Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  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 wonderful 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.

  “Thomas…” she whispered.

  He could stand it no more. He lifted his hands and grasped her head, shoving his fingers through her thick hair at long last. Her glorious hair that he’d longed to feel for years. Silky strands that fell through his fingers and stroked his cheeks and neck.

  He found her mouth and claimed it, pulling her against him, kissing her fervently as she kissed him back. She moaned softly as her tongue found his and their quick breath mingled. She tasted of apples and wine, making him dizzy, making him ache with need.

  He needed her now.

  Thomas reached for her breast, but she covered his hand and pushed it aside. He wanted desperately to feel her but she wouldn’t let him. Gently he traced her lips with his tongue, and with that she pulled free to stare down to him once more.

  Her skin glowed, eyes blazed, and without moving her gaze, she closed her palm over the bulge in his pants.

  “Madeleine—”

  “Shh…”

  With remarkable speed, she worked through the buttons, watching him closely until she finished. He jumped fractionally when she touched him over his thin, cotton drawers, but she didn’t withdraw her hand. Instead she turned her attention to the center of his desire, dauntlessly pulled his clothing down his hips and openly looked at him.

  The moment burned in his mind. He was fully erect and well endowed, but she had been with many. Thomas, for all the pleasure this erotic encounter brought, was terrified of inadequacy.

  For what seemed like hours, she studied him, up and down and to each side. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to react, couldn’t find his voice, which didn’t matter since he had no idea what he would say anyway. Finally she looked up and grinned invitingly. “It is the perfect size for me, Thomas.”

  He swallowed painfully in an attempt to hold his feelings inside. She was just so bewitching of face and form, seductive in tone, purposely making him feel wanted whether or not she truthfully believed what she said. He clenched his jaw, his stomach tightened, his throat ached. And then she put her bare, warm hand on him, and he thought he would surely die.

  She cradled him at first, skimming the sensitive skin up and down with only her fingertips. She rounded the tip with her thumb, teased the dark, coarse curls at the base with her nails, reached even farther below to place feather-soft strokes on the cool sac between his thighs. Then she knelt beside him and bent her head to kiss him intimately.

  Thomas could not believe what was happening to him. Lights blaring, food cooking, he sat in the heated kitchen on a small, wooden chair with the sound of heavy rain splattering against the windows, while the woman of his heart caressed him totally, unselfishly.

  She placed tender kisses up and down the length of him, stopping to glide her tongue across the tip. He squeezed his hands in her hair, closing his eyes to the feel, whispering her name.

  She sighed softly, urging him nearer that blissful edge of no return, and he knew it would only be seconds before he lost himself. Gently he tried to lift her head, but she resisted.

  “Let me, Thomas,” she said in a hoarse breath.

  He did. Pleasure conquered reasonable thought, and he knew he couldn’t stop her now. It had been too long for him. Too long—

  She took him in her mouth. All of him. His body tensed, and he moaned, his breathing erratic, eyes squeezed shut, his head rested against the wall behind him as he clung to her.

  She stroked him with her hot, wet tongue, her lips parted just enough to coax the seed from him, pulling him ever closer to the brink of release. He wanted to touch her, he wanted to be inside of her, he wanted her to love him.

  “Maddie,” he pleaded, his voice raspy, “I need you. Maddie…”

  He climaxed in an explosion of white light and wonder, gasping, tightly weaving his fingers in her hair, holding her firmly while she took him in and gave as he had with her. She stroked and teased and loved him with her mouth until the glow of satisfaction subsided and his rigid body slowly began to calm.

  Seconds passed awkwardly. Finally she raised her head and laid her cheek on his thigh, facing him, he knew, although he had yet to open his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t slow his racing heart, didn’t want the moment to end.

  Madeleine watched him carefully, examining every nuance of his face, the rugged lines and crooked scar beside his lips, the naturally bronzed skin, the bristles on his chin and jaw, his thick, dark hair and long lashes. He was a beautiful man, so powerful but for the flush in his cheeks from the release of passion that made him seem younger, exposed.

  She kissed his thigh and caressed it with he
r fingertips. “I have a confession to make, Thomas.”

  He stroked her hair but said nothing.

  She smiled contentedly, admitting softly, “I have only done that once before to a man, at his request, and I didn’t like it. But tonight I enjoyed it because I did it to you—for you. Do you understand?”

  At last he raised heavy lids to peer deeply into her eyes. “I understand.”

  His tone was thick and rough, but he smiled dreamily.

  “I am not experienced with this form of lovemaking,” she continued in a husky whisper, “therefore I, too, fear that I might have failed. I think we are now even.”

  He drew a long breath, running his fingers through her hair again. “This is not a contest, Maddie.”

  “Exactly,” she quickly replied.

  He thought about that for a second or two, searching her expression. “You could never fail me, in any way.”

  Her heart warmed from that. The man knew just what to say to her to make her believe, to make her want. Suddenly she felt the most intense desire to curl up in his arms. “I feel the same way about you.”

  His eyes grew softer still, and his thumb grazed her cheek. Madeleine couldn’t recall a time when a man had been so tender with her, so…absorbed in her.

  “Will you now concede that we are lovers?” she asked gingerly.

  He sat up a little, forcing her to raise her head, his lips twisting in a playful grin. “Yes, I will now concede that.” He paused, then added, “But I don’t want to move too fast.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that—possibly he was self-conscious about his appearance, his legs—but he would get over it eventually. She wouldn’t argue about it now.

  He shifted his body in the chair, pulling his hands from her as he seemed to become uncomfortable with his nakedness. She had only exposed him from waist to thighs, but he was limp now, and the lamps from the kitchen bared that part of him glaringly.