Winter Garden (16 page)

“You're well known at the Office,” he interjected, mildly amused, “and tremendously admired.”

Madeleine had suspected this, but hearing it spoken aloud for the first time, with what she could have sworn sounded like boastful pride in his voice, caused her throat to close with emotion.

“Even as a Frenchwoman?” she asked with quiet diffidence.

“
Especially
because you're a Frenchwoman.”

That was the greatest compliment of all. She leaned toward him, placing her palm on his upper arm, squeezing it gently, feeling hot skin beneath soft silk. Passionately she revealed, “I adore my work, Thomas. It's who I am, not merely what I do. If there is one thing I've learned in my twenty-nine years it's that love is fleeting, but who you are is not. I chose this path to live as a French spy for the British government because it's who I am and always have been. I will forever be comfortable with that, and I need nothing more to make my life worthwhile.”

For a full fifteen seconds he said nothing, just looked at her, absorbing the meaning behind her comments, perhaps attempting to rationalize the women he knew with the past she depicted. Then he cocked his head as if he didn't understand something, his brows furrowing
slightly, eyes gazing not into hers, but through hers, if that were possible, and Madeleine was struck with the distinct impression that he was attempting to peer into the deep recesses of her soul.

It made her uneasy, and she withdrew her hand, backing away from him a little.

“I think, Maddie,” he said soothingly, “that for you love is fleeting because you have never truly allowed it in here”—he touched her temple with his fingertips—“or in here.” His hand moved down her neck, slowly, gently, until he placed his palm over her heart, between her breasts. “Until you do you will be an excellent informant for the Crown, a good friend to those you care about, a respectable French citizen on the surface and a worthy Englishwoman beneath it, but you will never know
who
you are until you recognize that you are valued beyond the superficial, that you are loved.”

Her body stilled except for the tiniest of tremors that shot through her belly and into her extremities. Of course, he didn't comprehend her longings and dreams, her ambitions, but then neither did she comprehend him. He talked in circles, as did most men of her experience, especially when discussing love.

“I'm not loved by anyone now, Thomas,” she uttered grimly in explanation, “and I am happy and content. My work is my life. It's rewarding and fulfilling. I need nothing more.”

He inhaled deeply then blew it out through tight lips, his hand still resting against her chest. “You will never know if you are loved, because you're not open to it. Your work means everything to you because it's safe, Madeleine. It can't disappoint and abuse you like your mother. It can't die and leave you lonely and afraid like
your father did. Love does that, but a profession will not.”

He leaned so very close to her that she felt his penetrating heat and saw firelight sparkle in the center black circles of his eyes.

“A profession pays your debts,” he articulated in a gruff whisper, rubbing her collarbone with his fingers, “and satisfies your need to personally succeed and do something for the betterment of society. But love expands your soul with something inexplicably fulfilling. If you die without ever having experienced it, you will miss life's only true joy.”

Madeleine felt her heart stop. For one second in time. And then it raced, which he certainly felt beneath his palm.

His seriousness was extraordinary, his look both evaluating and bold. Dangerous. A very small part of her wanted to run, to leave his presence and return to the safety of her room, maybe even her home in France. The larger part of her, however, the daring and irrational part, wanted to reach for him now, fold herself in his embrace, kiss him with a renewed power and the craving for something greater, and never let him go.

He sensed it, too, or saw the indecision in her shadowed expression, for quite suddenly he lifted his hand and traced her lips with his thumb, back and forth along the lush curves.

She faltered, swaying into it, losing the battle.

“I have something for you,” he murmured, breaking the spell. “A Christmas gift.”

She never glanced away from his beautiful eyes, so shaken by his mood and concern, his sheer maleness, and she had no idea what to say.

Reluctantly he withdrew from her and stood. He drained his brandy snifter in one swallow, then disappeared up the stairs to his room, returning momentarily with a large white box in his hands, tied with a blue satin ribbon.

A peculiar mixture of feelings darted through her as she reached for it—gratitude and amazement. Restlessness.

He hesitated before he let it go. “Promise me you'll keep it?”

His deep baritone timbre challenged her to deny him, and she took on a manner of total innocence, grinning broadly. “Of course. Why wouldn't I keep it?”

He half snorted, then released the box and sat next to her again, closer, his knee touching hers cozily, his arm on the sofa back, behind her neck and shoulders.

Swiftly Madeleine untied the bow, set it aside, then lifted the lid on the box. What she saw stunned her.

Inside lay a thick, woolen pelisse-mantle, as white and soft as swan plumage, trimmed in luxuriant black sable. She carefully lifted it from the box by the shoulder capes and stood, raising it to her chest and pressing it against her. Expensively tailored and figure fitting, six large black buttons closed it from neck to knees while the heavy fabric extended to her ankles. And not only did sable adorn the sleeves, collar, and hood, it lined the inside as well and covered a large, matching muff still sitting inside the box.

For a moment Madeleine was speechless.

“Do you like it?” he asked hesitantly.

“Oh, Thomas…” she whispered, incredulous. “It's…”

“Beautiful and elegant, and very much needed,” he finished for her.

“Yes.”

Huskily, he added, “Like you are.”

She couldn't believe he said that, or that he intended to give her this marvelous cloak so generously. Thickly she mumbled, “You bought this for me?”

His reached out and stroked the fur. “You needed something warmer than a traveling cloak, and I had a little money saved. I wanted to spend it on you.”

It had to be the most touchingly personal thing anyone had done for her in a long time. “Thomas,” she started, then took a very deep breath. “Thomas, it's a wonderful gift—”

“And you said you'd keep it. I'm so pleased.”

He'd backed her into a corner, but she had another reasonable excuse. “I'll only need a mantle like this in England, this winter. It wouldn't get any more use after that, I'm afraid.”

Slowly his lips curved upward into a crooked smile, his thick hair curling over his forehead, eyes charged with fire. He looked like a pirate suddenly, cleverly estimating her value.

“Maybe you'll be in England much longer than you expected, Maddie.”

The words flowed from his mouth like hot lava, making her breathless, stirring the heat within her. Now, sitting on the sofa, staring up at her, he exuded a sexuality so potent, so primeval, it seared her to the bone and refused to go unanswered.

“I have a gift for you, too,” she said in a silky purr.

His brows rose in faint surprise. “You do?”

Meticulously she folded the mantle and returned it to the box, setting it gently on the rug beneath the tea table. Then she turned back to face him, hands on hips.

He waited patiently, watching her, and she decided to take the initiative.

Slowly she began unbuttoning the neck of her gown, and his eyes dropped to catch the movement. He squirmed.

“Aren't you rushing things a little?” he asked with a hint of dry humor.

Madeleine was quick to note that he didn't say no, or stop, or that he had something more engaging to do. She tilted her head to the side and let out a very soft, throaty laugh. “I promise not to take advantage, Thomas.”

She had no intention of stripping completely; she sensed that this wasn't the time. Instead, she covered him with her body, straddling him on the sofa, her knees on the cushion beside his hips and her skirt hiked up to her thighs, pressing her sex against the long hard mass beneath his pants. Feeling that gave her plenty of instant satisfaction anyway. He was already hard for her, and they hadn't done anything yet.

“Someday, Mr. Blackwood, I intend to see you completely naked.”

“Someday, sweet Madeleine, I intend to let you.”

Smiling, she opened the top of her gown to expose her flimsy linen chemise. “My gift to you,” she said invitingly.

She leaned over and kissed him then, hard and hot. He embraced her immediately, wrapping his arms around her body, pulling her in tightly as his hunger mounted quickly and his breathing grew harsh.

Running her fingers through his soft hair, she traced
his lips with her tongue then inserted it into his mouth, deeply, teasing his until he grasped it and began to suck. She moaned faintly from that as he caressed her back and hips. Then he drew his palms forward and cupped her breasts over her chemise, thumbing her nipples until they hardened into deliciously sensitive points.

Lust consumed her, and she began to move her body up and down his rigid erection, kissing him fervently, her hands in his hair, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. He gently squeezed and massaged her breasts as they fit snugly into his large palms, breathing fast, his quiet sigh blending with hers.

When he dropped his hands to her thighs, she loosened her hold on him in silent invitation, and he accepted, pushing them up and under her gown. The skin of his palms seared her bare legs at the moment of contact, and he jerked free of the kiss.

“Ahh, God, Maddie,” he said through his teeth, “you're not wearing anything.”

Not under her gown, and she beamed inside as she kissed his neck and jaw, his chin and lips. “Push your hands up, Thomas, and you'll discover your gift unwrapped,” she whispered against his warm, stubble-coarse cheek. “It's been waiting there for you all day.”

He groaned in unbridled pleasure but did as he was ordered, slowly, so slowly she thought she might die of want—or grab his hands and force him to cup her mound.

When at last his fingers teased the curls that beckoned him, she took his mouth again and kissed him deeply, whimpering softly, inviting him with her body to enter in and discover.

He welcomed it. Suddenly his thumb found her
center nub, already so hot and wet, and he began to stroke it.

He shifted his body beneath hers so that he could feel her more intimately, then raised one hand back to her breast, kneading, pinching her nipple gently, running his thumbnail across the tip.

She toyed with his mouth, wove her fingers through his hair, then lowered her hands to his chest, feeling bunched muscles, lean, hard mass, and hot, hot skin beneath the silk.

Enough play. She was ready for more.

Madeleine pulled back and sat up, gasping for air, her body inflamed. She stared at him, only to witness his own inner heat as she rocked her hips against his erection and blissfully rubbing thumb.

His eyes were glazed, needy, begging.

She reached down to the buttons of his pants, and this time he helped her to quickly unfasten each one. She raised herself just enough so that he could slide his trousers down his thighs, exposing the stiff length of him, and then at last, very slowly, she placed her wet cleft on top of it.

That touch—burning, scorching, dripping with the scent and feel of sex—nearly pushed Thomas over the edge. But he refused to close his eyes and accept the pleasure without prolonging the enjoyment. He peered at her stunning face, so enticing and aroused, then put his thumb back where it belonged, on the tiny nub of her desire.

He stroked her again gently, slowly, as she towered over him, her cheeks flushed radiantly, her gaze luring him into the cresting wave of passion.

And then she did the unexpected. With one hand she
reached up to loosen the braid in her hair, with the other she cupped one of her breasts, still hidden by only the sheerest piece of linen, and began circling her nipple with her own thumb and fingers, squeezing it, rubbing it, watching him intently.

Thomas had never seen a woman do that to herself, and he caught his breath, swallowing painfully and biting down hard in an attempt to remain in control. He intended to climax inside of her this night, to experience her fully, not early, and not before he gave her something in return.

She reached for his free hand and placed it on one breast while she continued to caress the other. She was so wet where his thumb continued to tease, so beautiful, leaning her head back and moaning as she began to move faster against his erection.

“Now, Maddie,” he insisted in a rough whisper.
And my greatest longing will be nearly fulfilled.

She knew what he meant. Lifting her hips, she reached down and grasped him, encircling him with her fingers and palm before she placed the tip of him at her slick center.

“I've waited years,” he murmured, closing his eyes, not sure if he had said it loud enough for her ears but unable to help himself.

Without sound, she very carefully lowered herself onto him, drawing him inside inch by inch, to that place in heaven where dreams come true. His dreams. She was tight, heated, and ready. A small gasp escaped her lips as she took him in.

“Perfect,” she said wistfully.

The words touched his soul. “Perfect.”

She enveloped him totally, her muscles snugly closing
in on him in a marvelous, caressing fit. He would stay inside of her forever if he could. If she would let him.

Very cautiously she began to move. He followed her lead, stroking her again between her legs, steadying the rhythm. She leaned forward to kiss him soundly, drawing breath from him, heavy and ragged with desire.