KATRINA CUDMORE

‘GOOD GIRL, CIARA, just another foot to go and you’ll be there.’

Despite her shaking legs, Ciara Harris could not help but grin to herself at her boss’s good-natured encouragement. Sean was the head gardener at Loughmore Castle and, having known Ciara since she was a teenager, at times still treated her as one despite the fact that she was now thirty years of age.

Her smile soon faded, however, when she made the fatal mistake of looking down from her twenty-foot-high perch up on the stepladder. The Connemara marble floor of the Great Hall swam up and then back down in a sickening vortex.

She grasped the stepladder’s metal rail for dear life and cast an unhappy eye over the reason she was twenty feet up in the air. The fine-boned angel, dressed in gold silk, her cheeks painted with a dash of pink blush, calmly considered Ciara back, as though wondering why she was making such a fuss.

Standing with Sean at the base of the stepladder, looking way too amused for her own good, Libby the head chef at Loughmore called up to Ciara. ‘Sometime in the next year would be helpful, Ciara. I’ve five layers of Christmas cake to ice and a ton of petit fours to make for tomorrow night’s lighting ceremony,’

Ciara scowled down at Libby, who had one foot casually propped on the bottom rung of the ladder, with a glass of mulled wine in one hand and a mince pie in the other, and muttered through clenched teeth, ‘I nominate youto climb up here next Christmas.’

‘Oh, no, the pleasure will be all yours until a new member of staff is recruited,’ Libby called back, with a tad too much relish.

Given the amused expressions of all thirty or so of the other Loughmore staff, who had come into the hall to watch the final finish to the tree decoration and, more to the point, rush to the buffet table, to partake in the refreshments Libby’s team had organised, Ciara guessed they shared Libby’s entertainment at Ciara’s terror.

‘Gird your loins…’That was what her granddad had used to say to her as she’d buried herself beneath her blankets as a teenager, when he’d called her before dawn in order to polish the vast marble floor she was now suspended over. To this day she still had no idea what that expression really meant, but she knew it had been his way of telling her just to get on with it.

Ciara’s mum was definitely cut from the same cloth as her grandad. As a child, whenever Ciara had grumbled about a playground slight or wished she had a sister to play with, or a dad who would come to watch her play football like all the other dads, her mum would say, ‘Don’t overthink things, Ciara. Accept that life is unfair, put a smile on your face and just get on with it.’

Which she now needed to do.

Tentatively she moved on to the next step, inhaling deeply of the pine-scented air, before humming a Christmas classic in the hope of channelling some of the festive spirit.

Every Christmas Sean cut down a Noble Fir from Loughmore Wood. It was always huge—it had to be to suit its new home, the Great Hall at Loughmore Castle, which lived up to its title by having a forty-foot vaulted timber ceiling. But this year Sean had surpassed himself by cutting down a stunning blue needle perfectly symmetrical twenty-four-foot specimen.

It had taken the gardening crew of five an entire day to transport it, install it and hang two thousand lights and the endless baubles the Benson family had collected over the years from the tree’s branches.

Sean had rather cleverly waited until the last moment to announce that it was a castle tradition that the newest employee always had the honour of placing the delicate porcelain angel.

For a few moments Ciara had actually bought that story. But then she had spotted the mischief twinkling in Sean’s eyes, and the elbowing amongst her fellow gardeners. Honour, indeed. More like the short straw. Obviously no one else wanted the task—especially when Libby’s mince pies were on offer.

She had tried to protest that technically she wasn’tthe newest employee, given she had worked in Loughmore as a cleaner during her school summer holidays. But her protest had fallen on deaf ears in the buffet table raid.

Anyway, as the only female member of staff on the gardening team, and a conservation and heritage horticulturalist to boot, Ciara knew that, apart from Sean, the rest of the gardening team were sceptical about her role and her ideas.

Only yesterday there had been a stand-off between her and one of the others, who had wanted to cut some holly for decorating the castle. Ciara had tried to explain to him just how important the holly and its berries were for the birds and small animals, both as a source for food and shelter, but her colleague had shaken his head and muttered, ‘You’re pure cracked, Ciara…’ before walking away.

So, ignoring the screaming alarm bells in her brain, she had grabbed hold of the angel and begun the climb. It was only when she’d been halfway up the stepladder that the voice of reason in her head had finally broken through her indignation at her co-workers and pointed out that she was terrified of heights.

But now, determined to continue on, aided by the combination of singing and her refusal to look down, she soon reached the top of the tree. Gingerly she leant into the branches, trying her best to ignore the pine needles stabbing against her bare forearms.

The ladder wobbled ever so slightly. Below her she heard a few gasps.

‘Steady now…take it easy,’ Sean called up.

Ciara leant in even further, keen to get the job over and done with. Inching forward, she managed to place the angel on the top branch, using her fingertips to straighten it when she slouched to the left.

Below her, applause rang out.

She’d done it!

Her elation lasted all of five seconds—until it dawned on her that she now had to climb back down.

Gripping the rails, she began her descent, her feet blindly searching for each tread beneath her.

The Christmas tree was positioned in front of the Great Hall’s vast Pugin fireplace and a gold over-mantel mirror. A few steps down from the top, in a gap between the branches, Ciara grimaced when she caught her reflection in the mirror. Pine needles were scattered in her hair and a smear of dirt stained the collar of her denim shirt.

And then she saw him.

Standing at the heavy wooden entrance door to the castle. Silhouetted by the late-afternoon burnished gold sky.

Staring up at her.

She faltered mid-step, her heart dropping to her steel-toecap boots and then catapulting back up into her chest.

Was it really him? After all these years?

Below her the idle chatter of the other staff died away.

Ten seconds later all hell broke loose.

‘Your Grace! I had no idea… I understood from the estate office you were to remain at Bainsworth until the twenty-ninth, as is tradition.’ Stephen, the head butler at Loughmore, was barely able to keep the panic from his voice.

Ciara just about managed to find the next step on the ladder before turning to face the scene unfolding below her.

All the crowd had shifted away from the tree to stand a respectful distance from him… Tom Benson… Eleventh Duke of Bainsworth. Under one arm he was carrying a scruffy-looking terrier, who was panting and wriggling in his eagerness to be let down.

The Duke had spent his childhood summers here in Loughmore, adored and indulged by all the staff. But he had not visited the castle for the past twelve years. The newer staff had never met him before, and even those who knew him seemed uncertain of how to greet him or even who they were dealing with.

For the briefest second he glanced up at her, those silver eyes giving nothing away. Ciara gripped the ladder rail even tighter, feeling completely off-balance. He still had the ability to make the world more vivid, more exhilarating, just by being in the same room.

He had changed. At eighteen he had been boyishly handsome, with brown hair deliberately too long and a restless energy that had never seen him stand still. Now his short hair only hinted at previous curls, and all that restless energy seemed to have been turned inwards, transforming him into a silent observer.

The intelligence in his eyes was sharper, his tall and lean athletic build more defined. The smoothness of his eighteen-year-old skin was gone, replaced by the hint of a five o’clock shadow and faint lines at the corners of his eyes.

His grey wool overcoat, gleaming black brogues and the dark suit underneath were in keeping not only with his title but also with his position as the owner of a chain of globally renowned restaurants that bore his name—Tom’s.

The last time she had seen him he had been wearing faded jeans and a crumpled polo shirt. He had caught the last flight from London to Dublin one late September night. Ciara flinched at the memory of that night and how they had argued. Across the hall she saw his shoulders stiffen even more, as though he was remembering that night too.

He flicked his gaze away from her and lowered his dog to the ground. It ambled away to sniff at a nearby pot plant. Then the Duke walked towards Stephen.

Both men shook hands before Tom…no, the Duke, as she needed to remember to call him now, said, ‘My schedule changed and allowed me the opportunity to travel early. My mother, the Duchess, and my sisters want to spend Christmas here in Loughmore…’ He paused before adding, ‘Away from Bainsworth Hall.’

Uneasy silence descended as everyone reflected on the reason why that would be the case.

Then, clearing his throat, Stephen said, ‘On behalf of myself and all the staff here at Loughmore, condolences on the death of your father.’

With a stiff nod of his head the Duke acknowledged Stephen’s words. Then yet more awkward silence followed as everyone waited for the Duke to speak. To acknowledge their condolences or to explain why he was here earlier than expected. Perhaps even to explain why he hadn’t visited Loughmore in years, or why it had taken him five months since his father’s death to visit.

But instead he caught everyone unawares as he moved forward and began to introduce himself to the rest of the staff.

Libby was the first in line. She blushed and smiled and thrust a plate of gingerbread Santas in the Duke’s direction. He declined her offer with a polite shake of his head.

Maggie, the head of Housekeeping, was next in line. Maggie had used to fondly scold the Duke as a teenager, for the endless mess he’d created around the castle—especially when he had friends to stay. Now she looked as though she wanted to hug him, as she had each summer when he’d arrived back from Eton. But the Duke held his hand out to her and formally they shook hands.

Forgotten by all and sundry—Sean and Libby having long neglected their promise to hold the ladder steady—Ciara had no option but to climb down on her own. Her already wobbly legs now felt truly un-coordinated. Her heart was unhelpfully lurching about her chest and the single looping question in her brain was slowly driving her to distraction—what on earth was she going to say to him when they came face to face?

When she was nervous her default setting was to joke and make light of the situation. Sometimes it worked, and defused the tension, but at other times it fell flat and she ended up looking like a complete fool. It was something she was trying to control, but it was hard to change a habit of a lifetime.

But maybe she was overthinking this. In all likelihood she was just a forgotten memory from his teenage years.

Long-buried memories accompanied each of her steps downward. Watching him cook in her gran’s tiny cottage kitchen, where his inventiveness as a chef had turned from a hobby into an all-consuming passion. Kissing him under the bridge at the far end of the lake, with the confined space, dim light and the trickle of water amplifying their laughter and chatter.

She remembered how Tom would climb to the top of the Japanese cedar in the Arboretum and dare her to join him… But even watching him forty feet off the ground had left her feeling giddy, and she would barely climb ten feet before giving up. And the way he would block out the sun when he leant over her as they’d lain in a mossy hollow they had found at the centre of Loughmore Wood, the affection shining from his eyes confounding her.

He had convinced her that the hollow had been created by a meteor. And it was there that her passion for native Irish plant species had begun. Later she would train to be a horticulturist, driven by the desire to preserve those plants and to conserve the historical importance of gardens such as Loughmore for future generations.Lying on that soft green blanket of moss, her hand in his, she had seen up close for the first time the intricate and delicate beauty of those often rare plants. Her gaze would shift from him to the breathtaking wonder of willowherb and Black Medick, and the world had been full of wonder and possibility and maybes.

But then reality would dawn and she would have to return to work. Dressed in her cleaning uniform, she would nod politely in his direction whenever they passed in the corridors of the castle, and he would do likewise in return. She’d tried to pretend to herself that she didn’t care, but deep down the easy distance he was always so capable of had made her wonder at the truth of their relationship.

Lost in thought, she clambered down the ladder—but her lack of concentration caught up with her when she was less than six feet from the bottom. Her foot moved to connect with the next step down, but she must have overreached because suddenly she was feeling nothing but open air. With a yelp, she clung desperately to the ladder. But in slow motion she felt her whole body fall backwards, and then she was flying through the air.

Her only thoughts were of the hard marble floor about to greet her and the ignominy of her situation.

Talk about making a holy show of yourself.

But instead of feeling her bones crunching against a hard surface she fell into a solid grip.

Winded, she threw her head back in confusion to come really close to those silver eyes.

‘You’re still a terrible climber, I see.’ His voice was a low rumble.

She tried to leap out of his arms, but they tightened around her. And she had to bite back the crazy temptation to say, Welcome home, Tom, you’ve been missed.

 

Cursing under his breath, Tom pulled the wriggling Ciara closer, trying to ignore the energy surge flooding his body at having her hip pressed against his stomach, her tumble of auburn hair softly tickling his wrist.

Other staff were starting to crowd around them, fussing over Ciara. He needed to make sure she was okay. He needed some space to think.

He shifted around and caught a horrified-looking Stephen’s eye. ‘Please bring tea to the morning room.’

He moved quickly away, Ciara still in his arms. Past the tapestries and family portraits lining the wide corridor. Not looking down. Trying to remember that he had come to Loughmore with one single purpose.

Boarding his private plane earlier that day, at the City of London airport, he had been determined to approach the next week logically. Even though he had done a double-take when he had seen Ciara’s name as he’d glanced through the names of personnel employed at Loughmore that the estate office at Bainsworth Hall had sent through, he had remained determined that he was taking the right decision in returning to Loughmore and making the announcement that had to be made.

But as he had wound his way from the outskirts of Dublin city and into County Wicklow, the Garden of Ireland, past familiar landmarks—the rolling Wicklow mountains, the hidden lakes, the silent narrow roads with towering trees and road signs for ancient monuments, the Christmas lights threaded across the narrow main street of Avoca Village, the doors of the brightly painted terraced cottages wearing Christmas wreaths—something had shifted in him.

And when he had come to the brow of Broom Hill and Loughmore Castle had appeared below him in the valley he had pulled his rental car to the side of the road and climbed out. Standing on the edge of a ditch, in the fading light of a winter afternoon, he had buttoned his coat against the sharp breeze carried all the way in from the distant Irish Sea with bittersweet memories confounding him.

Loughmore Castle hadn’t changed. It still sat proudly in the valley, its medieval tower standing pencil-sharp against the blue winter sky, the Victorian addition flanking it to the west, the Georgian courtyard to the rear. To the front of the castle sat Loughmore Lake, where Tom had learnt to sail and had had his first experimental kiss in the shadows of the boat house, with Hatta Coleridge-Hall.

To this day, his mother still dropped not so subtle hints that Hatta would make a good duchess.

It hadn’t been until Ciara, though, that he had understood what a kiss should reallybe.

To the rear of the castle, beyond the walled garden and orchards, lay Loughmore Wood. The place where he and Ciara used to escape to, to talk and poke fun at each other at first and then, over the long weeks of that final summer together, to make love.

Standing there on the edge of that ditch, with the icy breeze whistling around him, he had winced at all those wonderful and sad and painful memories and he had known more than ever that he had come to the right decision on the future of Loughmore. It was time he put the ghosts of his past in Loughmore behind him for once and for all.

And as he had driven through the imposing limestone arched entrance to the estate, and along the three-quarter-mile entrance avenue past the wide open fields, where deer were sheltering under oak and chestnut trees, he had been pulled back to his excitement as a child, when he had travelled to Loughmore each summer, relishing the freedom he’d got there, away from the ever-present sense of failure that had marked his schooldays.

His younger sisters, Kitty and Fran, had brought friends for company, and on occasions, to satisfy his parents’ insistence that he ‘socialise and network’, Tom had too, but in truth he had wanted nothing more but to immerse himself in castle life. He had driven tractors, helped bring in the hay and milked the cows. He had spent hours with Jack Casey, the Yard Manager at Loughmore’s stables, learning about horses, and even more hours in the kitchen with Jack’s wife Mary, at first devouring her home baking and then, to his own surprise, cooking and baking himself under her guidance.

She had grown nervous about his visits, politely asking what his father would say, but he had charmed his way around her resistance. In time he had learned of his father’s attitude to his passion for cooking but back then it had been his secret.

And then, one summer, Jack and Mary’s granddaughter Ciara Harris had blown into the estate—like a turbo-charged breath of fresh air. Funny, outspoken, often unknowingly irreverent, she had questioned everything. And for the first time he had seen that his life could be different…

A fire was lit in the morning room, where table lamps cast faint shadows over the pale pink embossed wallpaper. Before the fire on a Persian rug was a footstool, still bearing the business and scientific journals and periodicals his father had insisted were to be ordered for all three of the estate’s main properties—Bainsworth Hall, the two-thousand-acre main seat of the family in Sussex, Loughmore Castle, and Glencorr, the family hunting lodge in Scotland.

He lowered Ciara on to the sofa in front of the fire and stood back. Too late he remembered the time he had found her in here cleaning, and had dragged her giggling in protest to the sofa and kissed her until they were both breathless, hot with the intoxicating frustration of unfulfilled desire.

He shook away the memory and tried to focus on the woman before him—not the girl he had once known ‘Are you injured in any way?’

Immediately she stood and moved away from him, stepping behind the arm of the sofa as though that would shield her from him. She folded her arms and gave a wry shrug. ‘Just my pride.’

For long moments they regarded each other, the crack and hiss of burning wood the only sound in the room.

Ciara tucked a lock of her long red hair behind her ear and rubbed her cheek. She rolled back on one heel. as though fighting the urge to move even further away. She regarded him warily and then, in a low voice, asked, ‘How have you been?’

She’d always used to do this to him. Disarm him with the simplest of questions that left him floundering for an answer. How did you sum up twelve years?

‘Good. And you?’

She tilted her head, the deep auburn tones of her hair shining in the light of a nearby Tiffany lamp and answered, ‘Yeah, good too.’

A discreet knock sounded on the door to the room. Stephen entered, carrying a tray bearing a silver tea service and china cups. Storm bounded into the room behind him and jumped up on Ciara, his paws clawing at the denim of her black jeans.

He called to Storm, but the terrier ignored him as Ciara bent over and patted him, murmuring, ‘Hello, cutie.’

Stephen placed the tea service on a side table, along with some delicate triangular sandwiches and some mince pies, before awkwardly considering Ciara. Then, clearing his throat to gain her attention, because she was still chatting with Storm, he said, ‘If you are feeling better, Ciara, there is tea ready in the staff kitchen.’

Ciara straightened. Glanced in Tom’s direction and then went to leave with Stephen.

Tom gritted his teeth. ‘Stay and have tea here.’

Stephen did a poor job at hiding his surprise at Tom’s words but, gathering up Tom’s overcoat, simply asked, ‘Would you like me to take your dog away, sir?’

‘He’s called Storm—and, no, he can stay here with me.’

After Stephen had left, Ciara motioned towards the door. ‘I should go.’

‘Why?’

‘Staff don’t have tea with the Duke.’

‘I’m not my parents. I don’t give a fig about what’s the done thingor protocol. Now, have some tea and stop arguing with me.’

She looked as though she wasgoing to argue with him, but then with a resigned shrug she went to the side table and poured tea into two cups, adding milk to one. Turning, she brought one of the jade-rimmed cups, with the family crest printed inside, to him.

Black tea—just as he had always drunk it. Was she even conscious that she’d remembered?

He gestured for her to take a seat on the sofa facing the fire, and took a seat himself on an occasional chair facing the bay window overlooking the lake.

Ciara watched as Storm settled on his feet, his belly lying as usual on Tom’s shoes.

‘Why did you call him Storm?’

‘I didn’t. He belonged to my ex-girlfriend. When she decided to return home to Japan I adopted him.’

Ciara said nothing in response. Instead she sipped her tea quickly.

Tom watched her, still thrown by seeing her after so many years.

They had once been so close. Ciara had been the first person ever to ask what his dreams were, who had seen beyond his title and the expected path that had been mapped out for him from the moment he was born. It was Ciara who had encouraged him to follow his passion for cooking—who had challenged him to write to some of London’s top restaurants seeking an apprenticeship. She had been the first person to believe in him. The first person who had helped him see who he wasrather than who he was supposed to be.

But she was also the first person to have broken his heart; in truth the only ever person to do so. After Ciara he had been more circumspect in his relationships.

He could not go on reliving the painful memories of that time. It was time for closure.

Placing his teacup on a small walnut console table, he said, ‘I understand your grandparents have retired?’

His question elicited a smile from her. ‘Yes, they’ve moved back to County Galway. They bought a house in Renvyle—close to the beach. They love it there, but they miss Loughmore. Grandad especially misses the horses, and both miss the other staff. After working here for over fifty years leaving wasn’t an easy decision for them.’

Years ago Tom would have understood why her grandparents missed Loughmore. He had once loved it more than any other place on this earth. But what had happened between him and Ciara had ruined his love affair with the castle. Now it represented guilt and shame and pain.

But did the fact that Ciara was working here mean that she had been able to bury the past? Was she unaffected by those memories?

‘Is that why you’re working here now—did you miss it?’

Ciara gave a non-committal shrug. ‘I trained as a conservation and heritage horticulturist. Knowing how many rare Irish plant species there are at Loughmore, I applied for the gardening role that was advertised here during the spring of this year. You remember Sean? The head gardener?’ When Tom nodded she continued. ‘In the interview I told Sean about my interest in identifying and conserving the rare and threatened plants that are here. Thankfully he was interested in the project, and he also asked me to lead a programme to reintroduce heritage plants back onto the estate.’

‘All those days in the woods…’ Too late he realised his words.

Ciara flinched and looked into the fire, shifting her feet, clad in heavy boots, further beneath the sofa, as though she was trying to hide them.

In their last summer together, when they were both eighteen, their relationship had become much more than just friendship and flirting. It had started with a kiss in Loughmore Wood, as they had lain staring at the stars one July night. That summer had been wild and intoxicating. And special. They had made love several times. The first time for them both.

As the summer had drawn to an end, and he’d had to leave for his apprenticeship at one of London’s Michelin-starred restaurants, Ciara for her horticultural course in Dublin, they had promised to stay in touch. See each other over term-breaks. It had been much too early to talk about a future together, but Tom had silently envisaged a time when they would be together for ever.

And then one day in late September, as he’d dashed from his apartment into the rain, late for work, he had crashed into Ciara as he’d rounded the corner of his street. Delighted, but thrown at seeing her standing on Kentish Town Road as the bus he needed to catch sailed by, he had simply stared at her when she’d told him she was pregnant.

He hadn’t been able to take it in. He had muttered something about them working it out and that he had to get to work—that his head chef took pleasure in firing apprentices for being late. He’d given her the keys to his apartment. Promised to call her during his break.

Only hours later had he come to his senses. He had ignored the head chef’s threats to fire him for leaving early and, despite the cost, had taken a taxi home. His father had refused to support him in his bid to become a chef, telling him it was ‘beneath a Benson.’ He had even threatened disinheritance. Tom hadn’t known how he was going to support Ciara and a baby. But he’d known he would find a way.

His father’s stance on Tom’s career had summed up their relationship—he had never trusted Tom to make his own decisions, and dug his heels in when Tom went against his wishes. He’d pushed him further and further away, his disappointment and anger at Tom clear—so much so that since Tom had commenced his training they had rarely spoken to one another.

When he’d got to his apartment it had been empty. His frantic calls to Ciara had gone unanswered, so he had called a friend who’d got him to Heathrow within the hour. Just in time to catch the last flight to Dublin.

He’d gone to her mum’s address. But the house had been empty. He’d waited on the doorstep and at one in the morning a taxi had pulled up. Ciara, pale and drawn, had emerged first, followed by her stony-faced mum. Ciara had refused to speak to him and both women had gone into the house, the front door slamming behind them.

An hour later the door had swung open again and her mother had whispered furiously, ‘She’ll talk to you for five minutes. No longer. This is to be the last time you ever see her. My daughter deserves someone better than you.’

He had tried to hold Ciara. To say he was sorry. But she had quietly told him she had miscarried and then asked him to leave.

When he had refused to go her expression had turned to one of contempt. And icily she had told him of her regret at sleeping with him. That she had made a stupid mistake she’d regret for ever.

He had returned to London, and despite the humiliation and guilt burning in his stomach at her rejection, at how he had failed her, he had called her several times a week for months. But she had never answered his calls.

Now, he looked up as Ciara stood, her fingertips working against a smear of dirt on her collar. ‘I need to go and help with cleaning up after the tree installation.’ She paused and bit her lip, and then, tilting her chin, asked, ‘Can I meet with you tomorrow?’

‘Why?’

‘I’d like you to understand what we’re trying to achieve with both the conservation and the heritage programmes I have introduced.’ Her chin tilted back even further, and a hint of colour appeared in her cheeks. ‘To continue with the programme next year we’ll need a larger budget.’

He stood and walked towards the marble fireplace. The fire was burning out. He had planned on briefing the senior management at Loughmore first. But, given their history, and the way he had messed up everything all those years ago, the least Ciara deserved was his honesty.

Placing his hands behind his back, he squared his shoulders, turned back to her and said, ‘I’m putting Loughmore up for sale.’

  

• Text Copyright © 2018 by Katrina Cudmore
• Cover Art Copyright © 2018 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
• Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books S.A. Cover art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved.