5
Emma stared at the ghost of a garden. The shriveled stalks that shivered in the breeze held no bright petals or sweet scents, and the withered vines that stretched like cobwebs across the walls would never blossom again. The chapel garden was a tangle of decay and desiccation, yet it held within it the sweet sadness of a place once loved and long forgotten.
Two tiers of raised flowerbeds, deep terraces set one above the other, encircled a rectangular lawn. In each corner rounded ledges rose, like steps, almost to the top of the wall. To her right lay the dried bed of what had been a small reflecting pool, and a wooden bench rested beside it, bleached silver by the sun. The garden had been beautiful once, but now the ledges were crowded with cracked and crumbling clay pots, the raised beds dotted with dried flowerheads, the rectangular lawn matted with bindweed and bristling with thistles.
A curious building straddled the center of the long rear wall, one end facing out to sea, the other planted firmly in the garden. Stubby, oblong, built of the same charcoal-gray granite as the castle, it had no belltower, no arches, nothing to entice the mind or enchant the eye. Its only decoration was a thick mat of moss on its steeply pitched slate roof, and a golden dapple of lichen above the low, rounded door. A flagstone path led from the door to the stairs, neatly bisecting the lawn.
On impulse, Emma dropped to her knees in the damp grass, parted the weeds, and dug her hand deep into the soil. She grabbed up a fistful of moist earth, sniffed at it, rubbed it between her palms, and let it fall through her fingers. “Anything will grow in this,” she marveled, and felt a flicker of hope. With work and perseverance, the ghosts could be banished from this place, and the flowers that belonged here could be restored in all their glory.
When she had risen, Emma walked slowly to the door of the stubby building. She put her shoulder to the darkened wood and shoved, then caught her breath as she beheld the chapel’s sole adornment.
It was like stepping into a jewel. The stained-glass window flooded the chapel with color and light, drenching the rough stone walls, the flagstone floor, and the beams overhead with rich and vibrant hues. Five feet in height, perhaps, and three feet wide, the window rendered all other decoration superfluous.
A border of red roses framed the figure of a woman. She stood against a swirling background of scudding clouds and storm-tossed trees, one hand clasping the collar of her billowing black cloak, the other hand thrust defiantly skyward, gripping a lantern that glowed with an unearthly radiance. Wind-whipped tendrils of raven hair flew wildly from the black cloak’s hood, but the woman’s face was as still as the surface of a cavern pool. Emma gazed up into her fierce brown eyes; then stumbled back across the threshold and through the rounded door. She leaned there for a moment, blinking dazedly in the sunlight, and when she looked up again, the garden had come to life around her.
She smelled the scent of lavender that framed the chapel door, saw the bed of irises, the splash of poppies, the glowing cluster of pink peonies backlit by the sun. Old Bourbon roses cascaded down the gray stone walls, coral bells rose from a cloud of baby’s breath, and still water sparkled in the small reflecting pool.
Emma knew that she was dreaming in broad daylight, but she didn’t want the dream to end. The images came to her as vividly as a memory of home and, sighing, she felt as though she’d returned to a place she’d left years ago and longed for ever since. She leaned against the chapel and watched the seasons change, until a sound caught her attention. The garden faded, the pool went dry, and she straightened, embarrassed to be found day-dreaming by the duke.
But it was not the duke.
It was another man entirely. This man was tall and lean, with broad shoulders and a long, weathered face. His jeans were faded, his navy-blue pullover stained in places, his workboots scuffed and comfortably broken in. The leather tool belt slung around his hips held a hammer, some chisels, and several pairs of oddly shaped pliers. An unruly mop of salt-and-pepper curls tumbled over his high forehead, and his eyes were the color of sapphires.
“Sorry,” said the man. “Didn’t mean to disturb you. I was looking for Grayson.”
“Grayson?” Emma said faintly.
“The duke,” the man replied.
“The duke?” Emma echoed.
“I was told he’d be out here,” the man elaborated. “Have you seen him?”
Emma tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry. “Yes,” she managed, “but he’s not here now.”
“Ah.” The man nodded. A few moments passed before he asked, “Will he be coming back?”
“I think so,” Emma replied, adding helpfully, “In a while.”
“I’ll wait for him, then.” The man walked with unhurried ease down the uneven stone steps and over to Em-ma’s side, where he pulled the chapel door shut, then stood, looking at the decay that surrounded him. “A restful place,” he commented.
Emma mumbled something, then wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, which had suddenly become damp.
“Pardon me,” said the man. He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and offered it to Emma. “You’ve ... um ...” He gestured toward his own forehead. “... left some dirt behind.”
“Have I?” Mortified, Emma took the handkerchief and scrubbed at her forehead. “Is it gone?” she asked anxiously.
“Not quite. Please, allow me.” The man eased the cloth from her hand and with gentle fingers tilted her head back until she was looking straight up into those eyes. “There’s just a tiny smudge—”
“What have we here?” asked a voice. “Frolics in the garden?”
The man swung around, flushing crimson when he saw Susannah Ashley-Woods observing them from the top of the stone stairs. Fashionably shod in three-inch stiletto heels, the duke’s cousin carefully negotiated the uneven steps and came to stand beside the tall man.
“Imagine my chagrin,” Susannah drawled. “I’ve been after Derek all week to show me his beastly window and now I’ve teetered out here all on my own, risking life and a pair of heavily insured limbs, only to find another woman in his arms.”
“There was dirt on my face,” Emma tried to explain.
“A bit further down as well,” Susannah noted, gazing pointedly at Emma’s skirt.
With a sinking feeling, Emma looked down to see two large stains on her beige skirt, where her knees had met the damp grass.
“I’m sure there’s no permanent harm done,” Susannah cooed. “Corduroy is such a durable fabric.” Running a long-fingered hand through her silky hair, she looked from the man’s face to Emma’s. “What? Cats have your tongues? Don’t tell me—my cousin has been remiss in his introductions. Allow me. Emma Porter, meet Derek Harris.”
Derek offered his hand and Emma reached out to take it, saw that her own was smeared with mud, and snatched it back.
“Glad to meet you,” she muttered, her eyes on Derek’s tool belt.
“Uh, yes,” said Derek, his hand stranded in midair. He smiled slightly, then raised his hand to rub his chin. “Pleasure’s mine.”
“Derek’s here to work on the window,” Susannah went on. “What about you, Emma?” She leaned forward and asked, with a mischievous smile, “Come for a peek at Penford Hall’s claim to fame?”
Emma stared at Susannah blankly.
“Lex Rex?” Susannah prompted. “The pop star? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him.”
“Of course I have,” Emma mumbled defensively. To prove it, she added the first song title that popped into her head. “ ‘Kiss My Tongue.’ ”
Emma blushed to her roots while Derek stared stolidly into the middle distance and Susannah smirked.