Winter Garden (14 page)

She hated the way he said her name. Caressingly smooth, pronouncing each letter as if he were making love to it. In its own way it repulsed her.

With that thought the image of Thomas came to mind—a man of integrity, so powerful, dark, and honest. She remembered his large body sexually hard for her; his moving reaction to touching her intimately. It had only been two hours since she'd seen him last, and yet she missed him. Now. Anxiously.

“Well, I suppose I should be on my way,” she declared through a sigh.

He chuckled, an oily, aggressive sound. “Impatient to return to work?”

She laughed softly, as expected, inclining her head daintily. “No, not really, but I suppose it is my duty to do so. My employer is no doubt wondering where I am.”

His features hardened ever so subtly. “I'm sure that he is,” he said coolly.

It took everything in her to reach out and clasp his arm with her palm. But she did, and he didn't move. She felt the tightness of his body even through layers.

“It is such a pleasure to finally meet the man I have
heard so much about in only the few weeks I have been in Winter Garden,” she admitted softly.

“The pleasure is mine, Madeleine DuMais,” he countered just as quietly, grasping her gloved hand with his own.

“Until next time, monsieur.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Next time.”

She turned, but he didn't let go of her hand.

“One more thing I forgot to mention.”

Madeleine hesitated and glanced back to notice the deep crease in his brow, his sharp focus now on the ground.

“Monsieur?”

“Your employer, Mr. Blackwood…”

She waited. “Yes?”

“Where is he from, exactly?”

He had to know, and yet he asked her. Why? “I believe he is from Eastleigh, only staying here for the winter months. But again, I do not know his personal life and habits all that well.” She paused for effect, then added, “Why do you ask?”

The baron shook his head briefly in apparent confusion, still looking at the twigs and dark mud at his feet, clinging possessively to her hand. “That's very odd.”

He wouldn't release her until he made his point, and for no discernible reason, her pulse began to race. “Odd?”

He never raised his face, but he lifted his lids so that he peered into her eyes, his now hard, hazel-brown circles of triumph.

“I have asked about him in Eastleigh, and nobody has ever heard of a scholar named Thomas Blackwood.”

Madeleine felt the cold seep into her bones. Rothebury was lying, of course, or he wanted her to think so. Had he actually suspected Thomas for more than he is and really investigated him? That was what she found most troubling of all.

“I'm sure there is an explanation,” she insisted congenially, trying desperately to control the shake in her throat. “Perhaps he hasn't been there in so long the residents have forgotten him. He is, after all, a traveled man.”

The baron's mouth curled shrewdly, and he squeezed her hand again, almost painfully. “I'm sure you're right. What I meant by odd was that nobody in the vicinity of Eastleigh has the surname Blackwood. That means his family is not from there. I only had someone check because I heard he is interested in buying the Hope cottage, and since it sits alongside my property, I was curious about the possible new owner. I'm sure you understand.”

She stood quite still. “Of course, Richard.”

“Maybe you could ask him about it sometime.”

She didn't reply, and he didn't wait for an answer.

With that he dropped her hand, faced his large mount, and in one effortless action, raised himself upon it once more.

“Words cannot express my delight in meeting you here this morning in the seclusion of the forest, Madeleine. I only wish we had more time to spend alone, getting to know each other.” His intrusive eyes grazed her figure once more, slowly, down and up. “You are an exceptionally beautiful woman, and I hope we'll meet here again.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps even at
night. It would be a physical pleasure to see your lovely skin illuminated by moonlight.”

That struck her like a slap to the face, at several levels, from the base to the professional. But most jarring of all was that in a manner she couldn't explain, she felt molested.

“You have been most charming, Richard,” she returned politely, her body unnaturally tense, mouth dry, unable to comment on his last remark. “And I'll look forward to my invitation to the ball.”

“And I, too, will look forward to showing you my…library. Until then, madam,” he promised with confidence. Then he was off, in the direction he had come.

Madeleine started trembling. Coldness oozed through her, and yet it was more than just a physical reaction to the weather. Baron Rothebury scared her, for reasons unknown. She had intentionally entered the web, and the spider had discovered her. Trapped her. Stalked her.

Turning, she walked calmly in the direction of the cottage until she knew he was out of sight. Then she lifted her skirts and began to run.

W
ithout intention, Thomas was gone most of the day. He, too, had bathed at the inn after Madeleine had left to meet Rothebury, partly because he was used to daily baths and refused to go more than two days without one while in Winter Garden, but mostly because he worried about Madeleine and knew he would probably watch her from the forest if he could. She didn't need that. She was perfectly competent, and the baron certainly wasn't dangerous, at least not at an initial meeting.

At late morning, Thomas called on Sarah Rodney, hoping to extract what information he could from her, as the town's historian, regarding Rothebury's property, only to learn she'd been in Haslemere for the last ten days caring for her daughter who had just given birth during a difficult confinement. She would likely be there until after Christmas, according to her butler.
Unfortunately there didn't appear to be any other way to gain information about the manor house aside from asking Rothebury directly or traveling to London to do some investigation. Winter Garden didn't have a specific place where legal records were kept that would date back to the time when the baron's family didn't own it. He could write the Home Office to begin checking, but he didn't want to. He would wait for now.

His next stop had been to the home of Penelope Bennington-Jones. Desdemona, who lived with her widowed mother while her husband was away serving his country in the Army, was a trifle under the weather, or so he'd been told. Penelope, though, seemed pleased enough to receive him. Overly pleased.

Since Thomas's arrival in the village the summer prior, he'd only called on her formally twice. During those meetings she had been cordial but aloof, treating him respectfully as a guest of both her home and community, as she must. This time, however, she was exceptionally sociable, which in turn made him highly suspicious. She was a determined woman, inquisitive to the extreme, and today she'd purposely kept him talking for more than two hours. Her questions were direct and about him personally—his background, his war service and education, his reasons for bringing Madeleine to Winter Garden. Of course, he and Madeleine knew their roles and how to respond to inquiries, having discussed them with each other, but what struck him was the abrupt turnaround in Mrs. Bennington-Jones. She'd been conversing with others in the village about them, and most probably to Rothebury. Now she was taking it upon herself to investigate. Thomas was sure of it.

By midafternoon he found himself in Lady Claire's hot, uncomfortable, raspberry-colored withdrawing room, sipping tea and consuming salmon paste sandwiches, listening to her endless chatter about her early days of marriage, her younger years when she'd been courted tirelessly by gentlemen from all parts of the countryside because of her wealth and beauty. Thomas believed it. The lady had probably been striking to look at at one point in her life, while she now wasted away from bitter loneliness, dying without heir or loved ones. He felt sorry for her in a broad sense, but did not pity her. She felt enough of that for herself, and if there was one thing Thomas understood, it was self-pity. He would have none of it.

But even during their lengthy afternoon together, he discovered nothing of any significance regarding the opium investigation. His initial intention had been to discuss Rothebury and her books, but the conversation continually drifted, no matter how much he attempted to keep it in line. In the end, he didn't think Lady Claire knew much of anything, except that the baron desired her book collection, which was indeed substantial, and that he paid a good sum for good books from time to time. Thomas found the whole business questionable, but he knew, as he left the lady's country house, that he would learn nothing more from Lady Claire.

Now, at nearly five, Thomas strolled through the village toward the cottage, unconcerned with the falling darkness and droplets of freezing rain that splattered on his bare head and neck. For all his social calling, he knew little more than he'd started with this morning except that he and Madeleine had become the targets of
town gossip during the last couple of weeks. Perhaps safe targets for now, but targets nonetheless. Questions were being asked, the well-bred villagers were roused, and the hunted baron sensed the bars on his cage. Exactly as Thomas desired, except for the passing of time.

And Madeleine. Madeleine, the lovely, passion-filled woman who always hovered at the center of his thoughts, who remained the biggest question of all. Did he have an influence on her? Did she need him yet? For anything? He didn't know.

Frankly he felt far too restless about their work together. She hadn't considered it as yet, but he knew their investigation shouldn't take this long, and eventually so would she. She would wonder what he did each day to move it along, why they were together so intimately on a case that didn't really need both of them to solve. Rothebury probably should have been arrested weeks ago with solid evidence that could have been collected much faster, by other means, but Thomas's need to have Madeleine at his side was the greatest desire of all, of any desire he would ever know. It had been his doing, his idea to bring her to Winter Garden, and Sir Riley had no standing when it came to his decisions. Thomas was the superior, Sir Riley the subordinate, and Thomas had chosen the path by which they would find the opium, or at least its smuggler.

Madeleine had already deduced that Rothebury was their prime suspect, and so had he, before she'd even arrived. But he needed the time with her. He tried to convince himself that their prolonged stay had little to do with his feelings for the woman, but, of course, it did. Selfishly he'd chosen this investigation to meet her,
to court her, to attempt the impossible, and that took time. He had one chance, and this was it. He would take all the time he needed.

Thomas smiled to himself in the darkness. She desired him with a marvelous hunger. Last night's episode had been indescribable, so unexpected, and his blood boiled even now at the memory. When he'd admitted his failure this morning, she'd neither laughed nor made light of it. But then he knew she wouldn't, which was precisely why he'd revealed it to her. She hadn't surprised him with her concern, and had stirred him inside with her tender desire to accept him as he was, to keep him from feeling embarrassed. He never would have told another human soul about his sexual inadequacy and lack of recent intimacy, but Madeleine had his trust, the pleasure of his life in her care. Madeleine had his heart.

He had hoped for a mutual attraction when she'd finally arrived in Winter Garden, but he'd never dreamed that she would be so giving, that her passion for him would be so fast and obvious. Knowing her as well as he did, he perceived her confusion about her feelings for him, the fascination she felt, and he wouldn't push her. If she were to want a future with him, her confusion would have to change to contentment and an inner longing greater than any she'd felt before. She had the strength, but it would be her choice. That's what scared him most of all.

Thomas spied the cottage up ahead along the road, wishing desperately he could run to it. He was soaked from the driving rain, his body numb with cold, and she awaited him inside.

Minutes later he opened the front door to the won
derful aroma of cooking food. With freezing fingers, he stripped himself of his coat and hung it on the rack.

Madeleine heard him then, for she rounded the corner at precisely that moment, wearing her simple traveling gown, unbuttoned at the neck, a white starched apron, and her hair down, tied with a ribbon at her nape.

Thomas stared as his heart began to pound. He'd never seen her so relaxed before and never lovelier. Always was she polished and…cultured. Composed. Perfectly poised and regal, like a queen on her throne. But now, standing in the foyer of this tiny, village cottage, she looked charming, young and untouched, pink-cheeked and adorable, a wooden spoon in one hand, a spot of flour on her chin, and her eyes shining with bashful contentment. Thomas knew this moment would stay embedded in his mind forever.

“I made an early dinner,” she said sweetly, breaking the spell. “Fresh bread, roasted pork with carrots and gravy, and baked apples. I'm not a very good cook, especially with English food, so there are no guarantees that it will be edible.”

Grinning, he shook himself from his thoughts and stepped forward. “I'm starved so I don't care what it tastes like.”

She quickly assessed him from head to foot. “You're wet. Do you want to change your clothes?”

Shaking his head, he countered, “I want to eat.”
And not leave your side.
Looking around the front room, he asked, “Why are you cooking? Didn't Beth come in today?”

Madeleine stiffened just enough for him to perceive it, and he glanced back to her face. She blushed now, averting her gaze.

“I sent her home several hours ago, Thomas,” she replied, shoulders tight. With a slight toss of her hair, she turned toward the kitchen once more. “She's far too young and lovely to be flitting around the cottage. I'm sure she has more entertaining things to do with her evenings.”

What did that mean? She couldn't possibly be using the right English word. “Flitting?”

She didn't answer him. He heard a pan rattling behind the door, so he followed the noise. The kitchen was comfortably warm, smelled heavenly. “Flitting?” he repeated.

Madeleine stood next to the stove, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand, not looking at him. “I'm jealous of her, Thomas.”

He nearly fell over. He really did. He had to grab the back of the chair to his right to keep himself steady, forcing his tongue to remain in his mouth long enough to think of something to say.

Madeleine was jealous of the vicar's daughter? Was she joking? Of course she was. Wasn't she?

No. She was being honest with her feelings, as always, and that awareness made him suddenly crazy with delight and satisfaction. But jealous?

“Why?” he managed to mumble in response, though it sounded like a croak in his throat.

Her back to him, she lifted her left shoulder minutely, stirring something on the stove that held her concentration. “She is young and innocent and far too devoted to you. I realize you would like to marry again, but I think she's too naive for a man of your experience. You would do better to look elsewhere. And I didn't dismiss her. I just didn't want her here tonight.”

It was a fast and rambling explanation, which meant she was likely embarrassed by her concerns. Thomas sat heavily in the wooden chair, noting the curve in her spine, the soft swell of her hips, marveling in what he was witnessing. This dream was getting more and more breathtaking. Madeleine was jealous of a village girl. A girl who meant nothing to him. Beth was…seventeen? Eighteen? He was nearly forty. Not that age ever made much difference for men of his station, but why would he want a naive girl when he could look at and converse intelligently with and…play chess with a woman like Madeleine?

He shook his head in amazement. Madeleine was jealous. Incredible.

Thomas cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his still-wet hair. “Maddie, you're the only woman who holds my interest.”

She turned very slowly, smiling coyly, gravy dripping off the spoon in her hand. “We work together, Thomas, but I am not young and innocent and certainly not the marrying kind.”

He drew a long breath. “What makes you certain that's what I want?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Don't all gentlemen? If you want to marry again, you'll need to find someone like Beth, only I think it would be more appropriate for you to find someone older.”

“You do,” he stated blandly.

She swept over that. “What you do after I leave is your business, but I still don't want to watch you flirt with her while I'm staying in the cottage with you. For reasons I don't clearly understand, that bothers me.”

Flirt? Him? She was being sincere, but irrational, and
he ignored it even as he tried to keep from beaming. “She's nice to me, not devoted,” he remarked without hesitation, boldly absorbed in her gaze. “And I would never court her because I don't want her.” Sitting forward and dropping his voice to a dark whisper, he revealed the ache of his heart. “I want only you, Maddie. Only you.”

Thomas took immediate notice of her reaction. She paled ever so slightly, her smile dimming with either confusion or disbelief, maybe both.

Then something changed in her. Very gradually she stood erect, her expression growing slack but thoroughly determined. She glanced away from him and placed the spoon back into the pot before reaching behind her to loosen the ties on her apron.

Thomas felt a rapid, rising tension in the air, thick and unexpected, the heat of the kitchen enveloping them. She focused on him again, brazenly, and he caught his breath.

Her eyes, blue as rain, caressed his, saturating them with contentment and pleasure and an unquenchable longing. He could feel it flow from her, and he didn't move, didn't say a word, refused to break the spell.

Silently Madeleine walked to his side, dropping her apron to the floor and reaching behind her head to pull the ribbon from her hair. That done, she lowered the top of her body over him as he sat in the chair, grasping the table behind him, straddling him with her arms.

She stared, examining him for minutes it seemed, taking in each feature of his face.

He felt her breath on his skin, and his body hardened with erotic thoughts, his pulse raced, his throat tightened.

Then she lowered her lashes and leaned into him. He closed his eyes, expecting her lips to take his in a molding kiss, his mind begging for it, body yearning. It didn't happen. Instead, she licked the side of his face, her gentle, moist tongue tracing a slow line up the scar at his mouth.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth. It was a surprise attack that filled him with the oddest combination of lust and triumphant joy. If this was a dream, it was the greatest of all dreams. If he was dying, it was a wondrous death.