Winter Garden (26 page)

D
reamily Madeleine awakened to a dark, gloomy morning and the sound of steadily tapping rain on the rooftop above. It had been falling for two days, melting all the snow, which naturally made the roads a muddy mess that iced over during the night and turned the village an ugly brown color. Madeleine detested the unusual cold spell outside when she needed to brave it, but she cherished the warmth within the cottage, so much so, in fact, that she was not looking forward at all to this afternoon's meeting with Sir Riley that was bound to be the beginning of the inevitable end of her stay in Winter Garden.

Although she hadn't felt him leave, Thomas had already risen from her side and was probably preparing tea for them downstairs. She took the moment by herself to snuggle deeper under the covers, avoiding the chill in the air until she was forced to confront it.

She'd slept in the nude for the last two marvelous nights in Thomas's large bed, in Thomas's arms, on Thomas's pillow that smelled of him, in Thomas's room that so perfectly fit his personality. The room, in fact, was rather subdued in point of function but carried conspicuous traces of his personal elegance, such as his wardrobe of four fine woolen suits and complementary silk shirts, his carved, ivory jewel case that sat atop a finely crafted, gold handled, mahogany highboy that matched the headboard and a decorative chest at the foot of his bed—a larger bed than hers. And most striking of all, most captivating of all, was the notable oil painting—very old and surrounded by an expensive, gilded frame—of a large, peach-colored country estate at the bottom of a sloping hill. Emerald green grass and lush oak trees filled out the terrain encircling the two-story house. Colorful peonies, chrysanthemums, and roses lined the gravel path that circled around to the front marble white steps rising between two graceful pillars. Thomas had brought the painting with him from his home in Eastleigh, and it was the only item to brighten the four dark walls.

Sighing, accepting the inevitable, Madeleine finally dragged her body upright and shivered as the cold air came into contact with her skin. At the very same moment Thomas entered the bedroom carrying a tray and looking devastatingly handsome in a worn, ecru linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and navy trousers.

He smiled at her mischievously. “I brought you breakfast, but if you're trying to seduce me, it's working.”

She followed his gaze and realized at once that her nipples were hard from the icy air. “Yes, I rather enjoy
keeping a room cold on the outside chance of seducing the next gentleman who enters.”

He closed the door behind him with his left booted foot. “You'd seduce someone other than me?”

He sounded hurt, in a wry manner that made her smile. Propping up the pillows behind her head and leaning back on them, she said, “Only if he had more money.”

“Oh, I see…” Tray in hand, he walked to her side of the bed and, without looking at her, placed their food in the center of the mattress, beside her legs that were still beneath the blankets. “Funny, though, I would only expect a statement like that from a virgin. Or perhaps a widow. You are neither.” Before she could respond, he placed both hands on the coverlet, one on each side of her hips, quickly lowered his head, and took one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking it gently, expertly.

It had an obvious effect on her body, but she resisted with a little laugh and a push with her fingers through his hair. “You have made your point, sir. Now kindly let me eat before it gets cold.”

Groaning, he pulled back, then dropped a quick, solid kiss to her closed lips. “I brought enough for both of us.”

He stood again and grasped the handles of the tray as she positioned herself against the headboard, leaving her breasts bare to his view should he forget how much he enjoyed them. It was the least she could do, she thought with some self-centered amusement.

She turned her attention to the food. He'd scrambled eggs, fried ham, spread what appeared to be blackberry jam on thick slices of toast, and completed the meal with a generous portion of canned pears. He'd divided
the food between two china plates, and added two mugs of tea with cream and sugar. Undoubtedly delicious, and her stomach growled.

“This smells heavenly,” she praised with convincing honesty.

“Thank you.” He sat beside her, spreading his own napkin on his thighs. “Madam,” he offered with his palm.

She grinned and lifted a fork. “You're the only man I've ever known who cooks, Thomas.”

“Ahh, but you're the only woman I've ever cooked for, Madeleine,” he replied jovially.

“Really? So why do you cook for me?” she asked after swallowing her first bite of steaming eggs.

He shrugged a shoulder and studied his ham while he cut it. “Someone has to do it. Beth can't be here for every meal, and you're obviously too pampered to cook for me, at least for breakfast when you prefer lounging in bed.”

“Ha!” She fairly giggled, then leaned forward and kissed the side of his lips. “That's an excuse if I've ever heard one, Mr. Blackwood. I have yet to lounge in your presence.”

He grinned but added nothing more as they both focused on the food.

“Sir Riley should be arriving by four,” Thomas disclosed matter-of-factly, after a few moments of silent eating. “I imagine he'll be punctual.”

Madeleine tried to ignore the sense of unhappiness that managed to creep its way under her skin, while recognizing at the same time that this was the opening she needed to discuss the central issue facing just the two of them.

After swallowing a spoonful of pears and taking a sip of her tea, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and delved bravely into the subject of their real concern.

“You know I'm going to be leaving England soon, Thomas,” she reminded him quietly, although she knew he had to assume as much.

He didn't look at her but took a large swallow of his tea. “I don't know why we need to be discussing that now. Our work here isn't completed.”

That was true, and yet he didn't exactly say he wanted her to stay, which, by so evading the issue, had put the burden of explanation on her shoulders.

She had to be strong in her stand to bring their affair to a satisfactory conclusion, and now was as good a time as any. She didn't want to part enemies, because truthfully she didn't really want to part at all. What she'd said to him after her talk with Desdemona was true. She
wanted
to stay here forever—detached from the outside world and encircled in the comfort of his arms. But she'd confessed that want in the heat of passion, and he should know that such wants, while desirable, weren't practical. Leaving was simply something that must be done, however unpleasant for either of them, and under the circumstances, she couldn't see an alternative.

With a long breath, she pushed her unfinished eggs and toast away from her. “Thomas, our relationship has been wonderful—”

“I think so, too,” he remarked casually, lifting his fork, piled with eggs, to his lips. “And far too involving to give up after such a short time. We have lots to learn about each other, Madeleine.”

She watched him fill his mouth and chew, regarding his food, not reacting at all as if she were serious. Setting a firm tone, she clarified her statement. “It's been a wonderful few weeks, Thomas, but affairs like ours always end. I'm not happy about it, but let's let it end satisfactorily, shall we? As friends and companionable colleagues? Don't make this harder than it has to be.”

He swallowed and wiped his lips with his napkin, looking at her again, quiet and evaluating for a moment, though his expression had intensified. He no longer appeared quite so congenial.

“Classifying what we've shared intimately as a simple affair is awfully convenient for you, isn't it?” he returned dryly, becoming disinterested in the remainder of his breakfast as he lowered his plate to the tray. “It allows you to return home, your time in England neatly tied up into a little package of delightful memories that you can tuck away in the back of your mind while you revert to your private, uncomplicated life.”

That irritated her, perhaps because he was all too close to conveying the truth, though she would never admit that to him. She also didn't want to argue the point. Regardless of their personal feelings, she needed to remain pragmatic.

Folding her hands primly in her lap, she tried again to clarify. “I didn't mean to imply that what we've had between us has been fanciful or unimportant, only that it hasn't…” Her forehead creased as she attempted to find the right words. “It hasn't been very practical in terms of finality. We both knew this love affair would end sometime.”

“Did we?” He looked at her blankly, features flat.
“So this relationship, to you, is impractical because you thought of it as temporary?”

The more he talked in circles, the more irritated she became, and all the more flustered. “The relationship itself has been practical in that we both found comfort and companionship in each other's arms for a time.
Continuing
it would be impractical.”

“I see.”

When he said nothing more, she decided to add in explanation, “I think it would be more accurate to describe our relationship as a short, enjoyable…escapade, with memories we'll both treasure for years to come.”

He remained silent for another second or two, but he peered into her eyes, almost intrusively. It made her uncomfortable.

“Tell me, Maddie,” he murmured, his voice becoming resonant in the small room, “how do you feel about France?”

That bothered her tremendously, although she wasn't sure why precisely. She did her best to hide it by stalling. “I'm not sure what you want me to say—”

“Just answer the question,” he insisted.

After a moment of edginess, she fairly announced, “I enjoy its warmth, of course. I miss that and my home in Marseille, my personal things, my work—”

“That's a very superficial answer,” he cut in rather sharply, “and not what I asked you.”

She squirmed a little and dropped her lashes to avoid his gaze, studying the tight weave of the dark blue sheets, refusing to respond to a query that concerned very complex and deep-seated feelings of anguish and longing and resentment—toward her mother for ignor
ing her goodness, her father for leaving her time and again and finally forever, for her childhood of which she had been robbed, and her past in a country that offered her, in itself, nothing.

Instead, she whispered, “Desdemona thinks you're in love with me.”

The air between them shifted violently, like a fierce, blustering thunderstorm. She could positively feel the abrupt static charge as the blood began to surge through her veins and her words, and fears, hit their target.

“Is it true?” she urged in a silky wisp of hope, her apprehension about his forthcoming answer probably apparent in her somewhat ill-confident voice.

Huskily, seconds later, he whispered, “Would you stay in England if I said I was?”

Her eyes shot up to meet his, and were suddenly seized by his flagrant, torrid gaze.

She caught her breath; her skin flushed and her heart fluttered. Then the truth revealed its ugly self, and all flickering hope died within her. She understood his desires all too clearly. “Would you lie to me to keep me here? I make a marvelous plaything, don't I, Thomas?”

He shook his head slowly and sneered with disgust, leaning back on his palms, though he never glanced away. “Is that what you think I want? You've insulted me by insulting my opinion of you, my feelings for you, but I'm going to ignore it,” he maintained grimly, his dark, heated eyes steady as they blatantly challenged her. “I have more at stake by answering your question about love than you do in hearing that answer, Madeleine. So I'll ask you again: If I professed a great love for you, would you stay in England?”

His continued ambiguity made her truly frustrated
and angry to the point where she could no longer avoid revealing it. “Remain in England to do what? Be your ready mistress? Marry you? Become the devoted wife to a…a…middle-aged, intellectual spy, while we roam the countryside solving crimes together when we're not entertaining our neighbors at tea? Where would we live? A small cottage in a tiny village in Eastleigh? How would we spend our days? Our evenings?” Her voice became frigid. “I do not knit, garden, or mother children, Thomas. Regardless of love, there has to be more substance to an extended relationship than enjoying one another's company while playing chess.”

His eyes grew caustic and stormy, narrowing to thin slits. “I suppose there's nothing more to say since you seem to find the idea of a future with me repugnant—”

“I do not,” she seethed in a quiet, controlled vehemence, sitting forward, mindless of the sheet and blankets falling to her waist, exposing her. “Do
not
twist my words to take the easy way out by making me the villain. What I'm saying is that I find all of
this
”—she flung her hand wide—“a fairy tale, and fairy tales may be marvelous, but they are for children, Thomas. In a few short years I will be middle-aged as well, and losing my appeal. What gentleman will want me then? Would you? Let us be very candid here. I am a used woman, a woman who has lived on my own, supporting myself and doing what was needed to provide for my necessities while at the same time attempting to keep what dignity I possess intact. When I was twenty, I found that opportunity in my work for your government and I took it. I won't give it up for love, for you, for anything or anyone, not because I don't want to, but because I
can't.
The only way I can protect my future is
to save as much of my income as possible while working at a profession where I am valued, where my position is secure. What I do is vitally important to my life in later years, my self-preservation, my commitment to my father's homeland, and most importantly my self-respect. My work is all I have, and I am needed—
needed
—in France.”