Winter Garden

  Adele Ashworth

  Winter Garden

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all the faithful readers

  who waited and waited and waited to read it.

  Thank you!

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  About the Author

  Romances by Adele Ashworth

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Southern England, 1849

  The cold, late-November wind slapped her face and whipped her lightweight skirt against her legs as Madeleine DuMais stepped down from her hired coach and onto solid ground at Winter Garden. She breathed deeply of the crisp afternoon air, briefly closing her eyes and pointing her face toward the sun as she wrapped her traveling cloak tightly around her, bracing herself against a chill to which she was unaccustomed.

  England. At last she was back in England. The smells of home fires burning and rich, damp soil lingered in her senses and her memory. The rustle of trees, the clopping of horses along the graveled road that meandered through the village teased her gentle thoughts of family, of where she belonged. This was her father’s country—her country as she liked to think of it—and where, if she could live anywhere on earth, she would reside for the remainder of her days.

  Alas, she was French, and life was not so simple.

  With a nod of acknowledgment to her driver, he placed her things—just two trunks—beside her as she stood roadside, then he returned to his seat to move on to the next stop. He could get the coach no closer to the cottage on the narrow lane, and since she couldn’t carry them herself, her possessions would momentarily have to remain where he had stacked them. No bother. The trunks were locked, and Thomas Blackwood, her new associate and a man she was soon to meet, could retrieve them for her in only a matter of minutes.

  The instructions given her yesterday had been clear. For the next few weeks she would be working and living at the southern edge of the village, in the last cottage on the right. From where she stood now she could see the waist-high, wooden gate, painted the color of spring daffodils, that surrounded the property. Madeleine pulled her hood forward to rest loosely on her head, tucking fallen strands of her windblown hair behind the dark fur trim. Then, holding the collar securely against her neck with one gloved hand, she lifted her skirts and lightweight valise with the other and began her short walk down Farrset Lane.

  This assignment had come as a surprise to her. She’d been wondering about it with building anticipation since she’d received the urgent note from Sir Riley Liddle, her immediate superior, only ten days earlier. It communicated no details, just You’re needed at home. Come quickly, alone. And she had, without question, because she longed for any excuse to return to England; but more importantly, she came because it was her work, and her work was all she had, was all in the world she cherished.

  Sir Riley, however, had had little to add to the scant information she possessed already. Her moments with him in London yesterday had been brief, for there wasn’t much known beyond scattered rumors of an unusual smuggling operation being conducted in or perhaps just through this tiny, enchanting winter retreat. Conveniently, smuggling happened to be her area of expertise, and the reason her superiors had chosen her to help with the investigation. It was also quite probable that they needed a woman for the work, since sending another man might have looked unusual, even suspicious, to village residents. Mr. Blackwood’s assumed identity of a retired scholar could be better maintained if he were sent someone to pose as his companion or nurse—any number of plausible occupations. She would leave the decision to him, and he would enlighten her with the details. She eagerly awaited the meeting between them that was soon to occur.

  Madeleine, in her own very worldly, sophisticated, elegant way, worked as a spy for the British government. She’d been performing in that capacity for nearly seven years, and she was extraordinarily good at what she did. Her position was unique, and she knew it. It also made her valuable. A Parisian by birth, she usually worked for the good of England from the quaint town of Marseille where she now lived. Her fabricated identity as the young widow of the mythical Georges DuMais—a trader of fine teas, lost at sea—was intact and believed by all who knew her. Her function involved differing interests, although most often it concerned uncovering various secrets on both local and national levels in the broad and sometimes dangerous realm of trade smuggling. Those in top English government positions had set her up in a beautiful home, near the center of the Mediterranean city where she was needed most, and from there she relayed all pertinent information to Sir Riley. Of course, this mission to England was a first for her, given the fact that she had been told very little regarding the circumstances, and because she’d never used her skills outside of France.

  She knew only a little about the village of Winter Garden. It was located just a few miles north of the southern coastal town of Portsmouth, nestled between low hills on all sides, which in turn kept it protected from harsh winters. Its lush grounds and mild, year-round climate made the location a haven for the English gentry, as half of the village’s population were those of the upper classes who journeyed there only for the winter months, using it as a sort of seasonal retreat. This in itself was unusual, especially during such hard economic times. As in France, most villages were inhabited by peasants, their conditions typically harsh and dreary. But Winter Garden had the reputation for difference, and from her first look, Madeleine could understand why. Loveliness surrounded her, the well-dressed walked the streets. Even cold as it was now, some greenery still flourished. It never snowed in Winter Garden, or so she’d heard.

  Still, she had to remember the serenity was an illusion, or she wouldn’t have been assigned there at all. Beneath the surface of this village a scandal brewed, waiting to bubble over. She would be the one to uncover it, with the help of Thomas Blackwood, a man about whom she knew even less than the mission itself. The only information about him provided to her was that he was a large man of thirty-nine years, he had been working for the government for roughly the last ten of them, and that he’d been in Winter Garden for several weeks already with no luck in learning much at all about illegal activities. He had requested help, and she had been sent.

  Madeleine neared the end of the road as the cottage came into view. It faced the morning sun and appeared to be a small, square, two-story structure, charming in its simplicity, and constructed of clean, white brick. Yellow shutters that matched the gate, open to allow daylight beams inside, defined large beveled windows. Empty window boxes in hues of rose and blue stood out as the only decoration aside from lilac shrubs and dormant rosebushes to trim the property, constant reminders of the warmth of spring to come.

  Madeleine unlatched the gate and followed the stone path to the porch partially obscured by an ivy-covered trellis. She placed her valise on the ground to her side, knocked twice on the front door and stepped back, glancing down her figure and straightening her skirt with a palm brushed against her cloak. Silly that she should worry about her appearance here, she considered; but then it had always been her gr
eatest asset, and she did want to make a good first impression on the man in whose company she was soon to be spending a great deal of time.

  For moments she waited, but the door didn’t open, neither by a dutiful servant nor Mr. Blackwood, confusing her a little because she knew she was expected. Then she heard the dull smacking noise of someone chopping wood from behind the cottage. Leaving her valise on the porch, she turned, pulled her full skirt up to her ankles to step cautiously onto the grass, and followed the sound.

  Tall pine trees hugged the property on all sides, enclosing it intimately from the observance of watchful neighbors. Lilac bushes lined the brick walls of the house itself. As she rounded the back corner, she took notice of both flower and vegetable gardens, recently upturned and laying dormant for the coming season. It was a lovely, secluded place, with thickly shaded areas for protection from heated summer sun, for insulation from brisk winter wind, made especially for retreat from the burdens of everyday life.

  Then she saw the man.

  Madeleine came to an abrupt halt and stared open-mouthed. It was a ridiculous reaction on her part, she realized at once. Yet she’d never before, in her very experienced life, seen anyone like him. The graphic sexual thoughts suddenly rolling through her mind actually startled her.

  He stood along the far end of the property, probably only ten feet away. His back was to her, legs spread wide in a chopping stance, naked from the hips up as he effortlessly lifted an ax and slammed it into the brush in an attempt to clear the overgrowth. He was huge of stature and beautifully muscled from his bunched shoulders and sculpted arms, through the cords of strength along his back, to his lean, tapered waist that disappeared into tight black pants hugging long, thick, booted legs. His skin shone with the sheen of exertion, from the sun on his shoulders, and although it was cold enough outside for breath to crystallize, he didn’t seem to notice the icy, autumn air as he leaned over and wrapped one enormous hand around a wayward vine while slicing the base of it with the other.

  Large didn’t begin to describe him, was Madeleine’s first coherent thought after once again taking control of herself. Sir Riley had understated the obvious, which seemed to be a continuing occurrence she probably needed to discuss with him. Or maybe it was just that Sir Riley hadn’t clarified that by large he meant strong, tall, broad. Not rotund as she’d assumed and expected. This man didn’t look thirty-nine or scholarly, either, at least from the view of his firmly muscled backside.

  The breeze shifted, blowing into her eyes the soft fur that lined her hood. Madeleine reached up and adjusted it, and it was at that moment that he realized she stood behind him.

  He tensed, the ax in midair. Then he let the handle slide through his fingers as the head of it dropped to rest against his fist. With a very deep inhale he raised his face to the setting sun. Five seconds passed. Ten. Then he turned his head to the side so that she only saw his profile as he spoke to her over his shoulder.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Madeleine.”

  His voice, so smooth and deeply vibrant, resonated a kind of poetic…longing. His words expressed only irritation at her late arrival.

  “Monsieur Blackwood,” she returned confidently, although her hands were clutched in front of her, fingers coiled tightly together.

  He drew himself up, standing rigid, and very, very slowly he finally turned to look at her.

  His eyes, thickly lashed and honey brown, probed hers with intensity. But it was the full sight of his face and immense bearing that took her breath. She wouldn’t call him classically handsome. Indeed, he was not. He was brutally so.

  His skin, darkly bronzed, gleamed from sweat; his hair, thick and nearly black, fell in waves behind his ears and down his neck. With bone structure perfectly proportioned in hard, set angles, his clean-shaven face drew attention to a deep, two-inch scar running vertically just to the right of his harsh, well-defined mouth. He looked like a warrior, sleek and untamed, sending signals of rugged masculinity as finely tuned as a concert piano.

  What made her strangely uncomfortable in his presence was not his overpowering size but his immediate and explicit disregard for her own physical assets. She wasn’t used to that. This man in front of her only stared unswervingly into her eyes. He never regarded her figure, her face, nor did he glance down to her breasts. He stared at her, into her, with unreadable features—big, square, hard—his gaze magnetic. Drawing. Madeleine shivered involuntarily.

  For seconds nothing happened. No further word was spoken, no thought conveyed. Then at last he lowered his eyes and placed his ax on the ground beside him. “I expected you by noon.”

  She composed herself as he tempered the mood. “The train was late departing the city this morning, and I missed the first coach. I only just arrived.” She licked her lips. “It’s a lovely village.” A ridiculous thing to say. She was a professional, here as his working colleague, no complications, and yet he unnerved her.

  He reached for his shirt of white cotton, hanging from a tree branch, and proceeded to pull it over his head and onto his perspiration-coated body. She watched the movement, studied the dark curls on his chest as they gleamed in sunlight when his muscles flexed, unable to look away.

  “Your accent is thick,” he said, stating an obvious fact.

  She almost smiled. “But my English is exceptional.”

  “Indeed.” He scrutinized her mouth. “The combination can be very seductive.”

  She shifted from one foot to the other, squirming from a suggestive comment for the first time in her life, delivered low and thoughtfully.

  He placed his hands on his hips as his gaze met hers once more. “We can use it.”

  It was so blunt a statement after one so telling that she had to blink, unable to formulate a suitable reply. Still, he hadn’t moved from where he stood, hadn’t asked her questions, and although he seemed genuine enough, he didn’t appear to react to her on a physical level. She wasn’t sure if that bothered her or not.

  She took a step toward him. “Perhaps, Monsieur Blackwood—”

  “Thomas.”

  She stopped moving and nodded once. “Perhaps, Thomas, you wouldn’t mind retrieving my trunks? There are only two of them, but my coach driver couldn’t get any closer to the cottage, and they had to be left at the top of the road.”

  The dark planes of his face tightened just enough for her to recognize hesitation on his part. Or was it just continued irritation? She couldn’t be sure. If she had to choose one word to describe him that word would be powerful, and with his obvious strength he should be able to carry her possessions easily. Yet he seemed reluctant.

  He reached for the ax beside him and lifted it again. Then in a one-handed thrust, he drove it into the hard earth at his feet. “I’ll get them,” he said in a tone of quiet reservation. “Then we’ll go inside and talk.”

  “Thank you.” The bright sun spread across her cheeks in its deceptiveness, but the icy wind blustered around her, down her neck, up from the bottom of her skirt. It was going to be a frigid winter, inside the cottage and out of it.

  With another quick glance into her eyes, he took his first few steps toward her, and that’s when Madeleine understood his reluctance all too clearly.

  His limp was pronounced, shocking her in a measure he probably noticed. Or expected. At first impression, she concluded it wasn’t a recent, healing injury. Thomas favored his right leg, although both appeared to be afflicted. From the way he moved, she knew it had to be an old wound that had likely left scars.

  “Thomas—”

  He paused in midstride, effectively cutting her off, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “It’s all right, Madeleine,” he replied in a deep whisper.

  Then he brushed by her so closely she felt the heat from his body, and she instinctively took a step away. He continued, though, without observing her unusual preoccupation with his physique, rounding the corner and heading toward the front road.

  Madeleine, who prided herself on her poise a
nd constant attention to detail, found herself thoroughly embarrassed by the exchange. More so than he, she thought. Her reactions to the man were so out of character, her blunder so tactless, their first meeting so odd. As she thought about it she became increasingly annoyed that Sir Riley hadn’t mentioned her new business associate to be an invalid. That really was something she should have been told.

  Madeleine turned, shoulders back, cheeks burning, and retraced her steps, walking through the grass and along the side of the house. Thomas hadn’t waited for her to follow but had already stepped onto the road and was well out of sight. She moved to the porch and stood silently, hands folded in front of her, refusing to watch him collect her things, although she was inexplicably drawn to do so—not because his injuries intrigued her but because the rest of him did.

  Within minutes she heard his uneven footsteps on the gravel. Then he reappeared from behind the trees that lined the road, and in his hands he carried both trunks, one atop the other, as if they weighed nothing more than ounces. Incredible strength.

  She moved her gaze from him to regard the freshly painted trellis as he stepped past the gate and onto the stone path.

  “Open the door?” he requested in a solid voice lacking any sign of strain.

  God, what was wrong with her? She should have done that already. Appearing to be a gawking, witless Frenchwoman was not at all how she wanted to begin their working relationship. He’d wonder at her competence.

  Forcing a confidence she didn’t feel at all, she lifted her valise with one hand and reached for the knob with the other, pushing the door open easily, then stepping quickly to the side to allow him ample room to enter.

  She followed him into the cottage, finding it at first glance to be more spacious than it appeared from the outside. Past the small foyer, vacant but for a brass coat-rack, she entered the parlor, the only visible room for entertaining, decorated sparsely in shades of brown and green. In the center, facing the grate on the west wall, sat an ordinary sofa in muted teal brocade, beside which rested the only chair, also of the same material, high-backed and padded generously, with a matching footstool in front of it. There were no paintings on the floral papered walls, although long windows took up most of the space along the north wall to her right. The hardwood floors were also bare save for the brown oval rug running the length of the sofa in front of the grate, held in place by a sturdy but ornately carved oak tea table. Between the sofa and chair, on top of a matching end table, sat a marvelous chess set, chiseled beautifully in coral and brown marble—the only thing in the room besides a few potted plants and scattered books that made the cottage actually look lived in.