Winter Garden Page 4

  He was attending to business already, seemingly unaware of her desire to start the day slowly or perhaps to just engage in a few minutes of intimate conversation. But she could think of nothing to say for the moment that would be of a more casual or personal tone, which left her to do nothing but follow his lead.

  She gave him another vague smile. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Good.”

  He walked toward the kitchen, and she stood again, trailing him into the room boldly painted in colors of bright yellow and leaf green. The sink had been placed in front of one of the large, wide windows, having its own well-water supply—rather a luxury for them as they wouldn’t have to haul it into the cottage from the village well. Nestled against the far wall was the stove and next to it a small, square table of dark pine surrounded by four chairs. The scullery took up the space under the staircase that led to the second floor.

  They would have no servants, he’d informed her last night, for the simple reason that they wouldn’t be able to talk candidly with others in the house. That meant, of course, that although the vicar’s daughter would do the cooking, it would be up to them to set the meals and clean up after themselves. The good thing for her was that Thomas seemed ready enough to help and didn’t expect her to wait on him. Unusual for a man, but again, she supposed they were partners, not a married couple or even just lovers. Their relationship was nothing more than functional, and she wondered for an instant why she had to keep telling herself that.

  Thomas put the kettle on, and she helped herself to thick bread and raspberry jam. They sat together at the table for a few minutes, discussing with casual reference the dreary weather of the day and the general changes in season. Then he left her sitting alone to eat in silence, returning a few moments later wearing his own black twine coat and carrying her cloak in his hands.

  “I put your gloves in the pockets. I thought you could first just carry your mug and let the tea warm your bare hands.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, licking her lips of jam, noticing with satisfaction that he focused on the movement. She repeated it, unnecessarily and quite without intention—at least she thought so—and a slight frown creased his brows.

  “The water is boiling, Thomas,” she said very softly.

  His gaze shot back to hers, held it for a breath, uncomfortable in assessment, which she found uniquely gratifying. Then he apparently caught himself and swiftly looked away, laying her cloak across the chair and turning his attention to the stove.

  Madeleine finished eating, watching as he poured her mug nearly to the brim, adding sugar and cream for her as he’d obviously observed her do yesterday.

  Seconds later he placed her mug on the table in front of her and reached once more for her cloak. “Are you ready?”

  She nodded and stood, turning her back to him, and he draped it over her shoulders. She buttoned the front and then reached for her tea.

  Together they walked out the front door and into the cold, gray morning. The chill stung her cheeks, but with her body wrapped in her fur-lined cloak and her hands and fingers clutching her hot mug, Madeleine felt relatively warm on the inside.

  Thomas led her along the side of the cottage and into the garden area where they’d met yesterday. She followed a pace or two behind his slow but steady stride as he moved to the rear of the enclosed property. She could see nothing in front of her but trees and a wall of thick brush, although he knew exactly where to go. Finally he stopped at the edge of the cluster of bushes he’d been clearing yesterday.

  “You’ll need to hold my hand,” he remarked matter-of-factly.

  She looked up to his face. His gaze was once again forthright and unreadable, features neutral, as he held his palm out for her. She had never touched him physically, and she hesitated before doing so, for reasons not entirely clear to her. And yet, for him, it seemed a decidedly necessary action, meaning nothing of any significance whatever.

  She extended her left hand, but immediately they both realized she couldn’t step through the trees and bushes in her wide skirts without lifting them. Devoid of comment, he reached for her mug, gently pulled it from her grasp, then took her hand with his free one, wrapping his fingers solidly around hers. The contact was wholly unremarkable yet struck her with overt awareness. She held to him tightly, pretending indifference to his warmth and strength as she raised her skirts and followed him.

  She stepped cautiously along the narrow path well concealed in dense forest and covered with brown, moist leaves, avoiding mud as best she could, and within a few yards they came to another opening. Thomas pulled her through after him, and as he moved his broad form to enlarge her view, Madeleine found herself in a clearing of breathtaking loveliness.

  She stood at the edge of a small lake, shining a vivid dark blue, surrounded on all sides by bare oak and maple trees, and luscious green pines. To her immediate right she noticed a wooden bench, weathered but sturdy, facing the water in an enchanting spot where one could sit to enjoy the peacefulness of summer or winter, listening to the wind through the trees, the lapping shore, birdsong.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, still clinging to his hand.

  “Yes.”

  Madeleine glanced up. He watched her intently for a second or two, his hair hanging low over his dark brow, his warm eyes crinkled in a privately felt satisfaction. Then he leaned very close to her.

  “That’s Rothebury’s manor house,” he said, nodding toward the opposite shore. “He lives there year-round, and each morning at about ten he rides along the perimeter of the property, which encompasses the entire southern edge of the lake and stretches all the way up here to the left. The path takes him near the water, and he should be coming along shortly.”

  Madeleine carefully surveyed the home in the distance, assessing detail. She only saw the top of it through the trees but could tell it was old, three stories in height, made of light brown stone, solid of structure, and that it faced the water. From her vantage point it looked well tended and larger than most of the homes she’d seen in Winter Garden thus far, although the owner being a baron and permanently living in the area would explain that.

  Gently Thomas pulled her toward the bench. She stepped lightly on grass and leaves then sat gracefully on the hard, wooden seat, adjusting her body and skirts to give him ample room to join her. It was then that he finally released her hand, offering back her tea at the same time, then squeezing in beside her. She lifted the mug to her lips, taking a swallow or two, feeling his eyes on her but avoiding them with her own as she gazed out over the water.

  “I’ve accepted an invitation on your behalf for Thursday afternoon,” he continued formally. “Mrs. Sarah Rodney, the town historian, is hosting a gathering of local ladies for tea. She does this once a month or so, and members of the gentry and those of adequate social class are always invited. I called on her several days ago for something insignificant, with the underlying intention of informing her of your arrival. And, of course, she said she’d be delighted to meet you.” His tone lightened in conspiratorial amusement as he dropped his head close to hers. “Naturally, the invitation stems from Mrs. Rodney’s curiosity more than anything else. There will be plenty of gossip for you to garner, and they’ll all wonder about you since the only information I supplied Mrs. Rodney is that you are French.”

  She glanced up at him again. He was sitting very near to her on the bench, the edge of his muscled thigh lost beneath the folds of her gown; his shoulder brushing hers; his eyes bright with anticipation; his thick, dark hair still hanging loosely over his brow, which he didn’t appear to notice. Madeleine’s breath quickened from nothing more than his proximity, his deeply smooth voice and the virility he exuded with his overpowering stature. She wasn’t used to such a sudden sexual awareness of a man, and frankly didn’t understand her body’s response to this one in particular.

  “It sounds as if I will be enlightened,” she replied with only half interest in the topic, clinging t
o her cup, and the hope that he’d not realize how taken with him she had become in one short day.

  His forehead creased in frown. “Have you something appropriate to wear? I didn’t think of that.”

  His pragmatic concern waylaid her fears, and she smiled wryly. Just like a man not to recognize the attraction. “I brought one gown for each possible social occasion, but with minimal trunk space I could only carry three of them in addition to the one I wore yesterday.” Without thought, she admitted, “You will likely tire of seeing me wear the same things repeatedly.”

  “I doubt it,” he countered very quickly.

  That small compliment, coming from his mouth in honest disclosure, warmed her more than the tea in her hands. She stared into his eyes, almost brazenly watching him as he gradually became aware of what he’d said. Then he grew serious and looked away. “A translator wouldn’t have a spectacular wardrobe anyway. It will better fit your role if you appear less sophisticated and extravagant.”

  A marvelously reasonable answer, she mused; and what she herself had rationally considered.

  “As for today,” he continued before she could comment, “I thought we could walk through the village so that you can get a feel of it and learn something about the area, perhaps even call on one or two prominent residents.”

  “A very good idea,” she agreed pleasantly, taking another sip of her tea. Slowly she lowered her cup, studying the creamy liquid for a moment in contemplation. “Thomas, we’ve been together for nearly a day, sleeping under the same roof, taking meals at the same table, and yet we have discussed nothing more than our assignment and the weather.” She paused for effect, then added, “Don’t you think we should learn a few things about each other if we are to be living together indefinitely?”

  He turned back to her, and she raised her lashes to peer into his eyes, offering him a small, challenging smile.

  “What would you like to know?” he asked pensively.

  She was really hoping for more than that. “Are you married?” she inquired, trying to keep the tension from her voice and knowing that the question had been driven by agonizing curiosity on her part. It surprised him, too, but she really knew that only intuitively.

  “No,” he murmured in quiet diffidence, “although I was once.”

  Her eyes grew round with interest she couldn’t hide. She was also thankfully relieved he couldn’t possibly be aware of her enormous satisfaction.

  “I see,” she responded sedately, hoping he’d clarify. He didn’t disappoint.

  Breathing deeply, he leaned forward on the bench, elbows on knees, rubbing his fingers together to ward off the cold as he shifted his focus to the lake. “Her name was Bernadette. She died twelve years ago, giving birth to my stillborn daughter. I have one living child, William, now fifteen, who’s enrolled in a Viennese boarding school.” Faintly he concluded, “There’s really nothing else about me to know personally. I fought in the war, I work for the government now, and I live a very quiet life in Eastleigh.”

  “I suppose you miss your son,” she said rather than asked. “And your wife.”

  “I miss my son every day,” he admitted through a sigh, “but he’s a gifted violinist and needs to be where the great tutors are if he is to become great himself. Sometimes I miss my wife as well, but she’s been gone for a long time.”

  Madeleine grew cautious. She didn’t want to pry and yet she fully believed there was more to him than he chose to disclose. He was a complex man, that much she’d gathered, and his silence was a shield. Her best option for getting him to confide was to open up to him.

  “I was never married,” she revealed too brightly, raising her mug to her lips again. The contents were nearly cold, and she drank what remained then leaned over to place it on the forest floor. “I’ve never wanted to bind myself in such a manner, and I’ve never wanted children. I enjoy the life of challenge and excitement offered me by the British government without the necessity of being tied to a husband.”

  He gazed down to the thick grass, twisting his foot and pushing the sole of his boot into hard wooden twigs and fallen pine needles until they cracked. For a moment she was certain he almost smiled.

  “I would like to marry again,” he thoughtfully admitted. “There are many advantages that come with such a union—”

  “For a man,” she cut in, eyes glowing as he lightened the mood. “As a woman I would prefer those advantages outside of wedlock.”

  He glanced at her sideways, studying her face. “I’m not sure we’re discussing the same advantages, Madeleine.”

  She smiled companionably and sat straighter on the bench. “I’m sure that we are. I’m twenty-nine years old, Thomas, and French. I wouldn’t call myself naive. I refuse to be someone’s property to enjoy him.”

  Her first thought upon that admission was that he might be shocked by her very frank tongue. He wasn’t. For seconds he just looked at her, and then, for the first time since they’d met, his mouth grew broad until he grinned fully, showing near-perfect teeth and a face that looked years younger. Boyish. In that instant, sitting on the edge of the woods near a shimmering, peaceful lake, Thomas Blackwood charmed her, and she felt a slow rising heat within, deliciously comforting and ridiculously capricious.

  “Perhaps you’ve simply not met a man who warms your blood with the kind of desire that lasts, Madeleine,” he suggested in a deep, intimate whisper. “The kind that’s never satiated but instead makes you always yearn for more. The kind that makes you want to hold on and never let go.”

  The fact that he hinted at something she nearly felt made the heat rise to her cheeks. She blushed fully, which she almost never did. He recognized it, too, as his eyes once more grazed her features, his expression soft.

  She dropped her lashes and fidgeted on the bench, reaching into the pockets of her cloak for her gloves with more of a need for something to do rather than for the warmth they provided. She pulled one first over her left hand, then the other. “You talk as if you’ve felt that kind of devotion for a woman.”

  “Do I.”

  It wasn’t a question but a simple statement void of implying a needed response on her part. That made her slightly uncomfortable and even more inquisitive. She wanted details but bit her tongue to keep from probing, and in the end he offered nothing else.

  She sighed purposely, turning her attention to the lake. “Perhaps you’re right, Thomas. But I’ve accepted my station. I’m too old for marriage, and as I have never experienced that kind of devotion to or from a man, I have serious doubts that I ever will. I’m not sure I would even recognize such romantic feelings at my age. Passion, yes. Romance, no.”

  He shrugged lightly, which she perceived more than saw. “One can feel it at any age, Madeleine. Of course, it won’t happen if you close yourself off and never allow it into your life, but then that would be your choice.”

  His tone was casual, but his words were explicit, cautionary in a manner not meant to insult, vivid with meaning.

  “My work means too much to me, Thomas,” she countered somewhat defensively. “That must always come first.”

  He sat back, relaxing against the bench once more, crossing one booted leg over the other. “I understand that kind of devotion as well.”

  She was sure he meant that assertion. Yet he couldn’t possibly know the depth of hers, and she had no idea how to explain it to him should she try.

  Abruptly her attention shifted to the opposite side of the lake where a man emerged from a thicket, sitting atop a large gray horse as it meandered along the path toward them near the water’s edge.

  “Is that him?”

  “That’s him,” Thomas answered warily.

  Prior conversation abandoned, Madeleine leaned forward earnestly and focused on the baron, assessing him as well as she could over the distance. He wore riding clothes of dark blue, but he was too far away for her to determine their quality. His hair was sandy red and cut in standard fashion, his skin pale and clean-shave
n aside from long side whiskers, body average in size although his legs and arms were strong. His expression was hard with effort at that moment, but she could visualize him as the handsome charmer at social functions, and he rode with the experience of one well trained.

  As if on cue, his concentration faltered. He peered out over the water, slowing his horse’s gait as he became aware of them for the first time. He stared at them while continuing to move slowly along the forest path, no nod or wave of acknowledgment, no smile on his face, eyes black and shrewd. Calculating.

  He’s clever. And he’s watching me.

  A gust of icy wind unsettled the air, lifting fallen leaves and stirring them, rustling trees, rippling the water. Still he never took his eyes from them, from her. For the first time since she’d walked outside that morning, utter cold seeped through her clothing, chilling her skin, and she shivered.

  Thomas either felt or saw her reaction. In one even movement he reached behind her and lifted the hood of her cloak, slowly, running his palm along the edge then pulling it tightly in at her neck. The fur caressed her face, and she grasped it herself, her gloved hand touching his for several seconds until he dropped it again at his side.

  She pulled her attention from the baron and once more regarded the man beside her. Their eyes met, and a glimmer of something passed between them—not sexual exactly, but something with grave meaning she couldn’t quite grasp. Then, in a bolt of clarity, it was there before her, and her eyes grew wide in comprehension and amazement.

  The gesture he’d innocently made in raising her hood was more than simple gentlemanly behavior. It was as calculated as the look she’d witnessed from Richard Sharon, an overt move of direct intention. It meant possession, in a silent communication from one man to another. It meant possession. Thomas had acted, and the baron had seen it.

  “Are you ready to go inside?” he asked gently.