Free A Castle of Dreams by Barbara Cartland Page A

garden!
    â€˜But Fergus is the Duke’s special boyhood friend!  So how could I possibly accuse him of such treachery?’ her thoughts rambled on miserably.
    She was just beginning to realise that her feelings for the Duke were growing day by day.
    Although she could see no future for them because of the horrid way fate had turned her from a poor girl into a very rich one, she knew that hurting him was something she could never do.
    And she recognised by the light-hearted way he had spoken to Fergus and Heather Lyall and by the way he had asked after their little boy, his Godson, that these fisherfolk meant a great deal to him.
    She could sense that the Duke would only ever give his trust sparingly.
    He had given it to the Lyalls.
    How could she be the one to spoil all that for him?
    Still deep in thought, she turned a corner and then stopped and gasped.
    In front of her was a flight of stone steps, leading down into a square walled rose garden.
    Everywhere she looked roses grew in wild abandon with great swathes of pink, yellow and red cascading over the old bricks.
    Tall standard varieties studded with crimson, white and apricot flowers, bushes of old roses covered in smaller bunches of white tinged with pink and yellow blushing into pink and a red so dark it was almost black.
    And on the air floated the most incredible perfume.
    Viola could hardly believe her senses.
    She ran down the rough stone steps and cupped the nearest rose to inhale the wonderful smell.
    â€œYou like yon flower, then, lassie?”
    Viola spun round.
    A very elderly man was standing watching her.  He was wearing old corduroy breeches and heavy boots.  His hair was sparse and white and he leant on a gnarled stick.
    â€œThese roses have the most amazing scent!  I have never seen such a wonderful rose garden.  I thought you would have difficulty in growing such fine specimens this far North.”
    â€œAngus will tell you he can grow roses anywhere!”
    Â Viola turned round, startled.
    The Duke was standing on the stone steps, gazing down at her, his dark hair tousled by the summer breeze.
    â€œYour Grace,” the old man wheezed and raised a knuckle to his lined forehead.
    â€œPay no attention to Angus McAndrew’s courtesy to me, Viola,” the Duke added.  “He has been a gardener here at Glentorran since my grandfather’s day.
    â€œHe taught me how to fish, how to shoot and how to ride a horse.  He even larruped my backside once when Fergus and I accidentally smashed a window in one of his glasshouses!”
    The old man’s eyes gleamed under his bushy white brows.
    â€œThat young red-headed devil was always up to no good, Your Grace, and draggin’ you with him, as I recall.  And you got the punishment, because he ran off and you couldna do so!”
    The Duke chuckled.
    â€œViola, this is Angus McAndrew.  You met his son, Stuart, yesterday.  Angus, this is Lady Viola Northcombe.  She and her brother – ”
    â€œAye, shipwrecked they were indeed, so I’ve been told.  Weel, you’re a bonny lass, that’s for sure, my Lady.  And you like the rose there, I see.”
    Viola was holding up a white rose, its petals tinged with pink, so perfect she could almost have cried.
    â€œIt is wonderful.  How do you grow them like this in such a harsh climate, Mr. McAndrew?”
    â€œAngus has green fingers – and is helped a lot by the Gulf Stream!” the Duke told her.  “It brings warm air and warm waters to this coastline.  Our temperature is far less severe than other parts of Scotland.”
    He reached over and snapped off a bloom.
    Angus handed the Duke a long knife and he swiftly stripped away the thorns and threaded the stem through the buttonhole of Viola’s jacket.
    â€œThis particular rose is called ‘ Grace Darling ’,” he murmured and Viola could feel the colour flush up into her cheeks as his