Emmaline just nodded, her entire future far too uncertain to commit to anything at present.
The doctor smiled at her warmly. “Well, good day, Mrs. Gage.” With a bow, he took his leave.
As soon as Emmaline shut the door, she glanced down at the envelope still clutched in one clammy hand. Maria’s letter. She would see that Jack was settled back in bed, and then perhaps she’d go out to the garden to read it. While she was there, she could water the roses and check on the lavender that had begun to bloom behind the bench. Each day seemed to bring something new to the garden, the brown slowly gaining a more verdant hue, spots of color appearing where there had been none. She could not explain it, but since Jack’s arrival, life had begun to return to the barren plot.
Much like her own bleak existence, she realized. What would become of them both, once they’d parted?
With a shake of her head, she forced away the unpleasant thought and hurried back to his bedside. She found him reclining against the pillows, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.
“Jack?” she whispered, pulling a blanket up to his waist.
“Hmm?” he murmured. He opened his eyes, his gaze at last meeting hers. There was something there that she hadn’t seen before, something so raw, so hungry, that Emmaline’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment she was rendered entirely mute, her heart thumping against her ribs.
He took a deep breath, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he did so. “Emmaline, I—” He abruptly cut himself off, closing his eyes, shuttering them from her. “Never mind. I’m a bit tired. Would you mind if I rested?”
“Of course not,” she murmured, tucking the blanket more tightly about his hips. “I’m going out to the garden for a bit. I’ll check on you when I return.” She reached for one of his hands as she leaned over to kiss his forehead. Still cool. Beneath her fingertips, his pulse felt strong, perhaps a bit fast. She made a mental note to check it again later.
“I won’t stay gone long,” she promised. Later, she would attempt to lift his spirits. Perhaps they could do a jigsaw puzzle, she decided. She’d seen several in the library.
She glanced back down at the letter, anxious to learn what news it contained.
8
EMMALINE WAS THERE IN THE GARDEN, SITTING on the stone bench, just as Jack expected. He closed the gate and took several steps toward her, waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. She must have heard the latch open, must have sensed his approach.
And yet she sat unmoving, her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap atop a creamy white envelope. The sky had turned a dusty lavender. Tea time had come and gone, and Emmaline had never come to wake him as she’d promised. Instead, he’d awoken on his own, a bit disoriented and groggy after such a long nap.
And then he’d remembered the letter—from her husband’s sister, she’d said. It was clear that, in her heart, she and Christopher Gage were still joined. There was no room for him, never would be. Jack had realized it the moment the words had left her lips. It had been a sobering thought, an arrow shot through the sail of his confidence. There was no point in declaring his love, not now. At best, he hoped they could part friends.
Still, he grew alarmed when she continued to sit there, as still as a statue. As he drew closer, he could see that she had been crying. Her nose was red, her eyes wet and swollen. “Did you receive some bad news?” he asked, unable to curb his curiosity.
She started, as if she’d been oblivious to his approach. “What? Oh, no.” She swiped at her nose with one wrist.
Her dark eyes looked slightly wild, he realized. Panicked, perhaps. What the hell was in that letter?
“You’ve been crying,” he said, feeling foolish for stating the obvious, but he hadn’t any idea what else to say. “You’ve been sitting out here for hours.”
At last she turned to face him. Her pain was palpable, a living, breathing thing that seemed to suck all the goodness right out of the garden. “This letter is from my sister-in-law,” she said at last, her voice breaking. “She’s written me all these lovely things about how much Christopher loved Orchard House, about how happy he was visiting his aunt Mathilde here, how glad she is that I’m here. She says…she says she hopes that I can feel his presence here, keeping me company, watching over me.” Her voice tore on a sob. “But I haven’t felt that at all, Jack. Not since you arrived, at least. What kind of woman am I, what kind of wife, to have forgotten him like that? To have moved on so quickly, so easily?”
He knelt before her, taking one of her trembling hands in his. “It’s been a year, Emmaline. What kind of woman would sit here, day after day, pining away for a husband who’s been gone so long? I’ll tell you what kind—a lonely one,” he answered when she said nothing. “The kind who buries herself right alongside her husband. You’ve every right to get on with your life.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she snatched back her hand. “That’s easy for you to say, considering you were engaged to marry someone else only a few short weeks ago. How easy it must seem to you.”
“That’s not fair,” he protested. “You’ve no idea how hard it was for me, how much I hated hurting Claire like that. But this is different—Christopher’s gone, Emmaline. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. Your continued suffering doesn’t change that.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she snapped.
“Then why punish yourself for moving on with your life? Do you honestly think if Chris were here with you in spirit, watching you, that he’d want to see you sad and lonely? Wouldn’t he want you to be happy instead? To be loved?”
“Loved?” she choked out. “Who said anything about love?”
Jack took a deep, fortifying breath. “I am. I’m saying it now. I love you, Emmaline Gage.”
Her eyes widened, her mouth forming an O of surprise.
Jack continued on, needing to get it all out in the open. “I realize it seems rash, that I sound fickle and inconstant. And perhaps I am, but damn it all, I do love you. I’d planned to tell you so, right up until the moment I realized that you’re still in love with your husband. Your late husband,” he corrected.
“But…but you said you were still in love with your fiancée,” Emmaline sputtered. “Just yesterday, you told me so.”
“I said that perhaps I still loved her, not that I was still in love with her. There’s an enormous difference, you know.”
Emmaline shook her head. “No, I don’t know. You either love someone or you don’t.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple, Emmaline. I’ve known Claire for many years. We were friends long before we were lovers. I can’t just turn off my feelings for her like a switch.”
“Of course not,” Emmaline said with a shake of her head. “It’s just that…that…oh, never mind!” She rose, her gaze darting around wildly, as if looking for an escape.
Jack stood and reached for her wrist. “Just listen to—”
“If you’ll excuse me,” she interrupted, her voice cold and detached. She tried to tug her wrist from his grasp. “Tea will be ready shortly. I apologize for the delay.”
Damn it. A sharp pain tore through his gut. He’d done this badly, and now he was going to lose her. He had to do something—say something—to make her understand, before it was too late. “Don’t do this, Emmaline. Don’t shut me out. I know I may seem like a man without much depth, but damn it, this cuts like a knife, straight through my heart.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek. Still, she remained unmoved. “I can’t do this right now, Jack. I can’t have this conversation. Please release me—now.”
It felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs in a single blow. Stunned, he complied, flexing his hand as he released hers.
Without another word, Emmaline turned and briskly walked away from him. Jack didn’t turn and watch her go—he simply stood motionless, staring at the spot where she’d stood only moments before, his hand now clenched into a f
ist.
As soon as the gate clattered shut, he cursed loudly. Almost as if on cue, the sky seemed to darken. The wind picked up, sounding eerily like a wail of despair as it blew over the garden walls. One fat raindrop splashed onto Jack’s bare head, then another. He knew he should hurry inside, knew that it was pure folly to remain outside in a downpour in his weakened state, but he didn’t give a fuck.
Call it pride, call it stubborn foolishness, but if she wanted him to keep his distance from her, then he damn well would, whatever the cost.
With a groan, he sank to the stone bench and dropped his head into his hands. When the rain came, it came hard, pounding Jack’s shoulders with a ferocity that matched his frustration.
For the first time in nearly a fortnight, Emmaline slept in her own bed. After she’d cleaned up from tea, she’d climbed the stairs to her own bedroom without so much as telling Jack good-night. She hadn’t a choice; she could not face him, could not bear to see the hurt and betrayal there in his eyes.
He’d told her he loved her, and she’d entirely dismissed him. What else could she have done? She’d been overcome with guilt after reading Maria’s letter, and not yet recovered from the shock of the news of Jack’s recently ended engagement. It was all too much.
As it was, she was grappling with her own feelings for him, unable to believe that she could fall in love with Jack so quickly, even though she’d fallen for Christopher in an equally short space of time. Still, that had been wartimes, and everything moved at a quicker pace when life seemed so precarious.
And yet…she and Jack understood each other. She knew exactly why he got that haunted look on his face when he talked about Saint Quentin, and he understood why the sound of thunder could turn her dreams into nightmares. They seemed kindred spirits, two lost souls who were meant to find one another, somehow.
And they had, in the oddest of circumstances. Surely it was fate. At least, she wanted to believe that it was. But the rational part of her mind told her that it was nothing more than circumstance—two people from different worlds, thrown together at a time when both were vulnerable. After all, Jack was a baronet’s son. She knew enough of England and its social classes to realize that the heir to a baronetcy didn’t usually consort with women like her. In fact, under normal circumstances they would not have ever crossed paths.
She was sure that his fiancée was a woman of good breeding, a socialite who would not do a day’s work. The very idea of changing a dressing or bedpan would make her cringe in horror. She was a beauty, no doubt, her clothing and hair the height of fashion. How could Emmaline ever compete with that?
As it was, she’d been lucky enough to catch the eye of a man like Christopher Gage, who’d been handsome and charming and kind. He hadn’t been titled, or even particularly rich, but he’d come from a good family, and truly, he’d been far more than she’d deserved.
That sort of luck happened only once in a lifetime, and she’d be a fool to think that anything could come from her affair with Jack, even if he did claim to love her.
Even if she loved him, too. And she did love him—oh, how she did. There was no sense in denying it. He was funny and gentle and kind and sweet, not to mention undeniably handsome. He set her blood afire, made her entire body ache with need.
She rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling in the darkened room. Was he doing the same, downstairs in his own bed? She could barely stand it, being apart from him. However would she survive it, once he was gone?
Heaven help her, but just thinking about him made her damp between her legs, made her want to touch herself. Resisting the urge, she turned back to her side, clutching a pillow to her chest. She wanted to believe that Jack was right, that Christopher would want to see her happy and loved—that he’d want her to marry again, have children. Of course he would. Christopher had loved her, after all.
Unable to stand it a moment longer, she sat up in bed. Even if they weren’t meant to be together, she couldn’t bear to spend what time they had left away from his side. If that made her faithless and inconstant, then so be it. She was not perfect; she’d never claimed to be. But Jack deserved to know how she felt, even if she could not risk her heart by saying the words aloud.
Her resolve firmly in place, she threw off the bedclothes and slipped from the bed. Moving silently through the dark house, she made her way downstairs, tiptoeing across the hall toward the room where Jack slept. The door was ajar, and she paused just outside, listening for his soft snores, but she heard nothing. Reaching out, she pushed the door open, peering inside to where the moonlight cast silvery stripes across the narrow bed.
It was empty.
“Looking for me?” a voice called out behind her, and Emmaline gasped as she spun around.
“Good heavens, Jack! You nearly scared me half to death.”
“Sorry about that.” He took a step toward her, glass clinking. Peering more closely, she saw that he carried a tumbler in one hand and a bottle in the other.
“Brandy,” he said, holding out the bottle. “Found it in the study. Hope you don’t mind.” His voice was uneven, his speech slightly slurred, Emmaline realized.
“Are you drunk?” she asked, wrinkling her nose as the smell of liquor wafted toward her.
“Not even close,” he answered, swaying toward her. With a clunk, he set the bottle down on the sideboard against the wall behind her. “Though I’d like to be.”
He was clearly drunk, despite his protests. She glanced down at her nightdress, suddenly wishing she’d put on her robe.
“So, you must have a purpose. This little nighttime visit, I mean.” He waved the hand carrying the glass, and Emmaline felt a slosh of liquid on her bare feet.
“Give me that,” she snapped, taking it from him and setting it on the sideboard beside the bottle. “Just how much have you had to drink?”
“I say, not nearly enough.” He reached for the glass, but Emmaline swatted away his hand.
“You’re ill, you know. You shouldn’t be drinking hard liquor—it’s only going to set back your recovery.” Which wasn’t entirely true, of course. It was just brandy, which was often considered medicinal.
“No, you wouldn’t like that, would you?” he slurred. “The sooner I’m well and out of your hair, the better, right?”
She sighed heavily. “Just go to bed, Jack. It’s late, and you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” he protested, sounding almost sober all of a sudden. “Not in the slightest. I can hold my liquor quite well, believe it or not.”
“Come now.” She reached for his elbow. “You’re going to regret this in the morning when your head is spinning and your stomach lurching.”
“The only thing I’ll regret in the morning is not doing this,” he said, reaching for her and tugging her against his chest. His mouth came down hard on hers, hot and demanding, tasting of brandy.
Caught entirely off balance, Emmaline clutched at his chest, trying to steady herself. His fingers bit into her shoulders as he pulled her closer still.
He kissed her deeply, and Emmaline realized she could not fight it; she had no desire to fight it. A soft moan escaped her lips as she opened her mouth against his.
And then, almost as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he released her. “Why were you creeping around down here? Were you looking for me? Tell me the truth,” he demanded.
“I—I just wanted to check on you,” she stammered, afraid to admit the truth. That she wanted him. Needed him. Couldn’t go a single night without having him, not with him under the same roof.
“Liar,” he spat. “You’re a damned poor liar. You owe me the truth, at least. You wanted this, didn’t you?” He turned her, pressing her back to the wall, grinding his pelvis into her. He caged her with his arms, his palms pressed against the wall behind her. She couldn’t have escaped, had she wanted to. He was bigger and stronger than she was, even now. “You don’t love me, won’t have me, but you’ll fuck me all right, won’t you?”
>
His mouth moved toward hers and she turned her head, avoiding his kiss. She was trapped, cornered, and instinct took over. “Get away from me,” she said coldly, tamping down the hysteria that was rising in her breast. “You’ve no idea what I want. What I feel.”
“Then tell me, Emmaline. Damn it, tell me what you feel. Tell me what you want from me.”
Tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t possibly say the words she wanted to.
“I laid my heart bare to you,” he continued, his voice hard, “and you flayed it. And now you come down here, looking for a fuck. That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Do you pretend I’m your husband while you—”
Her hand flew out and struck him hard across his cheek.
They stood there glaring at one another for what felt like an eternity, not saying a single word. He rubbed his cheek with the palm of one hand, the other still pressed against the wall by her ear. There were no other sounds save their breathing, coming fast.
Finally, Jack broke the silence. “Goddamn it, Emmaline, I’m sorry. I—”
She silenced him with her mouth, rising up on tiptoe to press her lips against his. Without breaking the kiss, she reached down, fumbling with his trousers, desperate to have him—now. Only her fingers were trembling so badly she couldn’t work the fastenings, and Jack grew impatient. Pushing aside her useless hands, he accomplished the task in a fraction of a second, then reached under her nightgown and dragged down her knickers, nearly ripping them in the process.
And then he was inside her, pressing her up against the wall as he buried his cock deep, rocking his hips against hers. “Jack,” she whimpered against his neck, her teeth scraping against his skin. “More.”
Understanding her need, he reached down and lifted her off her feet, allowing her to wrap her legs around his waist, her back still pressed to the wall as he drove into her—harder and faster, till she was panting.
The Pleasure Garden: Sacred VowsPerfumed PleasuresRites of Passions Page 25
