sat on his haunches, lifting his head in a series of throaty barks.

“Hey, Colla. Do you sense your master coming home?” she asked. Walking over to the old dog, she patted his head, and he shifted his cool nose under her hand to beg for more.

Another glimpse over the curtain wall revealed that Connor and his companion had reached a hillcrest and were wading through a cluster of sheep. She would have known him anywhere, she realized, even at a distance—that proud posture, that easy swinging carriage, the dark plaid he favored draped over his shoulder. She knew the turn of his head, the familiar sweep of dark brown hair gilded by sunlight, the habit he had of setting a fist to his hip. Stopping, he surveyed the area and then looked toward Glendoon.

Even from where she stood, she felt his gaze, as if he saw her in the bailey yard. A shiver slipped along her spine—anticipation, pleasure, remembered ecstasy.

She put a hand to the flexible rim of the wide straw hat she wore, which she found in the trunk that had belonged to Connor’s mother. This morning she had finally relented, borrowing a plain, comfortable everyday dress from the trunk as well. Of blue flowered cotton, the simply cut gown fit like a roomy coat, buttoning only at the waist, its bodice and skirt panels open to show a linen chemise and underskirt.
She had found sturdy leather shoes, too, only a bit too big for her, and white woolen stockings as well. Clean garments were a relief after too long in the torn, grimy satin dress.

Since the day was sunny and warm, she was grateful for the shade of the wide-brimmed straw hat. She had found leather gloves in the chest, too, and steel shears in a sewing box. Though she hesitated to use the things, she sensed Connor would not mind. As she handled his mother’s possessions, Sophie felt peace and calmness, as if the owner’s spirit lingered easily in objects she had once touched.

“Mistress!”

Sophie whirled. “Oh, Roderick! I thought you were out with the laird,” she said as he came toward her.

“Oh, not me, I do not herd cows or sheep,” he said disdainfully. “I am here to guard you.” He puffed with pride, his quick smile and youthful charm dazzling. She smiled back.

“Good,” she said. “I have some work for you today.”

He lifted his brows. “Work?”

“Aye. Do you have a shovel and an axe?”

“For what?” He looked at her suspiciously.

“Gardening. We’ll need a rake, too, and a trowel. I want to clean up the kitchen garden. I’ve done some weeding, but it needs heavier work.”

“
Ach,
mistress,” he said in dismay. “The herb garden is women’s work.”

“Not at all. I need a pair of strong arms and a strong back to clear the weeds and trim all that ivy, and cut back the plants worth saving. I think we can encourage healthy growth over the summer.” She tipped her head. “Would you rather chase me away from the front gate, or see that I am kept busy?”

“Busy,” he said grudgingly. “Since you’ve tried to leave the place twice—aye, very busy.”

“Well then.” She smiled. “I also want to look at the larger garden—I saw it from the library window.” She began to cross the bailey yard briskly, and Roderick fell into step beside her.

“That big garden, the old one? Mistress, do not ask me to dig that out for you. It would take an eternity. You’d need several men to do that.”

She headed toward the rough pile of stones that marked the interior garden wall with the collapsed gate at its center. “It’s not the old garden I want to clear out today, it’s just the kitchen plot. I’ll help you, if you have a rake to spare for me.”

“Aye, then. I’ll not turn down the offer. What do you want me to do, mistress?”

“The undergrowth must be cleared, and the overgrowth cut back—especially the ivy and the strawberry tendrils, which are wrapped around nearly everything. The kitchen path must be made wider for walking. I think we can fit beds of about four feet in width to either side, two of them on each side, with alleys of about two feet between them.”

“
Ach,
I can do that in a couple of days. I’ll ask Padraig to help when he comes back from herding the cows—he likes farming and such work, does Padraig.”

Sophie nodded. As they crossed the bailey, six or seven chickens trotted past in a neat line. Sophie laughed outright to see the way they traveled through the yard. When Colla woofed and strode toward them, so that the chickens panicked and scattered, Roderick waved the dog away.

“
Ach,
when the silly birds come out and about, the
dogs do not like it,” Roderick grumbled. “Kinnoull has trained his dogs to leave the chickens alone, but the birds do not know that. I’ll be back with the shovels and things,” he said, and took off, shooing the chickens toward the ramshackle buildings at the back of the yard.

Colla walked beside her as Sophie continued toward the larger garden. Reaching the sagging interior gate, she stepped inside. Surveying as she turned, she saw a once lovely garden gone wild. Mingled plants of several varieties verged on walls, stones, the natural slope of the garden floor. Stone and plant and wood intertwined, in places supporting, in other places crushing each other. Vines twisted around stone features, and thick snarls of brambles and ferns encroached upon pathways and tree trunks. Grass feathered through bushes, and tough ivy, miles of it, swallowed everything it touched. Wide stone steps, heading up the incline, peeked through the vegetation like the bones of a skeleton.

This would be a place to try using her fairy touch, Sophie thought, touching her crystal pendant—and no doubt would challenge her modest inherent ability to bring lushness and growth to plants.

She saw a small pool obscured in the chaos, with a stone bench nearby, hopelessly wound in ivy beneath the shade of the trees. At the back, Sophie recognized apple trees as well as cherry and pear, and a few delicate hawthorn trees. The garden tangle was so great that any fruit would fall unpicked to rot among the undergrowth.

Near the sunny curve of the outer curtain wall, she saw briar rose vines. Bare and thorny, they ran all along the wall, arcing and drooping in crazy patterns.

“The roses here must have been beautiful once,” he said.

She whirled. Connor stood behind her, his brogans crushing ivy and a clump of small purple flowers just beginning to bloom.

“You are stepping on the violets,” she said.

“Oh.” He shifted his stance, and they sprang up, unharmed, around his left shoe. “That’s a fine hat, Lady Kinnoull.”

She felt herself blush, and touched the wide brim where the sunlight speckled through. “I hope you do not mind—I borrowed it from your mother’s things. She was truly Lady Kinnoull,” she added.

“It suits you.” He smiled a little. “The hat does, too.”

In response, she found herself smiling, too, a feeling that rose suddenly from her heart like a gentle glow.

“I saw Roderick,” Connor said. “He is in the kitchen garden, working like the hounds of hell will be after him if he does not. He said he must clear out the old ivy and strawberry vines. I think you’ve taken command over your own guard, madam.” His tone was teasing and he lifted a brow.

She laughed. “There is a good deal of work to do there, and I’m glad to have such a willing sentinel.”

He glanced around. “I know it must distress you to see how sadly this place has been neglected over the years—over centuries, really. But not much can be done to change things here. Plants don’t flourish at Glendoon as they do elsewhere. The soil is thin and rocky.”

“They could grow here as well as anywhere, with help and encouragement. There is lots of growth here, but the plants are smothering and choking each
other, and in other places they do not thrive for lack of light and air. Aye, the soil is weak, but it can be nourished. Mary Murray said she sowed seeds in the kitchen plot. I thought that if I cleared out some garden space, I could do that, too.”

“The birds took most of Mary’s seeds, and the rest did not sprout.”

“She planted marigolds and a few herbs. Perhaps the marigolds should be planted in hot beds first, for better protection. I thought to add other flowers and herbs—Mary says she has some seeds and seedlings to spare. Marjoram, mint, chamomile all do best when added as slips or seedlings. I can sow sorrel, thyme, fennel, and some others directly into the ground. I’d like to add lavender and rosemary, too, from shoots. Mary would have done it, but she has no time to tend another garden, with her own home and family to see to. But I have some time—for a while at least.”

“And the knowledge, I think,” he said. “It’s a far better pastime than trying to find your way out of here.” He watched her evenly. “Do what you will in the garden. Castle Glendoon belongs to the MacCarrans, after all.”

“Glendoon could be lovely with some effort.” She turned to stroll along the vine-cluttered path toward the collapsed wall. He turned with her, taking her elbow as they stepped over clumps of tangled plants and negotiated around fallen stones.

“That would be a miracle of transformation,” he said wryly.

“Not so much. Plants need some basics, of course, but they thrive best with some love and encouragement.”

“As you wish. But I warn you not to be disappointed.”

She almost laughed. “You may be surprised, Kinnoull. I am not confident about many things, but I am about gardening.”

“Not confident?” He stopped, his hand on her arm. “The fire in you, lass, begs to differ.”

She glanced up at him. “I have some fire, I suppose, when I need it.”

“You make very good use of it,” he murmured.

Her heart bounded, for she thought he meant to kiss her, for he leaned close—so close—and she inclined toward him, welcoming, waiting. Then he straightened away and resumed walking beside her. Her yearning lingered, but Sophie moved on. She tried to remind herself that he was just a brigand. But she knew differently now, and the more she learned about him, she only wanted to know more.

“Well,” he went on, “if you can actually convince these gardens to flourish, I will plant your wee tulips myself.”