Lone Wolfe (4 page)

 
          
Over
the years, as her father’s condition had worsened and he’d been unable to tend
to his duties—few as they were—on the estate, Mollie had taken over what she
could. She’d kept up the small garden surrounding the cottage, enabling her
father to exist in his own little make-believe world where the manor was lived
in and the gardens were glorious, the roses in full bloom even in the middle of
winter. Meanwhile, all around them, the estate gardens had fallen into ruin
along with the house.

 
          
Now
she walked down a cracked stone path, the once-pristine flower beds choked with
weeds. Sighing, she noticed the trees in desperate need of pruning; for many,
pruning wouldn’t even help. There was enough dead wood to keep the manor
stocked with logs for its fires for a year.

 
          
The
manor’s rose garden was a particular disappointment. It had once been the pride
of the estate—and her father—designed nearly five hundred years ago, laid out
in an octagonal shape with a different variety of rose in each section. Henry
Parker had tended each of these beds with love and care, so often absorbed in
nurturing the rare hybrids that bloomed there.

 
          
Mollie’s
heart fell as she saw what had befallen her father’s precious plants: as she
stooped to inspect one, she saw the telltale yellow mottling on the leaves that
signalled the mosaic virus. Once a rose bush had the infection, there was
little to be done, and most of the bushes in the garden looked to have
contracted it.

 
          
She
straightened,
her heart heavy.
So
much loss.
So much waste.
Yet there were still
pockets of hope and growth amidst all the decay and disease: the acacia borders
were bursting with shrub roses and peonies; the wildflower meadow was a sea of
colour; the wisteria climbed all over the kitchen garden’s stone walls,
spreading its violet, vibrant blooms.

 
          
She
found a bench tucked away underneath a lilac bush in the Children’s Garden. Her
father had known all the names of the formally landscaped plots, and he’d told
them to Mollie. The Rose Garden, the Children’s Garden, the Water Garden,
the
Bluebell Wood. Like chapters in a book of fairy tales.
And she’d loved them all.

 
          
Now
she laid her notebook on her knees and took out a pencil, intending to jot down
some ideas, but in truth she didn’t know where to begin. All she could see in
her mind’s eye was the weeds and waste … and her father’s lined face, concern
etching his faded features as he worried about whether

 
          
Master
William, long dead, would be disappointed to see the beds hadn’t been weeded.

 
          
Perhaps
landscaping the Wolfe estate gardens was too big a job for her. She had so
little practice, so little experience, and the thought of ploughing under even
an inch of her father’s beloved flowers and trees made her heart ache. Yet
clearly this couldn’t just be a patch-up job; the Rose Garden alone would have
to be nearly completely replaced.

 
          
Leaning
her head back against the stone wall, Mollie closed her eyes and let the sun warm
her face, the sweet scent of lilacs drifting on the breeze. She felt incredibly
weary, both emotionally and physically.
Too tired even to
think.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, her mind blank, her eyes
closed, but when she heard the dark, mocking tones that could belong to only
one man her eyes flew open and she nearly jumped from the bench.

 
          
‘Hard
at work, I see.’

 
          
Jacob
Wolfe stood in the entrance to the garden, his hands in the pockets of his
trousers. He wore a steel-grey business suit, his cobalt tie the only splash of
colour. He looked coolly remote and arrogantly self-assured as he arched an
eyebrow in sardonic amusement.

 
          
‘You
can’t rush the creative process,’ Mollie replied a bit tartly, although her
mouth curled up in a smile anyway. It was rather ridiculous, having Jacob
catching her practically taking a nap. She straightened, aware that unruly
wisps were falling from her untidy bun and her clothes were sloppy and old.
Jacob, on the other hand, looked cool and crisp and rather amazing.

 
          
‘I
wouldn’t dare,’ he murmured, and Mollie’s smile widened. Were they having a
civil conversation? Or were they—unbelievably—
flirting?
‘I’ve just been walking through the gardens to assess the
damage,’ she explained, her tone a little stilted. Her heart was beating just a
little too hard.

 
          
‘So
you’ll take the job.’

 
          
Now
she actually laughed. ‘I suppose I should have said that first.’

 
          
‘Never mind.
I’m glad you got right to it.’

 
          
Jacob
looked so grave that Mollie’s tone turned stilted again. ‘Thank you. It’s an
amazing opportunity.’

 
          
‘You’re
welcome.’ He glanced around the enclosed garden. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been
here before.’

 
          
‘It’s
the Children’s Garden.’

 
          
‘Is
it?’ He continued looking around, as if he’d find a stray child hiding
underneath one of the lilac bushes like some kind of fairy or elf.

 
          
‘I
always thought there should be something more childlike about it,’ Mollie
admitted ruefully. ‘Like toys.’

 
          
Jacob
nodded in the direction of the fountain that reigned as the centre piece of the
small space. ‘I suppose that’s where it gets its name from.’

 
          
‘You’re
quick,’ Mollie said with a little laugh. ‘It took me years to suss that.’ She
glanced at the fountain of three cherubic youths, each one reaching for a ball
that had just rolled out of reach. It was dry and empty now, the basin filled
with dead leaves.

 
          
‘Did
you come here as a child?’ Jacob asked, and Mollie nodded.

 
          
‘My
dad took me everywhere. I know these gardens like my own hand, or I did once.’
She gave a small, sad laugh. ‘To tell you the truth, it’s been years since I’ve
walked through them properly.’ She lapsed into silence, and when Jacob did not
respond, she cleared her throat and attempted to change the subject, at least
somewhat. ‘When are you hoping to sell the manor?’ she asked, a bit
diffidently, for she wasn’t even sure how she felt about the manor being sold.
It had been Jacob Wolfe’s home, but it had encompassed hers as well.

 
          
‘By the end of the summer.
I can’t stay here longer than
that.’

 
          
‘Why not?’
She couldn’t keep the curiosity from her voice;
she had no idea what Jacob did or had been doing with his life. Did he have a
job?
A home?
A
wife?

 
          
Mollie
didn’t know why that last thought had popped into her head, or why it left her
with a strange, restless sense of discontent. She shrugged the feeling away.

 
          
‘I
have obligations,’ Jacob replied flatly. He obviously wasn’t going to say any
more. ‘Why don’t you come back to the house? We can discuss whatever you need
to begin your landscaping, and agree on terms.’

 
          
‘All
right,’ Mollie agreed. She glanced down at the blank page of her notebook, and
wondered just how much they would have to discuss. If Jacob wanted to hear her
ideas, she didn’t have any yet. The sun was getting warmer as she followed
Jacob back to the manor, and while she felt her own hair curl and frizz and
sweat break out along her shoulders and back, she noticed a bit resentfully
that Jacob looked utterly immaculate, as unruffled as stone, as cold as marble.
Nothing affected him. Nothing touched him.

 
          
Was
that why he’d been able to walk away? To leave his brothers and sister, his
entire family, without
so
much as a backwards glance?

 
          
And what of his father?
Mollie felt a chilly ripple of
remembrance. She’d only been eight, but she remembered the furore of the press,
the gossip of the village, when Jacob had been arrested for the murder of his
father. In the end he’d been let off; everyone agreed it was self-defence. And
William Wolfe had been a brute in any case. The entire village had rallied
around Jacob, and there had never been any doubt that he’d been simply
protecting himself and his sister. Yet walking behind Jacob, Mollie could not
keep herself from thinking:
he killed a
man
.

 
          
Almost
as if he guessed the nature of her thoughts, Jacob paused on the threshold of
the house, turning around to give her the flicker of a cool smile. ‘I realise
that as we’re the only two living on the estate, you might feel, at times,
vulnerable. I want to assure you that you are completely safe with me.’

 
          
Mollie
flushed with shame at the nature of her own thoughts. They were utterly
unworthy of either her or Jacob. She might be a bit angry at him, and bitter
about all the lost years, but she was not at all afraid. In fact, there was
something almost
comforting
about
Jacob’s steady presence, and she realised that despite the fact he’d broken
into her cottage last night, she did feel safe with him. Secure. The thought
surprised her, even as she acknowledged the rightness of it.

 
          
‘Thank
you for that reassurance,’ she said a bit pertly, desperate to lighten the mood
even a little bit, ‘but it’s really not necessary. I know I’m safe.’

 
          
Something
flickered in Jacob’s eyes, and his mouth twitched. She might feel safe with
him, but Mollie knew she had no idea what he thought.
Felt.
He gave a brief nod and led the way inside.

 
          
Outside,
the manor was covered in scaffolding, and inside, Mollie could see how much
work was being done. The floor was draped with drop cloths, and ladders lay
propped against different walls; nearly all the furniture was covered in dust
sheets. From somewhere in the distance she heard the steady rhythm of a hammer.

 
          
‘You’re
hard at work, I see,’ she said, parroting his words back at him, and was
rewarded with a tiny smile, one corner of his mouth flicking gently upwards. It
was, Mollie realised, the first time he’d smiled since she’d seen him, and it
did something strange to her insides; she felt as if she’d just gulped too much
fizzy soda and was filled with bubbles.

 
          
Then
he turned away from her and she was left flat.

 
          
Uh-oh
.
She didn’t
want to be feeling like that, didn’t want to have any kind of ephemeral,
effervescent reaction to Jacob Wolfe. She knew what that kind of feeling
signified, what it meant.

 
          
Attraction.

 
          
Desire.

 
          
No way
. Jacob Wolfe was not a man to
dally with. Yes, he might exude a steady presence, but that control had a
ruthless, unyielding core. He’d walked away from his family and
responsibilities without a single explanation, had remained silent for nineteen
years, letting his siblings fear and think the worst. She could not, would not,
allow
herself
to be attracted to him even for an
instant, even if he was incredibly good-looking, even if she’d always thought
he had the same perfectly sculpted look as the prince in her old book of fairy
tales, except with dark hair and no smile.

 
          
Even
when he was younger he hadn’t smiled much—at least, not that she could
remember. He’d always seemed serious, preoccupied, as if the weight of the
world rested on those boyish shoulders. Of all the Wolfe children, Jacob had
fascinated her the most.
Something in his eyes, in his
beautiful, unsmiling face, had called out to her.
Not that he’d ever
noticed.

 
          
He
turned back to her again, and she took in the clean, strong lines of his cheek
and jaw. She smelled his aftershave, something understated and woodsy.