Winter Garden (4 page)

You're right
, Madeleine thought with mounting confusion, clasping her hands behind her back.
I don't look like a companion or a translator. I look like a mistress.

Why haven't you noticed that about me, Thomas?

“I agree that makes the most sense of all, and should be convincing enough,” she remarked aloud, feeling somewhat defeated. “I will be your French translator.”

He stood only a few feet from her, their bodies divided by just the tea table. He searched her expression for several silent seconds, with a deliberation she could feel, then ever so slowly he dropped his gaze to her breasts, lingering there long enough for her to grow warm from the visual caress.

“I'm sure you're hungry,” he said abruptly. “I'll see what Beth arranged for dinner, and perhaps we'll eat early.” Without further comment, he turned away from her and walked toward the kitchen.

Madeleine watched his back until he disappeared from view, finally allowing a wide grin of frank satisfaction to grace her face. His sexual innuendoes earlier could have been misinterpreted on her part, but now she was certain they weren't. At last it was obvious that he'd noticed her as a woman.

 

T
he wind had grown to a roaring pitch, causing tree branches to scrape against the cottage's brick walls, slamming the shutters against his window. Thomas was oblivious to it all.

He lay flat on his back in bed, only the sheet covering his body, hands behind his head on the pillow as he stared vacantly at the ceiling. He'd been in this position for nearly an hour, too restless to relax, too absorbed in his thoughts to move. She was probably already asleep, as she'd been very tired during dinner, eating only a little. They'd talked of trivial things—her home in Marseille, her trip to England, the climate differences
between the countries. Then she'd said goodnight and had retired for the evening. He'd remained sitting in front of the fire for a while, listening to her footsteps as she moved around her room, imagining her manicured fingers unbuttoning her gown, her petticoats slipping from her tall, curved body. He'd heard her bed creak as she climbed into it. He had wondered what, if anything, she wore when she slept; if she braided her hair or wore it down; if she lay between the sheets opened sensually, as if waiting for a man, or curled up from the chill like a soft kitten aching to be stroked.

God, she was beautiful. He'd known that, though, before she'd arrived, knew much more about her, in fact, than she knew of him. Born Madeleine Bilodeau twenty-nine years ago, the illegitimate daughter of Captain Frederick Stevens of the British Royal Navy, and Eleanora Bilodeau, a less than talented, opium-addicted actress of the French stage. She'd become a spy for the British government at her request after disbelieving Englishmen disregarded her until she'd single-handedly prevented the escape of two French political prisoners by informing Sir Riley before it occurred. She'd proven her worth over the years. She was glamorized in England by those who knew about her, adored in Marseille, and celebrated across the Continent as one of the greatest beauties of their time.

He didn't know how long she'd stood behind him in the garden that afternoon before he'd realized she was there. She'd been watching him, he was sure of that. Her scent had reached him first as the breeze lifted her perfume and mixed it with the particular essence that made her a woman, carrying it to him, rousing him, making his heart pound. It had taken moments to gain
control before he could look at her. When he'd finally gathered the nerve to do so, she had entranced him instantly with her glossy, chestnut hair coiled around her ears in thick plaits, her heart-shaped face so soft in an expression of innocent question, her flawless, ivory skin that begged to be caressed. And those eyes. Her eyes shattered resolve—ice-blue but the most sensual thing about her somehow. Eyes that could cut and wound deeply, or melt a man as they shimmered in pools of longing arousal, vivid hope.

Oh, yes, he'd been immediately affected by her, as any man would be. And, God, the conversation over chess! How had he started that?

Thomas expelled a long, slow breath, turning on his side at last and shoving his arm beneath the pillow, staring at the swaying trees as they moved in shadow across the moonlit wall.

He'd never expected to be so forward with her and yet she'd caught his mood, had been so perceptive as to understand the meaning behind his words. He knew she'd lost her virginity years ago, and had spent time in the company of men far more charming and attentive than he, far more exciting, far more worthy of her beauty. But she had responded to his sexual suggestions, regarding him with a confused fascination she couldn't hide, gauging his response, teasing him in return without really trying to, making his body succumb to that delicious ache as it hadn't in years.

She was attracted to him. He knew it and relished that knowledge in wonder. Madeleine DuMais, the belle of France, the darling of the English government, the smart, polished, engaging woman, who had sat across from him at dinner and licked her fingers so sensually
of honey, was attracted to him. To
him
—Thomas Blackwood the ordinary man; Thomas Blackwood the huge, intimidating recluse; Thomas Blackwood the cripple.

She was attracted to him.

Smiling, Thomas closed his eyes and, for the first time in ages, fell into a deep, restful slumber—no pain in his body, no thirst in his soul, no hurt in his heart.

M
adeleine woke badly. Her head ached, her nose was stuffy, her body freezing, and for seconds she had trouble remembering where she was. Perhaps her momentary confusion was due to the fact that a murky darkness filled the room, and the cottage seemed unnaturally silent. The wind had died down sometime during the night, and unlike her warm house and bed in Marseille, with the sound of street traffic always just below her bedroom window, she heard only the creaks of the cottage itself as it settled into the damp earth.

It had to be mid-morning, although she had no idea of the time, probably due to the thick, overcast sky she could barely discern through her bedroom window. Usually Marie-Camille woke her by seven if she didn't wake herself. Nobody would rouse her here, however, and Thomas certainly would never enter her room.

Since the moment she'd stepped foot on British soil just three days ago, she'd had little time to contemplate her immediate situation and surroundings. She was back in England and essentially alone. Although accustomed to solitude, her life in recent years had been spent in the company of others, albeit only because her work had put her there. At home she was known in social circles, granted invitations as the respectable Widow DuMais, an acquaintance to many, friend to few—all ignorant of her deep-seated hatred for her French heritage and the childhood of near servitude she was forced to endure at the hands of an ignorant, ill-bred mother. But that seemed another life to her now.

In England, she was unknown, which, as she thought about it, could be a challenge or an asset in the weeks to come. She could create her own character and be any person she chose, using her charms or subduing them. Above everything else, though, she was a professional, and would be exactly who she needed to be to accomplish this mission for the love of her father's country. It was time to go to work.

Shivering from the damp, chilly air, Madeleine pushed back the sheet and blanket and slowly sat upright, rubbing her pounding temples and brows with her fingertips. Tea would help the head pain; but, of course, she'd need to dress fully before entering the kitchen.

At last she forced her eyes to remain open, placed her bare feet on the cold floor, and stood on stiff legs. Her room was small, with only a bed for one and a petite dressing table, painted white, with a raised mirror attached to it to accommodate her toilette. The walls were papered with the same flowered print that lined
the walls of the parlor, but nothing hung from them. The only window, draped with white lace curtains, framed the head of the bed, and a full wardrobe closet sat across the floor at the foot of it.

Closing her arms around her shivering body, Madeleine walked to it. She'd only brought four gowns with her—one for traveling that she'd worn yesterday, one morning gown, one for day, and one for evening dress. Unfortunately she had had no room to carry a full wardrobe all the way from France, and suddenly she felt unduly conscious about that. She would be wearing the same gowns again and again. Not very flattering, but then Thomas hadn't appeared to notice what she wore. The villagers would expect nothing more from a translator.

Madeleine discarded her linen nightgown and dressed quickly in her morning gown of canary-yellow muslin over full crinoline. The sleeves were long, the neckline modest though tightly molding to her bosom, which pleased her since that was the only part of her anatomy Thomas had seemed to regard, however briefly. She looked becoming but unassuming, and for the first time in her life she was grateful for the layers of petticoats against her skin that warmed her body.

She brushed her hair, plaited it, then wrapped it in loops around her ears. At home she was used to wearing face color to accentuate her features, but she supposed she'd have to abandon that indulgence in Winter Garden. The English were rather staid about the application of false color, preferring their ladies to look pale and flat instead of ripe and sensuous. Sexless in her opinion, but then her opinion hardly mattered. She'd
no doubt get a better response from the villagers if she chose to forgo even rouge.

Madeleine splashed her face with cold water from the pitcher, dried herself with a soft face towel, pinched her cheeks, and gently bit her lips. Then with shoulders back she left the privacy of her room and walked into the parlor.

It was dark save for the light from the roaring fire and one small lamp. Thomas sat in the chair, facing the grate, his head bowed, his mind engrossed in a book of considerable thickness. In this position, poised with one leg resting on the footstool, his body clothed in black trousers and a white linen shirt buttoned to the neck, he looked casual but every bit the gentleman scholar he professed to be.

He turned when he heard her footsteps, his gaze scanning her attire then meeting hers with approval. She brushed off the sudden, overpowering feeling of being scrutinized within and smiled into his eyes. Just a simple look from him gave her pause.

“Good morning, Thomas,” she said congenially, hands folded in front of her as she moved toward him.

“Good morning, Madeleine,” he replied in a voice of deep smoothness.

She pulled her gaze from his to glance at the clock on the mantel. Half-past nine. She'd overslept by hours. “I'm sorry I woke so late,” she said, sitting comfortably on the sofa and arranging her skirts. “Usually I'm up very early.”

He closed his book without looking at it. “I'm sure you were tired after several days of travel. Did you sleep well?” he asked politely.

“Yes, very well, thank you.” That was a lie he could probably read through. Feeling the tension ease from her shoulders, she leaned heavily against the sofa back. “Actually my head aches, and I was rather cold.”

For once he looked amused. “I'll find you another blanket for tonight. In the meantime let's get you some tea. Then we'll walk the grounds.” He placed his book,
The Complete Works of Alexander Pope
, on the table in front of him, then pushed himself up to a standing position. “The fresh air might help your head as well, and Richard Sharon takes his morning ride at about ten. He'll be in the distance, but you'll get a good enough look at him. Then we'll talk about plans for today. If you're feeling up to it, of course.”

He was attending to business already, seemingly unaware of her desire to start the day slowly or perhaps to just engage in a few minutes of intimate conversation. But she could think of nothing to say for the moment that would be of a more casual or personal tone, which left her to do nothing but follow his lead.

She gave him another vague smile. “I'm sure I'll be fine.”

“Good.”

He walked toward the kitchen, and she stood again, trailing him into the room boldly painted in colors of bright yellow and leaf green. The sink had been placed in front of one of the large, wide windows, having its own well-water supply—rather a luxury for them as they wouldn't have to haul it into the cottage from the village well. Nestled against the far wall was the stove and next to it a small, square table of dark pine surrounded by four chairs. The scullery took up the space under the staircase that led to the second floor.

They would have no servants, he'd informed her last night, for the simple reason that they wouldn't be able to talk candidly with others in the house. That meant, of course, that although the vicar's daughter would do the cooking, it would be up to them to set the meals and clean up after themselves. The good thing for her was that Thomas seemed ready enough to help and didn't expect her to wait on him. Unusual for a man, but again, she supposed they were partners, not a married couple or even just lovers. Their relationship was nothing more than functional, and she wondered for an instant why she had to keep telling herself that.

Thomas put the kettle on, and she helped herself to thick bread and raspberry jam. They sat together at the table for a few minutes, discussing with casual reference the dreary weather of the day and the general changes in season. Then he left her sitting alone to eat in silence, returning a few moments later wearing his own black twine coat and carrying her cloak in his hands.

“I put your gloves in the pockets. I thought you could first just carry your mug and let the tea warm your bare hands.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, licking her lips of jam, noticing with satisfaction that he focused on the movement. She repeated it, unnecessarily and quite without intention—at least she thought so—and a slight frown creased his brows.

“The water is boiling, Thomas,” she said very softly.

His gaze shot back to hers, held it for a breath, uncomfortable in assessment, which she found uniquely gratifying. Then he apparently caught himself and swiftly looked away, laying her cloak across the chair and turning his attention to the stove.

Madeleine finished eating, watching as he poured her mug nearly to the brim, adding sugar and cream for her as he'd obviously observed her do yesterday.

Seconds later he placed her mug on the table in front of her and reached once more for her cloak. “Are you ready?”

She nodded and stood, turning her back to him, and he draped it over her shoulders. She buttoned the front and then reached for her tea.

Together they walked out the front door and into the cold, gray morning. The chill stung her cheeks, but with her body wrapped in her fur-lined cloak and her hands and fingers clutching her hot mug, Madeleine felt relatively warm on the inside.

Thomas led her along the side of the cottage and into the garden area where they'd met yesterday. She followed a pace or two behind his slow but steady stride as he moved to the rear of the enclosed property. She could see nothing in front of her but trees and a wall of thick brush, although he knew exactly where to go. Finally he stopped at the edge of the cluster of bushes he'd been clearing yesterday.

“You'll need to hold my hand,” he remarked matter-of-factly.

She looked up to his face. His gaze was once again forthright and unreadable, features neutral, as he held his palm out for her. She had never touched him physically, and she hesitated before doing so, for reasons not entirely clear to her. And yet, for him, it seemed a decidedly necessary action, meaning nothing of any significance whatever.

She extended her left hand, but immediately they both realized she couldn't step through the trees and
bushes in her wide skirts without lifting them. Devoid of comment, he reached for her mug, gently pulled it from her grasp, then took her hand with his free one, wrapping his fingers solidly around hers. The contact was wholly unremarkable yet struck her with overt awareness. She held to him tightly, pretending indifference to his warmth and strength as she raised her skirts and followed him.

She stepped cautiously along the narrow path well concealed in dense forest and covered with brown, moist leaves, avoiding mud as best she could, and within a few yards they came to another opening. Thomas pulled her through after him, and as he moved his broad form to enlarge her view, Madeleine found herself in a clearing of breathtaking loveliness.

She stood at the edge of a small lake, shining a vivid dark blue, surrounded on all sides by bare oak and maple trees, and luscious green pines. To her immediate right she noticed a wooden bench, weathered but sturdy, facing the water in an enchanting spot where one could sit to enjoy the peacefulness of summer or winter, listening to the wind through the trees, the lapping shore, birdsong.

“It's beautiful,” she whispered, still clinging to his hand.

“Yes.”

Madeleine glanced up. He watched her intently for a second or two, his hair hanging low over his dark brow, his warm eyes crinkled in a privately felt satisfaction. Then he leaned very close to her.

“That's Rothebury's manor house,” he said, nodding toward the opposite shore. “He lives there year-round, and each morning at about ten he rides along
the perimeter of the property, which encompasses the entire southern edge of the lake and stretches all the way up here to the left. The path takes him near the water, and he should be coming along shortly.”

Madeleine carefully surveyed the home in the distance, assessing detail. She only saw the top of it through the trees but could tell it was old, three stories in height, made of light brown stone, solid of structure, and that it faced the water. From her vantage point it looked well tended and larger than most of the homes she'd seen in Winter Garden thus far, although the owner being a baron and permanently living in the area would explain that.

Gently Thomas pulled her toward the bench. She stepped lightly on grass and leaves then sat gracefully on the hard, wooden seat, adjusting her body and skirts to give him ample room to join her. It was then that he finally released her hand, offering back her tea at the same time, then squeezing in beside her. She lifted the mug to her lips, taking a swallow or two, feeling his eyes on her but avoiding them with her own as she gazed out over the water.

“I've accepted an invitation on your behalf for Thursday afternoon,” he continued formally. “Mrs. Sarah Rodney, the town historian, is hosting a gathering of local ladies for tea. She does this once a month or so, and members of the gentry and those of adequate social class are always invited. I called on her several days ago for something insignificant, with the underlying intention of informing her of your arrival. And, of course, she said she'd be delighted to meet you.” His tone lightened in conspiratorial amusement as he
dropped his head close to hers. “Naturally, the invitation stems from Mrs. Rodney's curiosity more than anything else. There will be plenty of gossip for you to garner, and they'll all wonder about you since the only information I supplied Mrs. Rodney is that you are French.”

She glanced up at him again. He was sitting very near to her on the bench, the edge of his muscled thigh lost beneath the folds of her gown; his shoulder brushing hers; his eyes bright with anticipation; his thick, dark hair still hanging loosely over his brow, which he didn't appear to notice. Madeleine's breath quickened from nothing more than his proximity, his deeply smooth voice and the virility he exuded with his overpowering stature. She wasn't used to such a sudden sexual awareness of a man, and frankly didn't understand her body's response to this one in particular.