Page 72 of Stealing Sophie
Her heart bounded, for he leaned close, and she thought he might kiss her. She inclined toward him. But he straightened away and resumed walking. She moved on too, reminding herself that he was a brigand, a rebel, a man she did not know very well. But that refrain had begun to ring hollow to her now.
“If you can convince these gardens to grow, I will plant your wee tulips myself.”
She laughed in delight, her shoulder pressing his arm as they went to the garden gate. “Now that I would like to see.”
“Perhaps you will.”
“This garden was lovingly tended, long ago, and well designed. There is something beautiful to be reclaimed underneath the chaos. It only needs attention.”
His arm came over her shoulders, turning her toward him. “Sophie, this is not a wee hobby or a few idle days’ work. It would take years of dedication to bring these gardens back in the way you imagine. I do not want you to be disappointed if it does not happen immediately.”
She nodded. A lifetime here—she might like that. “I have always wanted a garden of my own to muck about in.”
He glanced up as clouds swept over the sun. His arm stayed about her, comfort and thrill. “If you muck about now, you will be awash in mud. More rain is coming. It seems to be that sort of spring.”
“It will be good for the plants,” she said, tipping her head to look up.
Connor lifted a hand to brush back her hair, touch her cheek. “You think more about the plants than your own comfort. A curious thing for a well-born lady.”
“It is not so bad to be trained by nuns,” she said lightly.
“I have become very fond of nuns,” he whispered, lowering his head. His mouth touched hers softly, his fingers slipping along her cheek.
A gentle force went through her, buckling her knees, making her heart soar. She grasped his arms to keep her balance. He kissed her again, more thoroughly, and she arched toward him in complement. All else vanished around her but the warm press of his mouth, the hard strength of his arms, the power of a strong, beautiful kiss. Yet he drew back, while she clung to his forearms for support.
“Thank you,” he said.
She blinked. “For what?” For falling in love with the Highland rogue who had snatched her away from all that was familiar, a rogue who left her breathless with a kiss?
He gestured around. “For finding something of worth in this ruined place.”
“There is much to rescue here. I want to do that. Let me do that.”
He let go, stepped back, turned to walk in silence beside her. “There is an old curse over this place, they say. Nothing will flourish at Glendoon until the magic returns.”
“Magic?”
He shrugged. “I do not know what it means. The tenants here have said it. Perhaps it was your ancestors’ way of saying Glendoon is full of rocks and ghosts, and its hill is too blasted steep to bother with, and all should abandon it.”
She glanced back at the overgrown garden, and at the old keep with its broken walls. “Glendoon needs love and hard work to restore it. Most of all, it needs to be a home again.” She glanced up at him. “That is the sort of magic it needs.”
“It is too remote and ruinous to be anyone’s home.”
“Any place can be a home. The hearts within make it so, not the condition of its walls or its grounds.”
He opened the gate, waited as she passed through. “Sophie,” he said. “You are a wonder. Go see to your wee kitchen garden and your faithful servant. He is rather zealous, I fear.”
He turned to walk away. Sophie felt sure he was uncomfortable speaking of home again, for he pulled back each time it was mentioned. She walked in the other direction to find how Roderick was faring. The lad straightened as she approached, his rake in hand, sweat dampening his shirt.
“I cleared a path and I am tearing out the ivy,” he said, indicating piles of ripped-up plants. “And the strawberry vines.”
“All of it?” she asked in dismay. “The berries too?”
“Did you not want it all out? It is stubborn and will all come back by summer. Soon you can plant your wee seeds here.”
“Thank you, Roderick. Tomorrow we will lay a trench at that end, there, and fill it with a good amount of dung. Horse is better, but cow or sheep will do.”
“Dung?” Roderick asked, looking pained.
