“It’s me.” Gordon smiled at her, but the expression of worry remained on Lauren’s face.
Her complexion was the color of cream, her soft brown eyes surrounded by long lashes. Her features were small, especially her rosebud mouth, but she was a pretty girl. No doubt she’d been raised to believe that being pretty was her most important attribute.
She did everything prettily, as if she’d rehearsed the most pleasing aspect of each task. She’d sat at the table, taken up her napkin, and eaten her dinner in the same fashion. Even the way she’d half walked, half swayed to the table had been done in a pretty way.
He’d thoroughly enjoyed Lauren’s company. At the same time, he knew that she would drive him to distraction in a matter of weeks.
She was, regrettably, one of those women who didn’t have a single original idea or thought. She parroted well, plus she’d hung on to his every word for the entire dinner. All in all, the characteristics of a perfect hostess.
If Jennifer had been herself, she would have argued with him by now. She would have challenged his assumptions or his observations. Except that Jennifer was barely talking to him.
She returned in minutes to announce that there was pudding for dessert, but no tarts. Lauren looked disappointed, but her smile was back in minutes.
“I probably shouldn’t have had a tart anyway,” she said, glancing at Gordon then Jennifer.
He stood, excusing himself and explaining that he wanted to get back to the cottage to see Sean. Both women nodded at him.
Jennifer kept her gaze on the floor. Evidently, the patterned carpet held a great deal of interest for her.
He would have asked her what was wrong if she’d been the same person he’d known all his life. It was evident that she’d changed in the past five years. Gone was the girl he’d loved, and in her place was a woman he didn’t recognize.
All these years he’d held out hope that McBain had lied. This homecoming was a great deal harder than he’d anticipated.
He left the room without another glance in Jennifer’s direction.
Chapter Eight
Jennifer had never been a coward. Granted, she lived a safe existence at Adaire Hall. When she was a child, she’d had to be brave to be Gordon’s companion. Grown, however, she faced few challenges.
At dinner tonight she’d been a shadow of herself, when all along what she wanted to do was to ask Gordon why he’d never answered one of her letters. Why hadn’t he returned before now? And, the most important question, why had he simply left without a word to her?
Had her brother and Mr. McBain been right all along? Had he tired of her? Or, had he thought his future was more interesting than she was?
All of those questions needed to be answered, but all she’d done was simply sit there mute, listening to Gordon and Lauren’s conversation.
When she had participated, her comments had been downright drivel.
Where was her courage?
Yes, this Gordon was different, but so was she. In the past five years she’d shouldered a tremendous responsibility. She’d made decisions that were important for the well-being of everyone who lived at Adaire Hall.
Why, then, had she acted the coward around Gordon?
The fact that she was pacing in front of the window was a symptom of her annoyance. So, too, the fact that she hadn’t readied for bed. How could she possibly sleep, being as irritated as she was?
Without thinking, she grabbed her shawl and headed for the door.
Gordon was surprised that nothing he’d seen so far had changed. It was as if time had simply stopped at Adaire Hall. No additional cottages had been built. No more of the land had been set aside for gardens or any other use.
He’d felt a yearning for Scotland over the years, wanting to feel the wind through the strath, see the lights in the sky in the winter, and experience the endless days during summer in the Highlands.
He’d always tamped down that longing, but now it was back in full force.
Outside of the area cleared for the Hall, the land was wilder. The woods took over just beyond the stable, stretching down to the river. On the other side the land rose to the hills.
Gordon preferred the blaeberry in the forest, or the thick growth of ling heather. Even a juniper thicket was preferable to those plants that were tortured