Should I go doon tae the dock and fetch the bookman, or do ye wish tae go yerself?" Gordon Fraser glanced up from beneath the brim of his Spanish leather hat, gardening shears poised in his gloved hand. "Early this month," he mused. "Aye." Angus's broad shovel-face remained inanimate. His hands, as always, were tucked neatly behind his back. "By at least an hour, master." Gordon snipped the rose he had chosen and placed it carefully in a basket at his feet. The Mary Jean, he called this hybrid, after his maternal grandmother. He glanced at Angus. "I should like to go." A frown creased his brow. "But I suppose it wouldn't appear seemly, would it? The Laird of Fraser Castle bounding down the hill as if in search of a new playmate." Gordon parted the thorned bush in search of another exquisite flower. "Nay. Go with ye." He shooed his manservant with the shears. "Fetch him, and I'll stay my distance until nightfall. We'll dine in the great room. It's so long since last I had a visitor." He glanced up again quickly.
