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He must have recognized the same dedication in her, not only to a game such as golf, but also to the other passion that had blossomed up in her life.

She had been twelve when her uncle had brought home the picture book on gardens.

From that moment on, she had been captivated, reading everything she could get her hands on regarding the theory and practice of landscape design.

Walls had been scaled in the dead of night to view some rare specimen planting and agricultural tomes had been ploughed through to learn the basics of growing techniques.

Her aunt and uncle had been more supportive than most guardians of a young girl's interest in something other than knitting or embroidery, with only the occasional gentle reminder that there could be no future for her in such things.

But it had been Philp who had truly understood what it was to have a passion take root, how no amount of effort could weed it out of one's breast. During the countless hours she had watched him hunched at work, putting the finishing touches on his own masterpieces, they had talked of her dreams, of the marvelous gardens she could create only in her mind.

He had always encouraged her to cultivate such dreams, saying that with a little luck nothing was impossible.

For that she would always be grateful, and so she would never turn her back on him, no matter how onerous the challenge.

But why did it have to involve an Englishman, and a titled one at that?

She gave an inward curse, one even more fiery than the words uttered aloud earlier. Her boots rang a peal over the slick cobblestones as she passed the Tron in Market Square and turned down the narrow lane leading to her aunt's home.

There was nothing she could do about it, she reminded herself on catching the reflection of her scowling face in a rain-streaked shop window. It was silly to succumb to pointless anger.

Indeed, she had a feeling that she had better start practicing a measure of self-control. No doubt she was going to need every ounce of it during the coming weeks.

There was one other thing of which she had no doubt.

Her aunt might smile wistfully and say she possessed the same delicate beauty and unquenchable spirit as her mother.

However, she would never, ever make the same na?ve mistake.

She was not going to be seduced by a titled Englishman, no matter what sort of charm or prowess he was said to possess.

Especially if he couldn't play a decent game of golf.

Adrian stared glumly at yet another field filled with sheep.

A driving rain had turned the road from Edinburgh into a veritable quagmire, so that the progress of the coach had been painfully slow.

The landscape had seemed one interminable pasture, with only mossy drywalls or the occasional stand of forest to break the monotony of hay, thistle and sodden wool.

He vowed if he had to endure one more greasy meal of stewed mutton he would fall on his hands and knees and begin baahing like a lost lamb.

Which is exactly what he felt like at the moment—alone and helpless. And unlikely to survive the coming few weeks.

He had come to the conclusion that his situation was even bleaker than the weather.

Not only did he face having to master an entirely new discipline in a woefully inadequate amount of time, but the skills he already possessed would be sorely tested as well.

It had been devilishly bad luck that the commission for which he had been fervently hoping had come through just days before his forced departure from London.

The deadline for its completion was tight, so somehow he would have to manage to come up with a suitable inspiration while here in Scotland.

It would be no easy task under the best of conditions.

As if to echo his mood, a pelting rain rattled against the carriage window, sounding for all the world like a hail of bullets. Adrian winced. The notion of standing before a firing squad seemed uncomfortably real.

He forced his attention back to the pile of papers on his knees. At least he had found plenty of time to study the sheaf of plans he had brought along, as well as begin some preliminary sketches. Still, the enormity of the task was daunting.

"Did you know there is a yew said to be nearly three hundred years old in one of the private gardens in St. Andrews?"

Rafael's voice jerked the viscount back from his pessimistic thoughts.

"No doubt it will be the real highpoint of our visit to the city," he replied, hoping he didn’t sound too waspish.

His friend merely arched a brow in mild surprise and went back to his reading.

It was some miles before he looked up again. "Ahh, at last! Look, Adrian, we are about to cross the River Eden. That means we are not far from our final destination."

Adrian bit back a sarcastic retort. It felt more like he was about to pass over the River Styx into Hades rather than enter any sort of Paradise.

However, as Rafael had kindly offered to accompany him north while his cousin and uncle journeyed to Cornwall on family estate business—even though he and Jack would soon be leaving England to take up their military duties in the Peninsula—it seemed churlish to vent his ire.

His friend had endured the rigors of traveling north with his usual unflagging good spirits and deserved better than a crotchety companion.

"How very encouraging," he replied, trying hard to keep a note of asperity out of his voice.

"Now if only the Good Lord will grant us a minor miracle after such an epic journey and allow the heavens to remain unclouded for more than a passing moment.

Perhaps then it might be possible to begin swinging a cursed spoon or mashie, or whatever the devil you call the clubs.

That is, if I can manage to straighten my spine after this interminable confinement. "

Rafael grinned. "Oh, come now, stop talking as if you wear corsets and walk with the aid of a stick.

And besides, any odd cricks or spasms are no doubt due to the fact that you have spent most of the hours hunched over your books or your sketchpads.

A hot bath along with a good night's rest will put you right as rain. "

"I should prefer you don't mention that particular word," he muttered, but a reluctant smile pulled at his lips.

It was hard to remain blue-deviled in light of his friend's banter.

"But I appreciate your patience with me, Rafe.

And your company. God knows, you didn't have to sacrifice your own Town pleasures to trek to the wilds of Scotland. "

"We are friends, Adrian. Friends support each other in times of trouble," said Rafael simply. "Now, if you look over there, you'll see..."

Adrian allowed himself to be coaxed out of his foul mood by his friend's pithy commentary on the sights leading into town.

"Since this is your first visit across the border," added Rafael, once he had finished pointing out the landmarks, "you should be aware that the Scots are a wee bit different than those of us used to London manners.

They can be quite reserved—some may even call them dour.

And they have little tolerance for frivolous behavior?—"

"Then it sounds as if I shall have no trouble fitting in," broke in Adrian.

His friend fell tactfully silent.

The coach bounced around a bend in the road.

"What do you suppose they are hunting?" asked the viscount, indicating two men on hands and knees in the middle of a broad swath of cropped grass.

From a distance, they appeared to be poking about in a thick patch of whin with several long, thin sticks.

"Surely with the amount of racket they are making, any rabbit will have long since gone to ground. "

A hoot of laughter echoed inside the carriage. "They are hunting a golf ball! That, my dear Adrian, is the hallowed links of St. Andrews."

"Hmmph." Adrian crossed his arms. "Not much to look at. Why, there's hardly a tree in sight. What's all this nonsense about hazards and strategy? Looks to me like there's precious little to prevent you from simply standing up and giving the ball a sound whack straight ahead and straight back."

"Indeed?" murmured Rafael with a wicked grin. "I shall remind you of those words in a week's time."

"Hmmph."

A short while later they rolled through the West Port arch and down South Street, passing several intersections before turning right onto a snug street lined with linden tress.

On both sides sat a row of pleasant townhouses, their weathered granite facades still wet from a passing shower.

Rafael consulted a piece of paper he had pulled from his coat pocket, then glanced again out the window.

"There it is up ahead, Number Eighteen." He pointed to one with a large brass knocker in the shape of a thistle that distinguished it from its neighbors.

"The housekeeper comes highly recommended and has already hired a staff suitable for our needs.

Bowmont has also written to several of his acquaintances in town about our arrival so we may expect to dine out several nights a week. "

"Hmmph." Adrian knew he should muster more enthusiasm than that.

Rafael had gone to a great deal of effort to secure decent lodgings and staff for their extended stay while he had been occupied with arranging his affairs for such a long absence.

But the truth was, he was feeling even less sanguine about the prospects of this endeavor now that they had arrived.

The task which had seemed daunting enough in London now appeared, in light of countless hours of rumination on the way north, to be a fool's errand.

Fool, indeed!

His lips compressed in a tight line. Nobody but a fool would imagine he could master a complicated sport in a few short weeks, much less best an opponent who had been playing the game for years.

To have any hope of success, he would have to be extraordinarily lucky, and the thought of such dependence on serendipitous chance, rather than his own hard work, galled him no end.

He had spent most of his lifetime as an unwilling thrall to the Lady Luck, witnessing how fickle her attentions could be. His father might have chosen to make her his mistress, but he had always sworn he would never be seduced by such promiscuous charms.

The coach creaked to a stop, and Adrian realized he hadn't heard a word of what Rafael had been chattering about for the last few minutes. Quelling the urge to order the coachman to turn back toward London, he sighed and made to follow his friend.

"Come now Adrian, you are not usually one to shy away from a challenge. Stop looking so mutton-faced!"

The problem was, he felt just like a sheep being led to slaughter.