She didn’t respond.
“Margaret?”
Still, she didn’t respond, and Gabriel glanced down to see that her eyes were closed. Neither did she move, nor did she seem to be breathing.
She’d fallen fast asleep?
Damn, but he was enjoying her answers nearly as much as he relished the feel of her in his arms… after so, so bloody long.
“Brat,” he said, and then settled back against the carriage seat with his delicious burden cradled in his lap.
Gad, she was his wife—after all this time! He grinned over that fact, and leaned back against the carriage, closing his eyes to enjoy the feel of the woman in his arms.
Chapter 8
The following morning Margaret awoke in her own bed, with only vague memories of how she’d arrived there. She’d fallen asleep in her husband’s arms, whilst playing that silly game. But she hadn’t precisely fallen asleep during the game, only pretended to be asleep, unable to respond to the word friend.
She’d had a sudden epiphany while she’d sat there. She’d had only one true friend in all of her life, and it so happened that he shared the same name as her husband. Of course, her response, at once, had been Gabriel, but she’d caught herself before speaking it, breathing in deeply of his all-too familiar scent, and found herself lost in memories…
After a while, she’d drifted off to sleep and her dreams had been a mélange of old memories and new—sweet child’s play, and lusty, heart-stirring kisses.
Lord, but she’d been a wanton, throwing herself into Gabriel’s arms after fairly begging him to kiss her. And, furthermore, she had very shamelessly reveled in every moment of his embrace, every sweet caress of his lips.
Now, patting the bed beside her, she realized it was all just a sham. They had both been playing at charades, and she wanted more than what she’d bargained for.
She wanted it with Gabriel.
Sighing as she glanced over at the closed door between their suites, she couldn’t help but wonder if her husband had found his way there last night. She’d had him ensconced in her father’s chamber—why not? Despite that their marriage was supposed to have been one of convenience, it wouldn’t serve either of them if the servants talked.
So, then, was he there now?
Or perchance in the dining room breaking his fast?
Gabriel S. Morgan made her good sense scatter to the winds, and with no more than a glance from his compelling blue eyes, he’d filled her head with perfectly wicked thoughts.
After all was said and done, it was a good thing that he’d had the bloody good sense to stop before she’d had the opportunity to do something foolish.
And having determined as much, she descended to breakfast, moderately prepared to face him. And, if her cheeks were pink with chagrin, she admonished herself, it was well and good. It should serve as a reminder for the next time not to abandon herself so shamelessly to temptation. Alas, she prepared herself for naught.
Dressed for the day in a lemon-yellow chiffon dress, she entered the dining room only to find herself utterly alone. She exhaled a breath she’d not realized she’d held and her arms dropped by her sides, as a terrible heaviness settled in her breast. Certainly, it was not disappointment, was it?
The table was set, a steaming breakfast arranged on the buffet, the servants all waiting to serve. But no Gabriel. And still she lingered in the doorway, frowning over the depressing emptiness of the room—though it was just as it was supposed to be, so why was she crushed?
A certificate of marriage did not a family make. Nor were kisses promises. She, not Gabriel, had insisted upon the formality of this arrangement.
So, why, then, had she expected to find anything different this morning? Had she truly hoped to discover a husband who would greet her with “good morning, darling” and a peck on the lips?
Well… perhaps, yesterday she had not, but after last night… maybe she had.
Lingering a moment longer, she contemplated the answer to her questions, then suddenly didn’t feel like breakfast at all.
Oblivious to the confounded looks the servants gave one another, Margaret turned to make her way out to the rose arbor. It was the one place she felt most at ease, and she needed to figure out how to handle this confounding new dilemma: The man she had married was not at all who he claimed to be…
It had taken Gabriel the better part of the morning to locate a pasteboard. Finally, with the child’s toy in hand, he was ready to face Margaret.
He didn’t know why he needed to relive this moment, but somehow, it seemed to promise closure—whatever that meant, he didn’t know, but, once upon a time, he’d had such high hopes for the two of them.
It took some searching, but he found Maggie in the garden, kneeling over a particularly unsightly bush, her back to him. The sight of her on her knees, with the pruning shears in hand, took him slightly aback.
So, too, did the appearance of the rose garden. Gad, but it wasn’t at all the way he remembered it, and his brow furrowed as he surveyed the garden in which he and Margaret had spent so many hours as children. It was the most pitiful excuse for a rose arbor that Gabriel had ever had the misfortune of laying eyes upon in all his life. In his father’s day, the bushes had been lush and vivid, every color of flower peeping out from behind leaves so green they hurt one’s eyes. How many times had he forgotten the thorns behind their shining facades and leapt into the midst of them to hide from Maggie, only to leap back out, howling in pain?
The memory alone made him grin, for then as now, he suspected that Margaret had more to do with his embarrassing lack of judgement than did those bloody bushes. She’d always had a way of turning his thoughts inside out.
Armed with props, and with a singleness of purpose, he made his way toward his wife, sidestepping overgrown, leafless, thorn-filled vines that sprawled across his path like writhing garden snakes. He sensed she was close to a revelation last night, and for some reason she’d tucked her memories away so deep, ignoring the truth that was staring her straight in the face. But Gabriel couldn’t play this game any longer, and he was surprised that he ever thought he could. The truth would set them free.
For as long as Margaret could recall, the rose garden had been a safe haven. As a child, any time she’d felt herself a bit unhinged, this was the place she’d come.
With over fifty species of roses in bloom, it was loveliest in early summer. The most delightful fragrances filled the air, soothing her troubled soul.
Today, she surveyed the garden with a critical eye.
Of course, it wasn’t what it was meant to be, but she had tended it the best she knew how to. She could get the roses to bloom, but she couldn’t keep leaves on the stems.
Just now, she glowered down at the bush she was pruning. Drat thing. No matter that she gave it so much time and love, it didn’t seem to wish to thrive. Not simply for the sake of the garden, she wished George were here, and if he were, what would she say?
Your son is a fool. What in heaven could he possibly have been thinking?
Alas, no one had been able to keep these roses flourishing the way Gabriel’s father had. He was a master with them, and he could coax them into blooming even against all odds.
Her shoulders slumped as she inspected the naked, thorny limbs surrounding her, trying to remember them when they’d worn more verdant attire. They’d never been the same since George abandoned them. It was, she thought wistfully, as though they were grieving, as well.
After George retired, they’d gone through a procession of gardeners, and not one of them had been able to resurrect her fine roses. Finally, about four years ago—thinking, how hard could it be?—Margaret had taken them into hand, after dismissing the last gardener her father had hired.
She wondered if George had gotten her letter—wondered, too, if he would consider returning if she were to beg. After all, Gabriel was back now as well…
“Margaret?”
Startled from her musings, Marga
ret turned to see her husband standing behind her, but she gasped in surprise at the sight of him.
At least she thought it was her husband.
Her brows drew together in dismay. The man standing before her didn’t look like the man she remembered from last night. Were it not for those singular blue eyes, she might not have recognized him. He had mud streaked all over his face—as though he’d fallen flat on his face or washed his cheeks in a puddle. And those trousers! They were shredded at the knees and too short besides. She looked closely and saw that the hems had been rent and she wrinkled her nose, lifting her gaze to his shirt to find the sleeves had been shorn as well. Grass and dirt stains adorned the material, and those wickedly gentle hands that had roamed her body so knowingly were now caked with dirt.
“Gracious,” she said in horror over his appearance. “What happened to you?” She thought he must surely have been assaulted by bandits. “Gabriel?”
He grinned suddenly, looking so like the boy she recalled.
“You look ghastly!”
He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Then I should make a perfect addition to this garden,” he told her. “Tis a nasty piece of work.” He drew his muddy brows together into a frown, and it was all Margaret could do not to giggle as muddy flakes sprinkled from the pair. “What happened here?”
Margaret tipped her chin in indignation. “Tis a fabulous garden, I’ll have you know. I’ve been tending it myself.”
“You?” The single word was filled with nearly as much incredulity as awe.
“Yes, of course. Why should that surprise you?”
Perplexed, Gabriel scratched his head.
Most of the garden was naught more than rambling vines, overgrown and fragile in appearance... as though no hand had bothered to tend them in years. His father would weep blood tears to see these roses looking so sad. Somehow, Margaret seemed not to realize—much the way she seemed not to recognize him. Still, humoring her, he looked about and grimaced in disgust.
“This garden is my pride and joy,” she assured him. “Look. Over there,” she said pointing to the hardiest rose of all, and then shading her eyes. “This is an interesting specimen. It is Rosa Gallica Officinalis.”
The Apothecary Rose. Gabriel knew it only too well. The damned bush had only a single puny flower and very little foliage. It was one of the hardiest roses on God’s Earth, ancient as the devil, and, somehow, Margaret had managed to strangle the old bugger.
“Interesting story it bears,” Margaret said, snipping the only bloom and lifting it to her nose to sniff. “Reputedly, it was brought to France from Damascus by a weary crusader for his long-neglected lover. “Tis used as a medicinal,” she told him. “Skin affections, in cordials. They used to give it to my mother before she died to relieve her throat inflammations. Alas, she died when I was young, so I barely remember. You could use a bit on your hands. If you crush the petals and rub them after washing, they’ll purify your skin. Also, I use it as an infusion for tea—quite a lovely taste.”
“Really,” Gabriel said, distracted by her mouth. Damn the Rose petal tea! He could scarce seem to forget the way her lips had tasted last night. It was all he could do to carry her to her bed, and then walk away. He’d craved more than anything to lie down beside her and hadn’t dared. The simple fact that she had given him the room beside her, both relieved and aggrieved him at once. If last night was any indication, he would sleep with an unattended erection for the rest of his days—particularly since she didn’t seem to be taking his hint. Aside from looking at him as though he were mad, she hadn’t an inkling what he was trying to say.
“And that one,” she said obliviously, pointing to a singularly unattractive bush. “It is Rosa Mundi. Legend has it that she was named for King Henry the Second’s mistress, the Fair Rosamund Clifford.” Her gaze returned to him, and her cheeks began to bloom a far healthier color than the rose. “I’m afraid I cannot seem to make it produce much—but, then, again, neither did Rosamund, I suppose.”
He smiled wanly. Much was an incredible understatement. More like not at all. He could scarce believe his eyes.
“And then, of course, there is this one,” she said, indicating an ambling vine that seemed to have the meandering will of a garden snake, and the viciousness of an adder. Somehow, during the short time he had been standing there, listening to her carry on about flora, it had managed to wrap itself about his shorn pant leg, and when he tried to shake it off, it sank its thorny teeth into his flesh. “Bloody damn!” he exclaimed.
“Here, let me get that for you,” she said, and before he could think to stop her, she was kneeling at his feet.
Gabriel stood stock still, trying not to allow his mind to wander. Against his better intentions, visions of her loving him from her knees assailed him, heating his blood and making him shudder anew with desire. He stared down at the pate of her head and lapped at lips gone suddenly dry.
“This one is a favorite,” she confessed sheepishly, leaving off with his pant leg and attending the wayward rose I her hand. She lifted the frail limb and clipped it. “It is La Seduisante. Also known as lncamata, La Virginale, Cuisse de Nymphe, or—”
“The Great Maiden’s Blush,” Gabriel supplied.
Her head popped up and she tilted him a glance. “Oh? You know roses?” she asked, peering up at him, sounding surprised, although something about her demeanor made him think otherwise.
“Not much,” Gabriel admitted. “I know a little. I know this one.”
She turned her attention to the rose again. “I’m not certain what’s wrong with it,” she confessed. “No matter what I do, it does not wish to bloom. I thought perhaps a little pruning would do it good.” She snipped a sickly-looking blossom and studied it closer, furrowing her lovely brow.
Gabriel thought perhaps it needed to be put out of its misery, yanked up by its roots and tossed into the dung heap.
“Perhaps,” he agreed, smiling down at her. His gaze focused on the pruning shears. “So… you’ve been tending this garden all by yourself?” he asked, with no small measure of surprise.
She sighed. “Alas. I’m afraid I have. I cannot seem to find anyone able to tend it well enough.”
His brows collided. God only knew, she hardly could find anyone who could tend it worse. But he refrained from saying so, and came to his haunches beside her as she examined the rambling rose.
“This garden is special,” she said, and began to pluck the rose’s petals one by one, discarding the petals on the lawn at his feet…
A fluttering like doves wings launched in Gabriel’s belly as a memory surfaced... of the two of them seated before this very bush, plucking petals from its blossoms. His heart kicked against his ribs. “Why special?”
She seemed to lose herself in reverie for an instant, and he wondered... hoped... she might be remembering…
“She loathes me, loathes me not, loathes me, loathes me not...”
“That’s not the way it goes!”
“Love is stupid, so are roses. She loathes me, loathes me not, loathes me, loathes me not...”
“I do not loathe you, Gabriel.” she’d said, frowning, as he’d tossed his plucked petals into her lap. “I simply do not relish slimy toads on my head.”
“Sorry,” he’d said easily enough. “I’ll won’t do it again, Maggie.”
“Good.” she’d said. “Because if you do...” She’d held her skirt between her hands, lifting the hem so slightly, so that all the petals gathered into a small pile in the center. “I shall have to put snakes down your pants.” And she’d leapt up, snapping her skirts as she’d surged to her feet, tossing the fragrant petals straight into his face. He’d spat one out of his mouth as she ran away, giving Gabriel his first tantalizing peek of lean stockinged legs... perfect ankles that vanished within the blink of an eye, leaving him to stare in open-mouthed wonder over his first glimpse at the glorious differences between boys and girls.
She’d already put a snake into his trousers, di
dn’t she know? It sprang to life as he watched her go.
The vision set his heart to pounding and turned his brain to something close to mush…
Even now, all these years later, his reaction to her was much the same. As jaded as he’d become, he still found himself titillated over the sight of her stockinged legs peeking out from beneath her gown, and the adder in his trousers was equally as enthralled.
Her hair was swept up today into an artful arrangement that displayed the back of her neck to particular advantage. God help him, it was all he could do not to bend and nibble at her neck. Gabriel sucked in a breath and recalled to mind his purpose in seeking her out this morn—certainly not to seduce her here on the lawn, though visions of doing just that were creeping into his thoughts.
She continued to pluck petals, blissfully unaware that his eyes were crossing with lust, and he murmured softly, “She loathes me so, loathes me not...”
Her head popped up again, and she said, “What did you say?”
He smiled at her. “You’re plucking petals... it’s something I used to say as a child.”
She stared at him for the longest instant, and then returned her attention to the blossom in her hand. “I spent some of my happiest days in this garden,” she confessed, sounding wistful. But so had he... spent his finest hours right here... with her...
His gaze moved to the pruning shears she’d placed by her knee. She discarded the flower and lifted the frail vine between her fingers, examining it closely, petting it with a gentle finger, thorns and all, as though it were a cherished little pet. And he realized: She was tending this garden in memory of him, and he was moved beyond words.
“Margaret,” he said, standing again.
She peered up at him. “Yes?”
He offered her a hand. “Will you come with me?”
“Where?”
“I have something to show you,” he said, and he reached out to pull her up, willy-nilly, then dragged her after him, giving her no time to protest.
To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection Page 27
