The Pleasure Garden: Sacred Vows\Perfumed Pleasures\Rites of Passions (25 page)

If she closed her eyes, she could almost see Christopher’s face looking down at her, his lips curved into a smile. She drew a deep breath, remembering his scent—tobacco and soap. Remembering the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed, his dark eyes filled with merriment.

A shiver worked its way down her spine as she recalled that idyllic week spent tucked away at the inn with her husband. They’d barely left the bed for two full days, and her body had come alive beneath his touch. They’d made love till she ached all over, till she thought she’d die from pure, exquisite bliss. In one week, she’d learned how to satisfy a man, and how to receive pleasure in return. Of course, she’d thought they’d have a lifetime together.

Instead, she was alone.

She’d had no visitors since her arrival at Orchard House save Mrs. Talbot and her husband. Her closest neighbors, they lived in the vicarage at the bottom of the road, and had been quite welcoming, despite the fact that Emmaline was a Catholic and chose not attend services at the picturesque village church over which Mr. Talbot presided. Besides the Talbots and Mrs. Babbitt, her acquaintance was limited to the various shopkeepers whose establishments she’d patronized for food and sundries.

Still, she could not remain a hermit forever. Christopher would want her to get out, to live again. But life would never be the same, now that he’d gone and taken a piece of her heart with him. She’d never feel whole again, like a woman again.

And then, like a whisper on the wind, came the all-too-familiar voice. She’d been hearing it for days now, every time
she walked past the garden’s walls. Emmaline closed her eyes, knowing full well that her mind was playing tricks on her again, that her self-imposed exile, her loneliness, was making her imagination run wild.

She conjured up Christopher’s image once more in her mind’s eye—his rugged face, his muscular body, his cock, hard and ready—and she reached between her legs and touched herself.

Her strokes were gentle at first, almost tentative. But as the vision in her mind grew sharper, clearer, she increased the pressure and tempo. The layers of fabric abraded her tender flesh as she continued to stroke her sex, imagining herself with her legs wrapped around Christopher’s waist, riding him hard as he whispered her name against her ear.

Her head tipped back, and she could have sworn she heard his voice, his breath warm against her skin.
Come, Emmaline. Come hard for me.

With a shudder, she climaxed. It took her nearly a full minute to catch her breath, and she remained there, perched on the edge of the bench, her damp thighs pressed tightly together. With her eyes still closed, she traced the Green Man’s face etched into the bench with her fingers. Though she could not explain it, she felt a strange kinship with him. It was as if…as if he’d been waiting for her. Watching her. Enjoying it.

Sighing deeply, she opened her eyes, her gaze drawn immediately back to the rose garden. As soon as she was able to focus, she reached for the edge of the bench to steady herself. Either she was imagining things, or the previously spindly, lifeless bush had suddenly sprung to life, its leaves lush and green, its thorny branches supporting perhaps a half-dozen tightly furled buds.

She blinked hard, willing away the improbable sight, but there it remained, as plainly visible as it was impossible. Her
heart hammered against her breast, her breath coming in short little puffs. Her vision swam, and her nails dug painfully into the rough stone seat.

A strangled cry escaped her lips as she rose on trembling legs and made her way toward the gate, wanting to get as far away from the garden as possible.

They were right—the garden was haunted. Either that or she’d gone stark raving mad.

2

“DON’T YOU LOOK LOVELY,” MRS. TALBOT SAID, patting Emmaline on the shoulder.

“Thank you,” Emmaline responded, smoothing her damp palms down the front of her best dress, a mauve linen drop-waist dress with a wide sailor collar. Paired with a cream-colored cardigan and knitted cloche hat, it was the most fashionable ensemble she owned, and she was glad that it met with Mrs. Talbot’s approval.

Still, she had to force herself to smile, wondering how she’d ever managed to let Mrs. Talbot talk her into this—attending Haverham’s annual Beltane festival. Just thinking about the crowds she’d no doubt encounter there on the village green made her stomach churn uncomfortably. She didn’t want to leave Orchard House, didn’t want to be paraded around and forced into small talk with strangers.

Oh, she appreciated Mrs. Talbot’s efforts, truly she did. The woman only wanted to help, to show the village her approval of its newest resident, despite the fact that Emmaline was an outsider in every way—an American, a Catholic. She liked both Mr. and Mrs. Talbot, found their company pleas
ant and engaging, even if they
had
been the ones to put the notion in her head that her garden was haunted.

When the roses had seemingly sprung from nowhere, she’d thought perhaps they’d been correct. She’d fled the garden and sworn to never return, to have someone knock down the walls and clear the fields, to remove every last trace of its existence.

And yet the very next day, curiosity had drawn her back again. She hadn’t imagined it; the buds remained on the single bush, beginning to unfurl. Only this time she wasn’t frightened by them. It was almost as if…as if they were a sign from Christopher.

And so she’d set aside her fears and begun to tend the garden in earnest. She put most of her efforts into the roses, attempting to coax them back to life. And when she wasn’t weeding or watering or pruning, she was painting. She’d set up an easel there by the bench, and painted the garden not in its current state, but in full bloom. The place had become her haven, her secret refuge. She felt safe there between those four walls—protected and secure, and somehow closer to Christopher.

But today she was forced to go out where she felt vulnerable and alone amid a sea of strangers. They would surely want to ask her questions that she wasn’t yet comfortable answering—about her wartime experience, about her marriage and Christopher’s death.

She took a deep, steadying breath, hoping to calm her racing heart, to tamp down her rising panic. Perhaps she should tell Mrs. Talbot that she’d changed her mind, that she felt unwell. Anything to avoid going.

“Come, now, Emmaline.” Mrs. Talbot reached for her arm. “Don’t look so terrified. I vow, it cannot be as bad as all that. Just a few hours and we’ll have you safely home again.
The villagers are so eager to meet you, and you can’t hide away here forever.”

“I know,” she murmured, wiping her damp palms on her skirt. “I…I don’t know what’s come over me.”

“There’s Mr. Talbot now,” the woman said, raising her voice to be heard over the sputtering motorcar that had pulled up beneath the porte cochere. “He hates the festival, you know,” she added with a shake of her head. “Calls it pagan foolishness, especially the pantomime. Which I suppose it is, but it’s certainly entertaining foolishness.”

“Isn’t it just some sort of May Day celebration?” Emmaline asked, still unsure about the festival’s origin—and why they would be celebrating a Celtic one in their little English village, besides.

“Exactly that,” Mrs. Talbot answered with a nod. “You see, a few generations back, a viscount of great wealth and influence, Lord Brearleigh, lived here at Orchard House. His wife was Scottish, and she insisted that the village’s May Day celebration should be a Beltane festival, instead. The young, besotted viscount was happy to humor his wife, and it’s been a tradition ever since. Anyway—” she waved one hand in dismissal “—Mr. Talbot only pretends to be scandalized. I’ve seen him watching the pantomime raptly when he thinks no one is paying him any mind.”

Emmaline couldn’t help but laugh at that, her fears eased a considerable measure.

Her neighbor rewarded her with a smile, her pale blue eyes full of warmth. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” she said, then pursed her lips, watching her expectantly. “Dearest Emmaline, the pain will fade eventually. I know it’s hard to imagine, but I promise that it will.”

“Are you certain?” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Mrs. Talbot nodded, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m
certain. Mr. Talbot and I had a son, you see. He was a sickly boy, born with a weak heart. When he passed, well…I thought the pain would eat me up inside. But as time went on, the ache in my heart began to fade, little by little. He’s still here—” she tapped the spot above her left breast “—but the hurt is eased.”

Emmaline reached for Mrs. Talbot’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m so very sorry.”

The woman nodded. “Just promise me that you won’t shut yourself away from the world. You’re far too young for that. Now come, we don’t want to keep Mr. Talbot waiting. All that pagan fun, remember?”

Almost an hour later, Emmaline relaxed beside Mrs. Talbot on the village green, watching the young maids twirl brightly colored ribbons around the maypole as the setting sun cast wide orange swaths against the sky. Mrs. Talbot had spread out a blanket on the lawn and unpacked a supper hamper, and Emmaline sat with her legs tucked beneath herself, sipping a glass of cool white wine.

“A pagan ritual, I tell you,” Mr. Talbot whispered, leaning across the blanket toward her. “I don’t know why I allow it.”

“Oh, pish-posh,” Mrs. Talbot replied airily. “Why don’t you leave us be, and go throw horseshoes with Mr. Hackley until the fire-lighting ceremony. Though I know you’ll hate to miss the pantomime,” she added drily, smiling mischievously at Emmaline.

“Always the same foolish story,” he said with a frown before standing and brushing off his trousers. “Perhaps I shall go join Mr. Hackley. If you ladies will excuse me.” Ever formal, he tipped his hat in their direction before stalking off.

Emmaline reached for a slice of ham and pressed it
between two halves of a flaky, golden biscuit. “Thank you so much for bringing supper,” she said, deciding between two different types of cheese. She chose a soft golden one, and sliced off a chunk.

“Oh, it was my pleasure,” Mrs. Talbot replied, reaching for a plate of tarts. “Here, you must try one of these. Sinfully delicious—it’s the sweet cream butter, goes right to the hips. But you could use some fattening up, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Not the slightest bit offended, Emmaline took two tarts and placed them on her plate, her mouth watering in anticipation. It was true; she’d grown far too thin. Since arriving at Orchard House she’d had to take in the waists of several of her skirts, and her dresses hung too loosely on her frame.

She desperately needed to purchase some new clothing, she realized, glancing around at the fashionable ladies and gentlemen surrounding her on the lawn. She’d bought most of her wardrobe before the war, and styles had changed so dramatically since—hemlines had risen considerably, and lighter colors and fabrics had come into fashion. Perhaps she could buy some pattern books and try her hand at sewing again. She used to be quite handy with a needle and thread, back in her youth.

At the very least, she could raise some of her hems, she decided, fingering the edging of mauve silk that reached near enough to her ankles.

“Ooh, it’s time for the pantomime,” Mrs. Talbot said with obvious delight, drawing Emmaline from her thoughts as several people in costume took to the makeshift stage before them.

For nearly a half hour, Emmaline watched raptly as villagers recreated the tale of the May Queen, the Winter King and
the Green Man. Love, lust, jealousy and greed—it all played out on the stage before them, resulting in the May Queen’s humiliation and subsequent death, and the Green Man’s imprisonment in the garden cursed by the cruel Winter King. The drama ended with a poem:

I am the wind, softly caressing her hair

the breath near her ear

whispering words of passion she yearns to hear

I am the hand cradling gently her breast

awakening inside what others cannot,

I not so humbly confess

I am the sigh as she offers me all

and with no reservation,

I answer her call

Reborn in her passion, but faced with remorse,

she turns from my arms,

and faces her betrothed

A duel, says he, as I dust off my hands

and comply with his challenge

for her reputation to stand

I am the fire burning bright in my quest

ridding the cold, dark of winter,

winning my May Queen’s breast

Yet before Darkness is finished, he utters one final warning,

and to his bride now banished

claims her death come the morning

You shall remain imprisoned in this dead withered place

as atonement for your sins,

and then to me he did face

No one will admire your seductions, kept hidden beneath the

vines

until thrice over you awaken

stone hearts and cause passion to entwine

When the last word faded away, Emmaline let out her breath in a rush. Was it just a coincidence—the withered garden, the voice whispering on the wind? Of course it was, her mind insisted. The story was just that—a legend, told and retold throughout the years. Still, a shiver raced down her spine. Before, she’d thought of the Green Man’s image as nothing more than a common garden icon—a symbol of sorts—but now, as she realized how he fit in with the legend, the fact that his image was scattered about her own garden took on new meaning.

She glanced up at the sky, surprised to see that the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the sky was now a dusky lavender hue. The temperature had dropped considerably, and she pulled her cardigan more tightly about her shoulders.