Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  “I thought you were cold?” he maintained, confused.

  She ignored the comment, hugging herself against the chill and sprinkling drops of icy rain, her hands in her muff at her chin as she stared out across the lake. “I think I know how he’s getting the opium out, Thomas,” she murmured at last.

  Immediately intrigued, he followed her to the shoreline, stopping when he reached her side. “How?”

  She tilted her head to glance at him sideways. Just as she did, the clouds in the western sky parted where the moon could shine through, illuminating his ruggedly handsome face in a hazy, blue glow. An eerie sight with the baron’s darkened home silhouetted in the distance.

  With a crooked lift of her lips, she quietly revealed, “When I was dancing on the line twelve years ago, I had to save my money somewhere, but didn’t want my mother to find it. She would only have used it to fund her opium or alcohol habit. The first little bit I earned I stuck in my shoes, but found out fairly quickly that I wouldn’t be able to save it there because my mother often wore my shoes. I then stuck it in books—my English reading books that Jacques had purchased for me—because I knew my mother would never open them when she didn’t speak the language. But I still had the problem of the money piling up. It was stuffed inside and began to show.” Her eyes sparkled as she dropped her voice to a murmur of intrigue. “So I cut out the pages.”

  That stumped him for a moment. Then the image of all she was implying hit its target and his shaded expression turned to one of astonishment. “You think Rothebury is hiding the opium inside Lady Claire’s books?”

  Madeleine nodded succinctly in a manner of clarifying her jumbled ideas before she explained what she was starting to suspect. “I think he buys them for a fair price, as any good dealer might, opens each book individually, cuts or saws a square or circular insert out of the pages—probably a good twenty or thirty pages within and ten to fifteen pages deep—then places the opium inside for shipment. Then he stacks the books in crates and sends them to a distributor in London, who is waiting patiently with a client list for disbursement.” She laughed into her muff with excitement she could no longer contain. “And think about it. Who would look inside a book? Especially if the baron isn’t suspected of anything.”

  “A remarkable theory,” he said seconds later, sounding a bit unconvinced.

  “Any way you look at it, Thomas, the baron wins,” she articulated jubilantly. “He likely pays pennies to have the opium stolen at the docks and delivered here, probably by thugs who would never reveal the source of their income. They wouldn’t be believed over the word of a baron anyway. He then brings it into his house himself through at least one underground entrance of some kind to avoid servants or even guests if he has them. He cuts the pages from the books with his own hands then burns the remaining paper in his own fireplace, inserts the opium and ships it to London. Ingenious, really, except for the fact that we know about it.”

  “And he doesn’t know about us,” Thomas added in a heavy whisper.

  The deepening of his voice struck her. The double meaning behind his words caused her to waver and consider them, and it once again tuned Madeleine’s mind to the present.

  “Do you think he’s shipping it in jars?” he questioned softly when she didn’t respond.

  A very gradual grin tugged at her mouth as she looked into his eyes, now large black circles of amusement, of dark thoughts and wonder. His closeness warmed her heart and radiated through her body to the tips of her toes.

  “No,” she whispered in return. “That would be too awkward and costly. I think he’s shipping it mixed with tobacco.”

  “But tobacco would smell,” he argued hesitantly.

  She leaned closer to him. “Not much if he concealed it in newspaper or cloth, and not deep inside a book. And if somebody did question a slight odor, just to look at a crate of old books would explain it. Sitting in a home for years in a private library they would naturally take on the lingering smell of tobacco.” She bit her lip with her smile of satisfaction. “Think also how convenient the opium would be to be ready for smoking upon purchase. It could demand a higher price.”

  Thomas simply stared at her, marveling at her cleverness, drinking in the unparalleled beauty of her pale face surrounded by rich black sable and bathed in moon-glow. He ached to reach for her but restrained himself for the moment.

  Her hypothesis, crazy as it sounded, made sense. It all made sense. From bringing stolen opium into his home through an outside tunnel, to mixing it with tobacco, to hiding it inside books of all places before he shipped his books to his London distributor. Who would ever think of doing such a thing? Nobody but the baron, probably, and that’s why the man was so incredibly arrogant. The entire procedure was clever, deceitful, profitable, and inconceivable to the average man. Thomas couldn’t begin to imagine how they were going to prove it, either, even if they could, although he could leave that to Sir Riley and the appropriate authorities if he wanted. Time was crucial only to him and Madeleine right now, but what made him feel so wonderfully satisfied was knowing the two of them had deduced the entire scheme together.

  Slowly his lips curled up to match the level of hers as they stood there, side by side at the beautiful, moonlit lake. He wanted to laugh, and so did she. Instead, he grasped her head with soft, gloved hands and drew her mouth up to meet his.

  Her nose and lips were cold, but they didn’t detract from the warm supple feel of her, and without any persuasion on his part she pulled herself into him, withdrawing one hand from her muff so she could wrap her arms around his neck to kiss him back with fervor. She jutted the tip of her tongue in his mouth then traced his top lip with it. The sprinkling rain felt lighter on his skin now, warmed at once by the heat generated from his quickening pulse.

  Finally she drew back a little, their lips disengaged, and he proceeded with small, tender kisses on her cheek and nose, lashes and brows.

  “The baron kissed me tonight, Thomas,” she said through a ragged sigh.

  “How could he not?” he muttered in reply, his hot breath at her ear. “I expected him to try.”

  She squirmed in his arms, then dropped her head back to expose her neck to his loving assault. “Are you jealous?”

  “Terribly.” He ran his tongue over her pulse point, feeling the up and down movement in her throat as she swallowed.

  “He also touched my breasts.”

  “Then I’ll have to kill him,” he whispered at the hair-line just above her ear.

  She pushed solidly against him with her hand. He raised his head, though only enough to view her face, refusing to move his hands as they cupped her temples over her hood. She kept her eyes closed for a moment, then reluctantly opened them.

  “I’m serious, Thomas. He touched them, without permission and only over my gown, but…” She drew a very deep breath. “But my body responded, and he noticed it.”

  His heart raced with his fading passion. For seconds he said nothing, then huskily whispered, “Noticed what?”

  She groaned and closed her eyes again, biting down hard. “That my nipples were hard.”

  “From his touch?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” He waited, hating the baron, of course, but loving this rather amusing exchange. “Are they hard now?” he asked in a sensual whisper, stroking her cheek with his gloved thumb, his nose nearly touching hers.

  “I—I think so,” she murmured, suddenly captivated. “But it’s freezing, Thomas.”

  “It’s snowing, Madeleine.”

  Very, very slowly she raised her lashes once more, unable to at first comprehend his soothing words. Then she looked above him, into the sparkling night sky, and her expression turned to one of luminous wonder.

  “It’s snowing, Thomas,” she repeated in a voice barely heard.

  He witnessed the joy in her eyes as the cold, crystalline drops fell and clung to her forehead and cheeks and the sable on her hood. She backed away from him with her hands
in the air, one covered with her muff, the other palm up. And then she twirled around once, twice, laughing, eyes closed.

  He grinned as he watched her, thoroughly charmed. “Have you never seen snow?”

  She fairly giggled, slowing her body to focus on him again in pure delight. “Yes, but not in years. And never like this—falling heavily in bright moonlight on a crystal-clear lake.” She reached for his hand, squeezed his fingers, then turned her body out so that she faced the water. She raised her face and arms toward the heavens, and sighed. “It’s beautiful.”

  And it was, he agreed silently, observing the queer force of nature that prompted a snowfall, growing heavier by the second, on a cold night of utter stillness, clouds just above them and a full moon in the western sky that shined off the lake and brightened the flakes in the air like specks of floating white cotton. No, not cotton. Diamonds.

  Madeleine turned her head and gazed into his eyes, smiling. “Are you mad because I kissed him, Thomas?”

  He raised her knuckles to his lips, grazing them with his mouth. “Only if you enjoyed it more than kissing me.”

  She lowered her arms, and her hood fell from her head, freeing strands of shiny, dark hair that clung to her cheeks. She never released his hand and never took her eyes from his. After a long, full breath, she admitted, “I didn’t enjoy the kiss very much, but all the fumbling he did with my breasts did tell me something about myself.”

  He shifted from one foot to the other, angling his body closer to her, supremely frightened to know. “What was that?”

  “That I’d rather kiss you more than anyone I’ve ever known,” she confided in a passionate tenor. “That I’d rather spend one night with you in your bed than spend forever in the arms of someone else. That I wish France was not so very far away.”

  The moon shone like blue mist upon the water lapping quietly near his feet, the snow descended from the heavens in silence, and yet the greatest miracle to ever enter his lonely, painful world was the giving, gentle woman at his side.

  “Are you mad at me for allowing him to touch me?” she asked again modestly.

  “Ah, Maddie…” He shook his head and brought her palm to his lips, kissing the warm, delicate skin of her fingers, one by one. “I’m in awe of you.”

  A whimper came from her throat, and she faltered, blinking quickly, lowering her lashes and shifting her eyes to the lake. She stood like that for moments, and his heart pounded as he waited.

  “I want to give you a special gift, Thomas,” she said resolutely, attempting to hide the flow of overwhelming emotion in her voice.

  “Madeleine—”

  “Shhh…” Without another word, she stepped past him, her hand wrapped in his, pulling him toward the cluster of bushes that led to the cottage.

  Chapter 19

  The air had grown cold inside the cottage, and in darkness Thomas strode to the grate to add coals to the dimly glowing embers of what remained of their early-evening fire. Madeleine unbuttoned her mantle and hung it and her muff on the rack near the door, then walked into the parlor and over to his side.

  For seconds she looked into his eyes contemplatively, searching, and then she straightened her shoulders and resolutely glided around him, her skirts sweeping his legs, so that she stood to his left in front of the mantelpiece, staring down at his music box.

  Thomas remained silent, battling unsureness with each breath. The moment was so poignant, rousing untold feelings deep within him, but he couldn’t bring himself to move a muscle.

  Very slowly, and with great ease, she lifted the music box in her hands and carefully turned it from one direction to the next, examining its size and structure. Then she raised the top and peered inside to the glass-covered brass player and empty contents.

  Thomas kept his gaze keenly riveted on her. He knew she couldn’t help but see the inscription on the inside of the lid—My beloved. Your beauty is my sunshine; your strength is my torch; your love is my joy. I will forever be yours. C. T.—and there was nothing he could do to prevent it should he try.

  “Who does this belong to?”

  Her soft question was like a silky, mesmerizing caress to his ears.

  “It’s mine now,” he answered factually as he pulled his gloves from his hands and began unbuttoning his coat, “but it was originally my mother’s. I suppose you could call it a family heirloom.”

  “Who is C. T.?”

  “My father, Christian Thomas. He and my mother both died soon after my marriage to Bernadette.”

  “He gave it to her?” she asked sedately, lifting it higher to look at the underside.

  “It was a wedding gift,” was his rather undefined answer.

  “And a perfect one at that. So romantic.” Finding the small dial, she wound it several times, fully, so that the music began to play. “It’s beautiful,” she said with a wispy sigh and a pleasurable smile into his eyes.

  “Beethoven’s Sonata in C Minor, or The Pathétique,” he informed. “My family has always been quite interested in music, obsessed really,” he added with a shy, crooked grin. “I play the violin and viola myself.”

  That surprised and delighted her. “You do?”

  He nodded.

  “And now your son studies it in Vienna.”

  “But he is gifted, I am not.”

  She hesitated on the verge of saying something more. Then, apparently deciding against it, she instead turned and placed the music box back on the mantelpiece so that the deep base expanded in sound and deepened in tone, chiming through the room. Taking a step closer, she stood directly in front of him.

  “Dance with me, Thomas?” she requested, her voice deliciously honey-sweet and innocently encouraging.

  He didn’t move. The air stilled around him, and for a timeless moment, he tensed to the ends of every fired nerve in his body.

  “Madeleine—” he started, his unspoken thoughts catching in a wave of turbulent emotion.

  “Dance with me,” she urged again, her conviction strengthening as she held out her hands, palms up.

  Thomas knew that this would always count as one of the most profound memories of his life, and possibly the only instance in his life when he would ever come so close to breaking down into tears in front of a woman.

  He couldn’t verbalize his thoughts, though, and she apparently understood. Without further hesitation she reached for his coat and gloves, pulling them easily from his grasp and tossing them in his chair. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, smiled knowingly into his eyes, and hugged him tightly, tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

  As in a gentle, drifting tide, she began to sway to the music, her body pulsing with each beat of the enveloping melody. Thomas embraced her cautiously, one palm to her back and the other resting on the silky flesh at her nape. She held him securely, feathering her fingers through the curls at his collar. He felt her breasts against his pounding heart, her curves becoming a part of him as he rested his cheek on her head, inhaling the clean, flowery scent of her hair.

  “You’re magnificent,” he said, his words floating above the entrancing music.

  She pushed herself closer in his arms, molding her form against his to the extent that her gown would allow. “I was going to say the same about you.”

  “I don’t want you to leave, Madeleine.”

  He didn’t know where that statement had come from, only that he’d said it aloud. But his pulse sped up with uncertainty when seconds ticked by and she had no response. The first hints of fear tugged at his heart when it wasn’t forthcoming.

  “Make love to me, Thomas,” she whispered, still gazing into the fire, still swaying to the soft melodic tones from the music box as the tempo began to slow.

  It was time, he knew. He could wait no longer to reveal more of himself. Denying her now would only pose troublesome questions, perhaps even growing suspicion on her part.

  He stood a little straighter and drew in a deep breath. “There are certain things I have to te
ll you—”

  “Shh…” She cut him off, raising her head to gaze into his eyes. Hers were a vivid, melting ice blue, shamelessly suggesting all the thoughts he was finally allowing himself to express. The passion she silently communicated made his blood boil in his veins, his skin prickle with excitement and anticipation of the unknown he was about to explore with an ageless hunger.

  Pulling back from his embrace, she began to unfasten the buttons of her gown behind her. Without consideration to the contrary, he helped her with trembling fingers, one by one, until the top of her dress fell away from her shoulders.

  She let the bodice hang forward, exposing the sheer silk chemise that clung to her breasts. Then her beautiful white gown dropped to the brown rug in a swirling heap at her feet, and she stood before him in the sheerest of stockings, shoes, petticoats and her tightly waisted, white corset.

  “Oh, God,” he heard himself whisper, his throat suddenly dry and painfully clenched, his hands at her shoulders, thumbs stroking the curves at her neck.

  “It has been a long time, hasn’t it, Thomas?” she remarked with an amazed little grin of enjoyment. “You’re shaking.”

  “It’s—” He swallowed harshly and tried again. “It’s more than that. You don’t know what seeing you like this does to me, what making love to you means to me.”

  “I know what it means to me.” She reached up to free the pins in her hair, dropping each one on the mantelpiece. “I want you to enjoy this night slowly, Thomas, remembering every second of the passion. I will give you everything you want.”

  He paused, his fervid gaze melding with hers, then whispered, “All I want is you, Madeleine. All I’ve ever wanted is you.”

  He noticed the subtle change in her expression as he said the words, her eyes filling with a confusion of thought so obvious it drove deeply into him, connecting to his soul, thrusting into it, slicing it open for exposure to her intense probing of his desire.