Secret Garden (6 page)

I am safe,
she told herself, breathing deeply. She headed for the path across the open moor. Nature, cruelly, was waking. In bloom everywhere.

The cottage—the guard’s cottage—was at the southern border of their large property—farther away from the castle than she’d dared to walk in years. She wasn’t sure how it would affect her. She concentrated on feeling in control: maintaining her regular breathing, visualizing the peace of her garden, humming to herself.

Still, the closer she came to the cottage, the shakier she felt. She paused, tightening her grip on the camera in her pocket. She wished Molly was with her. At the very least, she wished she’d thought of carrying a large stick.

She exhaled slowly. This was the natural fallout from the brutal kidnapping she’d survived as a young girl. Ever since then she had her safe place she felt protected by—her beautiful castle grounds—and she stayed within those boundaries. Walking to the cottage would test her limits.

But she could do it. She visualized the cottage in her mind. Jamie and Jessie lived there, and had since before she’d been born. Jamie was the longtime guardsman for their family. Five days a week, he kept watch from the shack at the top of the drive. He kept a phone with a direct line to Paul in the house. There were cameras all around the property, spaced every few dozen yards. Each year, her father commissioned a security expert to review and renew their protocols and procedures.

It didn’t bother Rhiannon. She was happy in her world, truly. She moved closer to the boundary, more curious than anything. How would her body react to this change in her daily walk?

She heard a roaring noise. The
whoosh
of a van passing close by on the roadway. Rhiannon froze. A white van had been the vehicle the kidnappers had used to snatch her and her brother. Her breath came in jagged spurts.

She heard a voice; someone was singing. Her pulse racing, she retreated to the edge of a copse. Then there was whistling. A man’s tone. Something else was going on, too, because she heard a whacking noise. She backed away slowly, her breathing heavy. Despite the coolness of the morning, she felt heated. Her heart rate elevated. Her palms perspiring...

This was how a panic attack began. And there was nothing worse to Rhiannon than a panic attack. It was the one thing she had set her life up to avoid. She couldn’t lose control of herself. She couldn’t go back to those days in the hospital.

A cry sputtered out of her, and she turned to flee. But the toe of her rubber boot caught on a root, and she tripped. Her hands splayed on the wet, boggy earth beneath an oak tree.

Get up. Run.

But it was just like when she’d been a girl. Walking along happy, full of plans for the day, so mundane she couldn’t even remember them at this point—much like painting a cottage on a landscape. She’d been caught up in herself, not paying attention to the world and skipping ahead of her older brother.

She’d seen the men—the kidnappers—before Malcolm had. There had been a split second when she could have screamed. Could have warned Malcolm. Could have grabbed his hand and made both of them run away.

But she’d done none of those things. She’d frozen instead.

Because of that, Malcolm had been taken with her, shoved into a white van parked on a busy Edinburgh street, and while she sat still, mute, Malcolm had screamed and fought.

They had beaten him, so badly that he’d lost consciousness. And even then, seeing her brother’s limp, battered body, blood all about his mouth and his nose, made her feel guilty.

She could have prevented it, and she hadn’t. And now it was happening again. No sound would come out of her mouth. Her body was locked in terror. The shaking started. Next came the sweating. At some point, she would pass out.

Wham!
Something hard smashed into the ground in front of her, then ricocheted and hit her right hip bone. A muffled squeak came out of her mouth, an “umph!” rather than anything intelligible or powerful.

Is this an attack? Scream. Why can’t you scream? Run!

But instead of yelling or fleeing, Rhiannon groaned and pitched forward. Her elbows slammed into the boggy earth; the camera at her hip hit the ground and she heard something break—the lens perhaps. The camera dug into her freshly bruised hip, sending a dull shooting pain through her. “Oh!” she moaned.

She rolled over and pulled the camera from the flap pocket. It rattled when she moved it. The camera was obviously broken.

“Hello!” a male voice called. “Is anybody there?”

Trembling, Rhiannon pushed to her knees.
Run!

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry!” A man came into the clearing, sprinting toward her, waving. He carried a golf club in the other hand. Blinking, she glanced down and saw a golf ball on the ground beside her.

She put her hand to the sore spot. There would be a bruise. But that wasn’t her immediate concern.
This man
was.
Run!

Too late.
He was there already. “Are you okay? Wow, let me help you up.”

He reached for her hand, but she shrank back. He wore a gray sweatshirt—her kidnappers had worn hoodie sweatshirts—and his eyes were a pale gray blue beneath his navy blue golf cap. He also wore cargo pants and trainers. She had the impression of confident masculinity.

He pushed back the cap back from his face. Wavy, light brown hair with blond streaks. The scruffy beginnings of a beard. He gave her a boyishly charming, lopsided smile. “I’m really sorry about this.”

He held out a hand to her, but she, embarrassingly, scurried backward like a crab.

“I’m a professional golfer,” he said. “My name’s Colin Walker.”

Colin Walker!
She almost laughed hysterically. The boy—now a man—she’d named her cat after, all those years ago.

Of course it would be Colin Walker she’d bumped into. Now, when she looked her worst—wet, muddy and bedraggled. She must have summoned him, she thought—maybe she’d conjured him up. All these thoughts about weddings and wishes for what could never be.

And he was so good-looking it was criminal. Of course she’d watched Colin on the telly; they all had. He’d strolled along the fairways as if he owned them, while his grandmother Jessie sat beside her on the couch in front of the big screen in the castle, near to bursting her buttons with pride.

Shaking, Rhiannon wiped her muddy hands on her trousers. Her right palm had nicked a sharp stone when she fell, and it stung. It was her dominant hand, and now painting might be difficult for a few days.

“At least let me take you into the house and get you a bandage for that cut.” Colin reached for her other hand, but she jerked away. People knew better than to touch her. It made her panic, and she couldn’t let that happen.

“No. Please. I’m fine.” She stood on her own. Likely, the only reason she hadn’t gone into a full-blown panic attack was that she knew who he was. Her heart was pounding with the knowledge.

His head tilted. He noticed her broken camera and picked it up from the ground. “I want to replace this for you.” He tucked it into his pocket. “Do you live around here? I’m only here for a few days, but I’ll order one for you and have it delivered.”

She hugged herself and stepped back. “No, I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

“I need to. I want to, I mean...” His gaze went up and down the length of her. She looked a fright! Her worst clothes, her scraggly, rain-wet hair, muddy boots...

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Jamie would tell him even if she didn’t. She had no choice. “I’m Rhiannon,” she said softly. “You know me.”

“Rhiannon!” Again, those charming, handsome gray-blue eyes went up and down her body. Scrutinized her face. Lingered on her eyes.

She felt herself flushing.

Did he remember her as fondly as she remembered him?

Obviously not, because he threw back his head and laughed at her. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but this hadn’t been it. Pity, perhaps. Quiet respect. Silence.

But never ridicule.

“I can’t believe this!” he said, still laughing at her.

What, that she was a recluse by choice? That the best way to manage her agoraphobia was to cut herself off from the rest of the world?

She’d never wanted him to see her like this. She’d thought that of all people,
he
would understand.

She’d been wrong.

“What did you expect of me?” she asked quietly.

“Sorry. It’s a long story.” Shaking his head, he leaned toward her...
touching
her, and she jumped backward as if scalded.

What was he doing?
No one
touched her.
She
controlled her space.

“I have to go,” she said.

He caught hold her arm. “Hey, Rhiannon, wait...”

“Stop,” she whispered, staring at his hand on her sleeve. She could feel her heart drumming, feel the panic returning. People didn’t treat her this way. They were respectful of her dignity.

Colin looked at her quizzically, and she drew herself up, groping for her inner peace. Control was the most important thing. “Please.”

He let go of her. “Oh, Rhi, I’m sorry. You’re married, huh? I didn’t mean anything by it. Touching you, I mean.”

Married?
What a cruel joke.

“How are your kids?” he asked, drawling at her like a true Texan. “You have a bunch of ’em. Right?”

Something stung at her eyes. Something fierce and unexpected.

How could an agoraphobic ever bring up a child?

A strangled noise came from her throat. A harsh, suppressed sob.

“Rhi?”

Horrified, she shook her head.

Normally, she would be calm about it. Philosophical and gentle and accepting, but today...after her cousin’s wedding news...she was on edge.

“No kids? Figures he lied to me,” he muttered. “Well, me, neither.” Colin talked blithely along as if he hadn’t noticed her discomfort. “No kids. No wife. Just the traveling life.” He glanced down at her. His eyes were so blue. “How about you? Do you travel?”

Colin had no idea. None. It was as if she was seeing her life the way it might have been. The way it could never be.

“Rhi?”

“I’m fine!” she shouted harshly.

His face fell. Utterly fell.

She slapped her hand over her mouth. She turned and fled back to the castle before she did anything worse.

CHAPTER FOUR

S
MOOTH MOVE
,
W
ALKER
,
Colin thought as he watched Rhiannon run away. Obviously, she’d been appalled by him. How dumb had he been, hitting golf balls into the woods? He was a trained professional and he should have known better. That was what driving ranges were for.

Thankfully, she wasn’t hurt. Still, the broken camera in his hand rattled—he needed to replace it for her. Maybe his grandmother would be awake now and could help him make arrangements for that.

Blowing out his breath, Colin headed back to the cottage. The rain had stopped, but there was still no hint of sun, just gray, overcast skies. This place was about as different from Central Texas as he could imagine.

Under the overhang to the porch, he tossed his club and glove into the golf bag.

“Colin?”

Colin froze. He’d know that voice anywhere—Nana. Instinctively, a lump rose in his throat, and he turned to see her.

“Oh, Colin.” Tears glistened in his grandmother’s eyes. She was thinner and sadder looking than he remembered. He’d come to Scotland still harboring anger, but somehow, seeing her in person, that seemed to disappear.

Jessie’s arms shook as she reached for him. He pulled her close and gave her a hug. She wore an apron that smelled like black pudding. He hadn’t eaten black pudding—the Scots name for blood sausage—in ages; it had always been a favorite of his when he’d visited in the summers, because the boy in him had loved that it was made with real blood.

She stood back and held him at arms’ length. “I’m so proud of you.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I watch you on the telly. But you look bigger and taller in person. So handsome.”

Colin couldn’t help smiling. “You’re looking good, too, Nana.” He winked at her and lifted up her chin. He didn’t want her to be so sad.

A light seemed to come on inside her, and her face appeared less tired. “Come in, dear.” She opened the door and led him into her cottage.

He followed her and took his canvas bag with him. The clubs would be fine under the overhang.

The front room was as he remembered it, but the contents had completely changed. The stuffed furniture was new. The TV was a silver flat screen, and though relatively small, it dominated the space. The old childhood pictures of him and his parents weren’t on the wall anymore. A large landscape oil painting hung in their place.

He tilted his head, trying to figure out why the scene in the painting felt so familiar. “Is that the clearing where Rhiannon and I built a fort?” He’d climbed those oak trees and hauled old loose boards into the limbs. He and Rhiannon used to sit and swing their feet there.

“Aye, that’s Rhiannon’s work.”

“She’s a painter?” he asked, surprised.

“She’s known the world over,” his grandmother said with obvious pride, and pointed to Rhiannon’s small signature on the bottom right. “She paints scenes from the estate. Wealthy collectors buy them, but this was a gift to me and Jamie.”

The painting was seriously professional work—to Colin, it looked museum quality. “I had no idea,” he murmured, though maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised.

Rhiannon had always been creative, and she’d even sketched people with her pencils. Like him, she hadn’t been disciplined then—he remembered them more as running free like wild, unsupervised children. The memory made him smile again.

His grandmother gestured for him to follow her. “Come into the kitchen and tell me about everything you’ve been doing.”

Colin nodded. Now would be a good time to tell her how he’d seen Rhiannon in the clearing—and that he’d pissed off Jamie by talking about her. Also that he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with his father’s funeral on Sunday. Not at all.