“Yes, on the terms my father specified. You’ll live here Monday through Saturday.” He paused, then added, “I require round-the-clock care.”
What did that mean, exactly? “Are you sure? You seemed to have your mind made up that you didn’t want me around. You told me to ‘Get out.’”
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat, perhaps searching for words. A simple, “I’m sorry,” would have done nicely. But he didn’t say it. “Do you want the job or not? I’m sure my father has paid you handsomely to deal with me, seeing as how I’m a surly invalid.”
I exhaled, shaking my head. This guy was too much. But he was right, the money was great. With mixed emotions, I gave him my answer. “All right.”
“Pack your bags and be here tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.” I gave a mock salute on my side of the phone.
“I like it when you call me sir.” His voice sounded low and dirty, taking the conversation in an entirely unintended direction.
“Won’t happen again,” I assured him, my breath coming a bit too quick.
“We’ll see about that,” he warned. “Until tomorrow, Annie.”
His voice resonated, dark and deep, long after we’d finished the conversation. Call him sir? What kind of naughty fantasies was he stirring up?
I’d take this job, but I’d need to watch myself closely. I needed to keep my feet firmly planted on the ground, my head on my shoulders, no getting caught up in romantic notions and possibilities. Because it looked like I was going to work for Ian Douglas, living with him, just the two of us, in a remote castle on the coast. Lord help me.
* * *
§
* * *
The next day, I reported for duty.
“That’s all you have?” Ian met me at the door in his wheelchair, dressed all in black yet again, his unruly black hair adding to the untamed effect. He looked angry to see me, as if my arrival was not at all what he wanted.
“I’ll go home every Sunday.” I defended my two bags. “And it’s not like I needed to bring pots and pans.” I hesitated, realizing perhaps I shouldn’t have made assumptions. “You do have pots and pans in the kitchen, don’t you?”
“No, I eat out of a bottle of scotch every day.” He wheeled himself around, turning his back as he led me into the kitchen. “Come and see for yourself.” The doors closed automatically as I followed. I set my bags down by the kitchen table.
He stood and opened some of the higher cabinets, showing me where dishes and glasses were kept, even some cooking supplies. Gruff, yanking the doors open and banging them shut, he was clearly in a foul mood. He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt and I couldn’t help but notice how it clung to his powerful shoulders, he was so broad. I couldn’t see any scars. What I could see were muscles bulging under the thin cotton, defined and hard. He took a step closer and I caught his scent, clean and male like he just took a shower. The tips of his hair were still damp.
He looked down at me with dark and stormy eyes, his gaze lingering a moment on my lips. I brought my hand up and brushed them quickly, feeling them tingle under his attention. He swore under his breath and looked away. “I’m still not sure what it is that my father hired you to do.”
“He wasn’t that specific,” I admitted. “General housekeeping, cooking, helping you out as needed.”
“I’ve hired some cleaners. They’ll come every Wednesday.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure there’s still a lot to be done.” As I looked around, everything was surprisingly neat, not a speck on the counters, sink, or floor.
“We’ll see how you can be of service.” He crossed his arms over his chest. A shiver went up my spine as he gazed at me with those steely eyes. Then, abruptly, he sat back down in his chair and left the room, calling behind him, “Your room’s up the stairs.”
“So friendly,” I muttered. I thought I’d spoken quietly, but he heard. He turned around. “I’m not interested in being friends with you, Annie.” Somehow the way he said it implied that he might want more, not less.
I flushed, ducking down to pick up my bags. “Guess I’ll go get settled in my room. Then maybe I’ll take a look around.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged. “I’ll be in my room down the hall and I don’t want to be disturbed.”
I watched him leave, wondering if he’d be that rude the whole time I was working there. Maybe it would be easier that way. I just had to last six months. Then I’d have enough money to launch.
Upstairs, I found an open door leading to a tidy bedroom all made up with fresh sheets. Paint was cracking and peeling off the walls, but the window shined clear and no dust balled up in the corners. The cleaners must have taken care of it when they’d come yesterday. I hoped they’d had a full team to tackle the job. The estate was enormous and to say it had fallen into a state of disrepair seemed generous.
Chilly in the drafty old building, I pulled on a sweater and headed down the hallway. Most of the rooms were locked. I couldn’t help but think of Jane Eyre exploring her new employer’s estate. The same sense of mystery, decay and gloom pervaded the air. I hoped Ian didn’t have a mentally ill wife locked in the attic ready to set fire to my bed at night. Naughty Rochester.
Ah hah, I discovered a functioning bathroom! Large and once grand, all the gold paint had chipped, the tile cracked. But the giant clawfoot tub looked good as new. I rapped on it. Solid iron covered with porcelain, the way they used to be made. That tub would make a nice end to a hard day.
I unpacked my small amount of toiletries, hung my week’s worth of clothes, then ventured downstairs for a look-see. A full seventy percent of the place was boarded up, locked and off limits. Downstairs, there were really only five unlocked rooms: the living room with the mouse family in the couch, the kitchen, a giant formal dining room that could easily seat 20, a smaller more cozy library with a fireplace, and a bathroom. Then there was Ian’s wing. I steered clear of that.
It was outside that I felt my first thrill of excitement. Wellies firmly wedged on, hat, scarf, gloves and warm winter jacket wrapped around me to fight the icy, blasting February chill, I explored the grounds. Amidst the fantastic tumble of overgrowth, I discovered that someone, at some time long ago, had laid things out quite well. The landscape had good bones.
Along the edge ran a hedge of wind-resistant hearty stock of blackthorn, hawthorn and brambles. Lichen-covered rocks punctuated the growth, all of it set against a backdrop of the tumbling, churning gray and white of the winter ocean. I breathed it in, the coast of Scotland, so wild, rugged and rough and yet also so gorgeous in the sunshine and soon-to-come spring bloom.
A good chunk of land was nicely protected behind a stout, tall stone wall. Like everything else, it was crumbling, but it still offered a buffer from the constant ocean wind. I picked my way along overgrown paths, stopping to inspect what I could identify among the weeds. In a few months, with attention, this land could offer the lilacs and purple of heather, thistle and bluebell, the deep crimson of lupins, and all varieties of roses rising up along with pink and orange primroses.
I even found what looked to be a small, abandoned vegetable patch. With some love, maybe I could grow some hearty veg, with turnips and leeks poking their way through the soil in several months’ time. That might help me stay motivated at the job, wanting to reap my harvest in late summer, early fall before I left.
I had a bit of a garden back home. I wouldn’t say I had a green thumb. My roses weren’t exactly winning prizes, but I took a certain pleasure in mucking around in the dirt. Making things grow, springing forth from the hard, frozen earth, pruning, shaping, and taking off the dead to make room for the new. There was something about that cycle of life I found immensely appealing.
Back inside with a new bounce in my step, I discovered some long-frozen meat, then some
potatoes, carrots and onions in the pantry. Enough for a stew, before I went grocery shopping tomorrow. Humming, I set to work, wondering if there might be a way to turn this job into a six-month coastal getaway, affording myself plenty of opportunities for sketching in the garden. Maybe I’d even find time to learn some of the latest graphic design programs.
“Cooking away, I see.” Ian’s dry observation stopped my happy train of thought.
“I’m not sure how tasty it’ll be, but it’s something for dinner. Then tomorrow I can go grocery shopping. Your father told me I’ll have a car I can use?”
“In the garage,” Ian confirmed.
“You have a lovely garden outside!” A bit nervous, I chattered away, telling him about my discoveries.
“Not my thing.” He made his way over to the cupboard and poured himself a glass of scotch.
“You don’t get outside much?” If ever anyone needed to get outside, it was Ian Douglas. I wondered when was the last time he’d gotten some fresh air. Our mum worked loads, but every Sunday, rain or shine, she tromped us about the Scottish hillsides for at least a couple hours. Fresh air and exercise, she always told us that was the key to health.
“Narrow, winding, overgrown garden paths aren’t exactly wheelchair accessible.”
Did he ever get sick of using that bored tone? He sounded tired with just about everything. “Well, you can walk a bit, can’t you? Shouldn’t you do some walking every day, to keep your muscles from atrophying? And how about physical therapy? Are you doing daily exercises?”
“And I’m out.” Ian wheeled out of the kitchen. All right then. He’d told me he didn’t want to be disturbed. The man was as good as his word.
* * *
§
* * *
“Please tell me you’re not ripping down my curtains.” Ian’s wry, surly voice filtered through the heavy, velvet blanket draped over my body. Up on a ladder, coughing, I peered up at the curtain rod and struggled to work off the dusty fabric.