Winter Garden (30 page)

“That's not true,” he said harshly, trying desperately to control his rising panic, feeling the walls around him closing in. “None of that is true. Nobody has ever laughed at you or scorned your abilities while you've worked for the Crown.”

She hugged herself, crying out in a wail of agony. “Oh, God, don't you understand? You've humiliated me, not just now, but in front of others, in front of my superiors, my colleagues! Can't you comprehend how difficult it was for me to get here? How exhausting it's been to stay in this position all these years? How hard it is even now to be accepted? I believed what I did was worthwhile and highly regarded, but now you tell me it has all been a lie. You've made me a fool and my work meaningless! You've played with my life, Thomas, and I am nothing! Nothing!”

He stared at her, stunned and dazed, blinded by her pain. “I
gave
you a life, Madeleine. You would have had nothing to support you if it hadn't been for me.”

“You arrogant
bastard!
” With that she lashed out, crossing the space between them in the course of a
second to slap his face soundly, to hit him squarely in the chest with palms and fists, over and over, crying, wailing. It was the first time he had ever witnessed her out of control, clawing, striking, and after a moment he grabbed her arms, holding them to her sides while she used all of her strength against him to attempt her release.

He refused to let her go. He deserved her rancor, her hostility, and the unrestrained sobbing that ripped his dreams into shreds.

Eventually she calmed, and he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, listening to her uneven breathing, inhaling the clean scent of her, feeling the thundering beat of her heart against his chest.

“My life for the last six years has been a lie, Thomas,” she whispered against his shirtfront, standing now stiffly in front of him, “and I will never forgive you for what you've done. I have nothing now, can you understand that? My work isn't mine, it's yours. I didn't secure it by my own cleverness, you did. I feel nothing for you but contempt.”

A sob tore from his throat as tears welled up again in his eyes, and he closed them to the wetness on his lashes.

“I have loved you for six years, Madeleine, six
years
,” he whispered fervently, his lips against her forehead. “I had one chance to give it to you openly, without constraints and interruptions. Please—oh, God,
please
believe that every feeling I've ever expressed to you has been the truth. I never wanted to hurt you. I only wanted to bring you happiness.”

For moments she didn't move, didn't speak. Then
she gradually pulled away from him, and he let her go.

“I am leaving England tonight, Thomas, for good, and I don't expect to see you again,” she stated coldly, spine erect and tight, face to the window, her features taut with misery, but her facade of grace and undaunted composure returned. “Since you carry such an interest in my future, let me assure you, sir, that I will be fine. You need no longer concern yourself with it.” She didn't look at him as she stepped past him and around the sofa. “If you'll excuse me, I think I'll retire to pack my wardrobe now. I wish you well, Lord Eastleigh. Thank you for your work on my behalf.”

He watched her retreating back as she turned the corner, the soft click of her heels on the wooden floor like a slowly ticking clock, the bolting of her door like the strike of a chisel into his heart.

He couldn't go to her, couldn't argue anymore. She would only converse with him coolly, superficially should he try. How ironic life was that he knew her better than anybody.

Thomas put his face in his palms and wept.

M
adeleine sat alone on a wrought-iron bench, across from the large round duck pond at the center of the Parc de le Papillon near the waterfront. Springtime had arrived at last. The surrounding olive trees shaded the sun, daffodils and roses and wild flowers bloomed. Children played contentedly, loudly, on the grassy areas off the busy roads, birds chirped and sang on all sides of her. It was a peaceful time, a time of renewal and excitement toward the warm season dawning. But as if in contradiction, in resistance to change, her soul remained troubled.

Casually she slipped off her shoes and lifted her legs so her bare feet rested on the bench seat, tucked under her gown. Then she rested her forearms on her knees, chin on her arms, and stared at the crystal blue water and splashing ducks in front of her.

Despite Marseille's temperate climate which she
generally preferred, she missed England. She missed the frost on the windows of all the old English dwellings, she missed the chimney smoke, she missed the quiet lake and the villagers, and the cottage where, after twenty-nine years, she had truly lost her innocence. But more than all of it, more than everything combined, more than she ever thought she would, she missed Thomas.

Life was really so ironic and ridiculous in a very humorous way. She should hate the man for what he'd done, and part of her did—a very small and gradually diminishing part. Mostly she just felt angry at him for remaining silent all these years then expecting her to approve of his actions of so long ago when he finally announced them. What did he think she'd say to it all?
Thank you for your amazing care and generosity? For giving me something I didn't earn but thought I did? I love you, too?
His naivete was rather alarming, but in its own way charming, she supposed. She'd had two months to think about it now, since the horrible night of her departure, and she'd come to terms with it, even understood his point of view to a degree.

She really didn't hold any animosity toward him any longer, and that was likely because, after careful consideration on her part all these weeks, she'd come to the conclusion that he had meant every word he'd said that fateful night in January. Whatever he'd done six years ago, he'd done so that she would have a better life, so that she would be happy. That alone meant so much to her because nobody, not even her parents, had ever cared about her happiness before.

She also realized that although her initial feeling that her work had been rendered meaningless was well
justified, it was probably incorrect. Thomas had given her the job of informant for his government when nobody else wanted to, but if she hadn't performed to top expectations she would have been pacified with simple tasks through the years. She hadn't. Her work had been very risky and difficult, her assignments professionally compiled and of the highest security. In fact, as she thought about it now, the easiest assignment she'd received in all her years working for the Home Office had been the one on which she'd worked with Thomas.

Madeleine smiled to herself as she considered that case. Her mind had to have been totally focused on the sensual pleasure that arrogant, charming, quietly intelligent, wonderful man had smothered her with from the moment of her arrival for her not to realize they could have set up a scheme for Rothebury to be arrested immediately. Or at least within the first few weeks. Truthfully, she hadn't been
needed
for the task at all. Thomas could have done the work himself with his false identity intact and believed by everybody in Winter Garden. He could have completed the case long before she'd ever arrived.

To acknowledge these things made her jubilant in a manner she didn't exactly understand. Never in her life had one person spent so much time, money, and effort on her behalf. If Thomas made her feel nothing else, she would always remember him giving her a sense of her own value above all things. She only wished, on lovely days and melancholy moments like this, she could tell him that.

She'd remembered him immediately when he confessed who he was. Their conversation of six years ago
remained vague at best, and she imagined it was mostly frivolous. But she would never forget the sight of him, the flat hopelessness she'd seen in the swollen eyes of the defeated, bandaged man without a leg, who sat in a wheelchair in Sir Riley's dim office and introduced himself as Christian St. James. What a beautiful, refined name, she had thought. She remembered him trying to smile at her, in so much pain from the brutal cut at his mouth, of stroking his hand once and feeling uneasy about being so forward but wanting to comfort him anyway. He had been a stranger to her, but she had taken to him because of the way he had looked—not handsome and powerful as he did now, but incredibly deformed and weak—because she knew how much beauty mattered to the outside world. She knew exactly how being judged by something you cannot change affects everything you are inside.

She would never see him again. Every time that popped into her head she got that ever-painful lump deep in her throat as her nose tingled and her eyes filled with tears. She hadn't heard from him in all these weeks and she had refused to write him. What would she say? She had been furious when she'd left, but she couldn't be sorry for that. Her fury had been justified. He was so hurt, though. He had loved her more than anyone ever had, and she had hurt him desperately that night. It would tear at her heart for the rest of her life.

But that same life, however difficult, went on. She just didn't know exactly what she wanted to do with it now. Marseille held no deep meaning to her. She liked it because it was her home, but she could only count social acquaintances. She had no real friends. Thomas
had been right about that. She'd never let anyone in for fear that they would leave. Marie-Camille was here, and would probably go anywhere she did in France, but the woman was her maid, and as such she'd remained in a subservient position to her and likely always would. She supposed she would keep working for the government, but even that had lost some of its attraction now, and would feel to her like work for employment, not excitement. That saddened her a little. Everything had changed when she left for Winter Garden, and nothing would ever be the same again.

She closed her eyes, listening to birdsong, ducks quacking, splashing in the pond, the bustle of traffic on the surrounding streets, children laughing.

Suddenly the overwhelming anxiety she hadn't felt in weeks reappeared, and her heart began to pound heavy in her breast. She put her legs down slowly, pulling her arms from her knees and wrapping them around her belly. Disbelief filled every pore in her body then quickly fled as the tears began to flow, first filling her eyes, then rolling down her cheeks uninhibited. She bowed her head and closed her eyes in wonder, in joy, for above every noise in the park, above every sound in the city square, she recognized the tapping of his boots and his slow, uneven stride on the sidewalk behind her.

Thomas had come to Marseille. He had come for her. Suddenly she didn't care about past deceptions or their individual struggles. All that mattered was them, together. Thomas had come to Marseille for her, and her world was once again beautiful.

Seconds later she felt his presence behind her, and with a choke of longing and a tremble in her voice, she
said softly, “I've been waiting for you, Thomas.”

For all the fear the moment brought, for all the hardship he'd endured in the weeks since she'd left him, every single second of the torment had been worth it to hear those spoken words, the same words, in fact, that he'd said to her all those months ago when he'd met her in the backyard of the Winter Garden cottage. She remembered them, understood them now, and was using them as a sign of her forgiveness. In all the years to come she would never know what that meant to him.

His legs were weak and throbbing, his mouth dry, his eyes scratchy and tired from days of travel, but he stood behind her, unsure what to do next.

“It's a beautiful day,” she offered, with only the slightest catch in her throat as she took control.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, his tone somewhat raspy.

She breathed in deeply and tilted her head toward the sun.

The urge to touch her was unbearable now, and so he reached out gingerly and placed his palm on her bare shoulder, bare skin, so warm.

Just as quickly she lowered her cheek and brushed it against his knuckles, back and forth.

“Madeleine—”

“Come and sit with me, Thomas,” she urged quietly, adjusting her body a little on the bench, her poise returning in full. “I've missed you so much.”

They were the sweetest words he had ever heard in his life, and he hoped desperately she wouldn't see just how much of a puppy he was in her hands.

He stepped around the bench conveniently made for two, and then without a glance to her face, he sat heavily next to her on the hard wrought iron, staring
out to the ducks in the pond.

For minutes they didn't speak, just sat closely beside each other. He felt her warmth against him, noticed the way her yellow silk gown clung to his legs complementing the dark blue color of his morning suit. But most of all he sensed the coming of a certain attainable peace for the first time since his accident six years ago.

“I'm still so mad at you,” she started confidently, breaking into his thoughts.

He inhaled sharply. “I know.”

After another silent moment, she whispered, “What are we going to do?”

“What would you like to do?” he replied at once.

He felt the heat of her gaze on his skin at last, and he bravely turned to face her. Her eyes were misty and afraid, longing so much for everything to be right as they entwined with the depths of his. He restrained himself from moving forward two inches and kissing her fears away. It was too soon.

“I can't possibly marry you,” she said weakly.

His heart nearly stopped beating. “Why?”

She shook her head and glanced down, picking at a loose string on his jacket. “You are an earl, Thomas. An
earl.
To marry you would make me a countess. I can't be a countess.”

“Whyever not?” he asked a bit more sternly than he'd intended. “Nobody I know is more suited for the title, Madeleine.”

The possibility, or perhaps just his manner, made her uncomfortable, and she moved her fingers to her skirt to play absentmindedly with a flounce of pale yellow
lace while her eyes shifted to the grass, away from him.

“I will be laughed at, and certainly not respected. I am a Frenchwoman, and to hold an English title…”

Her concerns were valid, he supposed, but they didn't matter to him in the least.

With a fast exhale through his teeth, he turned his attention briefly to the pond. “Madeleine, if you married me you would not be
a
countess, you would be
my
countess, and I don't give a damn what people think. Frankly, I'd enjoy watching the likes of Penelope Bennington-Jones curtsy to you. Such a vision would instill in me the knowledge that all is right with the universe. I just want you to be happy. I want us to be happy together, and I have never wanted anything more in my life.”

He felt her turn back to him and he did the same, capturing her tear-filled eyes once more with his.

“I love you,” he murmured passionately, reaching up to place his palm on her soft, wet cheek. “I've loved you for so long I don't remember
not
loving you, so I don't suppose that's likely to change. And because I love you so deeply, I'm willing to do what it takes to be with you. If you don't want to be an English countess, I will relinquish my title to my son with fond memories and live out my middle-and old-age years with you in France. Or America. Or Turkey, for that matter. I have plenty of money, Madeleine. All I want is to be with you, conversing with you, playing chess and loving you, for the rest of my life. Nothing else matters.”

“I'm carrying your child, Thomas.”

That statement took time to register, and when it did Thomas wasn't sure he could manage to keep his aplomb
intact. For a second he was certain he would cry in front of her. He stared at her, stunned, his heart banging against the walls of his chest, throat aching, clutching at hope.

“Do you want it?” he whispered, knowing it would shatter him if she said no, but realizing he had to ask. It could be their final barrier.

She smiled tenderly through the tears that sparkled on her lashes, her lips trembling. She kissed his palm once, but she never looked away.

“How could I not want and love something so precious that you have given me? I felt your love for me when I conceived this child. Even if you had never come here today, I would cherish it always.”

Speechless, Thomas knew he was very close to losing his composure. She sensed it, too, for at that moment she reached for the hand he still held against her cheek, tucking it between her own warm palms, sharing her strength.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I knew that before I left Winter Garden but I wasn't sure why. It took me all these weeks alone, without your imposing presence, to realize that I loved you so much not only because of your giving soul and intelligence and charm, but for no other great, complicated reason than because you love me.” Her eyes became fierce. “Nobody has ever loved me unconditionally, Thomas, accepting me for who I am. You do, and I can feel that love whenever I'm with you. I never want to be away from it again.”

It was all as he had ever envisioned, had ever dreamed. He couldn't possibly speak after such a declaration. Instead of trying, he reached for her and pulled her against his chest, holding her close when she willingly came to
him. Sunlight reflected off her hair, and the scent of it touched him with wonderful memories and the belief in new, joyous ones to come.

“I bought the Hope cottage, Maddie,” he whispered, his lips against her temple.