Summer at the Scottish Castle, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Turn the page…
Chapter One
Rachel Bowdler
About Embla Books
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by
Bonnier Books UK Limited
4th Floor, Victoria House, Bloomsbury Square, London, WC1B 4DA
Owned by Bonnier Books
Sveavägen 56, Stockholm, SwedenCopyright © Rachel Bowdler, 2023
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Rachel Bowdler to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781471413964
This book is typeset using Atomik ePublisher
Embla Books is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK
www.bonnierbooks.co.uk
For Ivy,
moji lásku
Chapter One
The hydrangea shrubs were Jessamine’s best hiding place yet, even if she did have to contend with a leafy branch tickling the inside of her nostril. She batted it away, pinching the bridge of her hay fever-ravished nose to trap a sneeze, and huddled further into the leaves. Lilac petals fell at her feet and droplets of last night’s rain dampened her dress.
The clicking of Petra’s tall heels across the garden path grew louder. Through teary eyes and a gap in the shrub, Jessamine caught a glimpse of her personal assistant’s sharp, impatient features as she approached.
Jessamine held her breath when Petra neared – and released it in relief when she sauntered straight past the hydrangeas, her pointy nose jabbing the air with a hauteur that seemed permanent, innate, on her narrow features. A moment later, Petra disappeared around the corner and circled back towards the castle, where Jessamine should have been, too.
Though it was childish to hide, she simply didn’t have the energy for her assistant-slash-chaperone today. They’d been travelling up and down the country for weeks, attending business meetings and charity events and dinner parties to save face after Jessamine’s rather public divorce, and she was wiped out. Then, the article had been released by gossip magazine, Splendour. She’d been expecting it, but nothing had quite prepared her for the sight of her distraught features plastered all over the internet. And if the immortalised ‘meltdown’ – as labelled by journalist Emily Kingsley – wasn’t terrible enough, Robert had accused ‘the ice queen’ of cheating on him throughout their relationship, claiming she wouldn’t have children with him because she was cold-hearted and unable to love anyone but herself. All lies, of course. Robert was the one always away on business trips, coming home smelling of other women’s perfume. When she’d pulled him up on it, she was labelled jealous, paranoid, ridiculous. All she’d asked of him afterwards was that he sign the divorce papers, because God forbid she spend another day married to him. Naturally, though, he hadn’t been able to leave peacefully, and she’d become the talk of the town: Poor Robert, having to put up with her. I bet she was an utter nightmare. I never quite took to her anyway. There was something off all along. He could do much better than a loopy, cheating so-and-so. Has she no shame?
Mother had thought it an apt time for her to get away from London, and Jessamine had rather quickly agreed. Their ancestral castle, Rosemire – left to Jessamine in her father’s will, because apparently Mother had no interest in adding an ‘old-fashioned tourist trap in the middle of nowhere’ to her hefty collection of inherited properties – was as good a place to hide as any, especially since it had been left forgotten for years. Until it blows over, Mother had said. But accusations of being a promiscuous, conceited, hysterical, manipulative shrew were unlikely to blow over anytime soon. Certainly not for a peeress with a reputation to uphold. Mother wasn’t talking to her at all, and besides politely telling her to naff off, hadn’t bothered with Jessamine since the dinner party at the Chelten Estate weeks prior, where it had all gone wrong. Where Jessamine had finally exploded after months of coaxing Robert into signing the divorce papers and listening to his veiled insults about how she should be crawling on her knees, begging for both forgiveness and another chance. It had been their first reunion since the divorce, and no doubt not their last, since they were bound to the same social circles. Jessamine had been civil, focusing her attention on her own group of ‘friends’ – people who mysteriously stopped talking to her not long afterwards – and doing her best to look as though she was having fun. Robert hadn’t liked that. Just to ensure she didn’t come out of the other side looking too happy about their separation, he’d accused her of flirting with one of the servers in front of all of their friends. No mention, of course, of his own myriad affairs throughout their unhappy marriage.
Jessamine hadn’t been able to stop her rage that time. Not after four years of living with his muttered remarks about the way she dressed; how she was embarrassing him by talking too much or not enough. Four years of looking the other way when he flirted with any woman with a pulse. So, she’d thrown her glass of champagne all over him, and then his friend’s glass just for good measure. And, all right, she’d gone off on a bit of a tangent about how toxic it all was: Robert, himself; the gossip; the superficial nature of their lifestyle; the unimportance of wealth when one had no morals. Now, she was the mentally unstable, bitter, cheating ex-wife who liked to make a scene while poor Robert just wanted to move on. To make sure it stayed that way, he’d done the interview with Splendour and ‘dished the dirt’ on their tumultuous marriage. Who would people believe? A handsome, charming baron everybody quite fancied, or the frumpy wife who had made a scene at a civilised, elegant dinner party? No matter that Jessamine spent her days working with charities to make a positive impact. It would always be the woman’s fault.
So, here she was, in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, where the scandal couldn’t reach her. But her assistant could. There was still work to be done, after all. The problem was, Jessamine just wanted one day to herself. One day to lick her wounds in private. One day to—
‘You’re flattening my tulips.’
The gruff brogue cutting through delicate birdsong startled her. She’d been so focused on avoiding Petra that she hadn’t even noticed the rusty-haired man kneeling on the other side of the path, a pair of shears in his grubby-gloved hands. The gardener, she presumed, having noticed him pruning the rose bushes yesterday in the same green apron and tatty clothes. She’d wished him a good morning then, but he hadn’t answered. She’d supposed he hadn’t heard her, but judging from the tense set of his jaw and the heavy, furrowed brows casting shadows over his eyes, she was beginning to wonder if he had purposely ignored her. The thought made her feel uneasy. Surely the article hadn’t reached this tiny village. Jessamine had already had trouble connecting to the Wi-Fi, and she’d only managed to find a phone signal at random spots in the castle – usually by hanging out of a window or turret.
‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked, almost choking on another intrusive leaf in the process. She stepped away, her dress snagging on a branch, but she didn’t have a chance to free herself.
‘My tulips.’ He gestured to her feet with his shears, the silver winking against watery sunlight. He stood, then stepped closer. ‘You’re flattening them.’
She frowned, wincing when she looked down to find the buttery yellow petals squashed beneath her tasselled leather loafers. ‘Oh. Sorry. I—’
‘Hang on.’ The gardener stepped onto the grass, reaching towards Jessamine with his shears. Her hackles rose at the sudden, unsolicited proximity. Was he trying to cut her dress?
It was pure instinct to slap his hand away before he tried.
‘Excuse me!’ she snapped, placing her hands on her hips. ‘What, exactly, do you think you’re doing with those shears?’
He recoiled, face flushing pink as he cradled his gardening tool to his torso defensively. ‘Oi! No need for that. I was only trying to cut the bloody bush so you wouldn’t tear your dress! Jesus.’
Embarrassment echoed through Jessamine. She bowed her head, shielding her watery eyes as the low spring sun bled through the clouds. The hem of her dress was still knotted in the branch, causing a tear in the c
He’d been trying to help.
Still, she was too stubborn to apologise now. ‘Well, you should have warned me. You can’t just go around approaching women with sharp objects. What was I supposed to think?’
The gardener’s broad chest rippled with an impatient sigh, his lips pressed into a thin line beneath coppery, grey-peppered stubble. ‘I didn’t realise I looked like a suspect in Midsomer Murders. Just get off my tulips, will you? You’re killing them.’
‘They’re not your tulips,’ she retorted, though she unhooked her dress carefully and hopped back onto the path. He had already retreated, kneeling over a line of weeds. The shears were left abandoned at his side; instead, he yanked dandelions from the ground with his hands.
‘I bloody well planted them, thanks very much. Honestly, you seasonal staff.’ Bitterness soaked his words and thickened his Scottish accent. ‘You think you can do what you want, don’t you? Just walk in and leave your rubbish all over the place, ruin my flowers, prance about, and let other people clean up your mess.’
‘I’m not—’ She frowned, clamping down on her words. She should have told him who she was, should have embarrassed him the way he had her, but the fewer people who knew about her stay, the better. She hadn’t been recognised or badgered by castle visitors or locals yet, and that had been her only respite from it all. In fact, nobody had given her a second glance. People tended to hover when they knew there was a countess around, newspaper reporters and photographers included. Since the divorce, it had been non-stop, and the recent series of unfortunate events had only added fuel to the fire. She was in hiding. She would remain that way, even for the sake of rude gardeners who needed to be knocked down a peg or two.
Still, she narrowed her eyes, annoyance flickering in her chest. She wouldn’t be belittled by someone who’d clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed, regardless of her low profile. Not a chance. ‘You, on the other hand, are quite delightful,’ she said.
He threw her a daggers look over his shoulder. ‘I assume you’re one of the tour guides. Just keep the bloody visitors off the grass, will you?’
‘You’re very possessive of the gardens,’ she noted, tugging at her blazer self-consciously. She supposed she did blend in with the black-uniformed tour guides scattered around the castle grounds today. It hadn’t been planned but it seemed an effective disguise. ‘You do know the grass doesn’t actually belong to you.’
He huffed absently at that. ‘Since I spend most of my days tending to it, I think it’s fair to ask that you show it a wee bit of respect.’
Jessamine cleared her throat uncomfortably. In all her life, nobody had ever acted this way around her. Even now, they pasted false smiles on their faces, until her back was turned and they had the chance to criticise her in hushed whispers. Robert and her mother’s remarks had always been bitterly passive-aggressive. This man seemed not to care at all how he came across: all barbed bluntness.
The people-pleaser in her squirmed. She didn’t enjoy being disliked, even if it was refreshing to be mistaken as a normal person with a normal job. In another life, perhaps she would have been a seasonal tour guide, or maybe even a grumpy gardener like him.
Then again, the thought of all that dirt under her fingernails made her shudder.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about the way I reacted. It was only done in self-defence.’
His shoulders stiffened beneath his thick, muddied shirt as he tugged another weed from a small crack in the path. ‘Don’t you have tours to guide? Flowers to butcher?’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘When one offers you an apology, it is polite to accept it properly.’
He yanked off his gloves, offering her a blank expression as he stood up. His large, softly rounded frame left her in his shadow. ‘Apology accepted. I suppose I should have asked before trying to help.’ His words were forced through clenched teeth, but he at least met her eye. ‘I’d work on your self-defence skills, though. If a nastier bloke comes at you with a pair of shears, you’ll have to do more than give him a slap on the hand.’
‘Oh, I know exactly where to aim, thank you,’ she crooned, glancing at his crotch and then immediately wishing she hadn’t. She wiped her clammy palms on her dress – a habit her mother would have donned ‘most unladylike’, if her mother was speaking to her at all, that was – and worked desperately to avoid his gaze. ‘I’m sorry for ruining the flowers.’
He smirked crookedly. ‘Apology accepted, I s’pose. It’s nothing to cry about, though, love.’
The sudden softness in his voice gave her whiplash, and her tone turned even steelier to overcompensate. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You look a bit teary.’ He pointed in her vague direction. ‘Didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Oh, as if you could impact my mood. It’s hay fever.’ She sniffed through a congested nose, pulling her embroidered handkerchief from her breast pocket and dabbing her itchy eyes.
‘Probably shouldn’t get up close and personal with my hydrangeas, then. Hiding from the kids?’ Knowingly, the gardener gestured towards the castle, where a group of school children had just spilt out of a giant black coach. A school trip. Jessamine would not be getting any peace today, after all, unless she hid in her room in the east wing, where Petra could easily find her.
She hummed in agreement, crossing her arms. As grumpy and irritable as he’d been, it was strange, new, to be treated like a normal person; to be spoken to like a person at all. Besides, it had been a long time since she’d had to be anything but polite, while a growling tiger, forever tamed, slumbered in her stomach. It was nice to argue about flowers and not the circumstances of her divorce.
Her nose grew stuffy again in the pollen-rife wind, the smell of freshly cut grass taking her somewhere else for a moment. When was the last time she’d noticed her surroundings? Noticed the sun or the flowers, or the way strangers could start conversations? Her life was always sparkling champagne and camera flashes and stiff handshakes with people whose names she’d forget in an hour.
But there was nothing stiff about the gardener – that she could see, anyway. She didn’t want to think about the double entendre there, nor did she want to hazard another glance in that southerly direction. He was the type of man she’d never look twice at if she was walking down the street, but that might be a mistake: when she gazed past the tuft of reddish-grey curls, she found faint laughter lines half-hidden by fuzzy facial hair, constellations of freckles across both apple cheeks, and a soft, upturned mouth full of charm that he didn’t necessarily seem aware of. Or maybe she was just underestimating his ego, since he clearly had a fire in him that he refused to tamp out for her sake.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ she said in an effort to distract herself as much as him.
‘Mac,’ he said. ‘Going to file a complaint to your manager about the nasty gardener, are you?’ His green-blue eyes now sparkled with good humour. Teasing. He was teasing her.
‘Maybe I will.’ Her brow twitched with the challenge, but he didn’t have time to rise to it. The sound of clacking heels returned, and quickly, now. A moment later, the golden-brown crown of Petra’s head bobbed over the hedges around the corner. Dread twanged through Jessamine like a plucked violin string as she was thrust back into the real world, where gardeners were just people she passed on her way to dinner parties while either her mother or Petra told her what to do, what to wear, where to go, how to chew her food.
‘Mrs Townsend?’ Petra’s high-pitched voice reminded Jessamine of rusty car brakes, and the use of her husband’s surname didn’t soften the blow.
Mac looked towards the sound, and for a moment she thought the ruse was over. But then he wiped his damp brow. ‘Bloody hell. Thought gardens were supposed to be peaceful.’
She sucked in a breath. ‘I should get back … to tour guiding. Because I’m a tour guide.’
