Winter Garden (2 page)

“Thank you.” The bright sun spread across her cheeks in its deceptiveness, but the icy wind blustered around her, down her neck, up from the bottom of her skirt. It was going to be a frigid winter, inside the cottage and out of it.

With another quick glance into her eyes, he took his first few steps toward her, and that's when Madeleine understood his reluctance all too clearly.

His limp was pronounced, shocking her in a measure he probably noticed. Or expected. At first impression, she concluded it wasn't a recent, healing injury. Thomas favored his right leg, although both appeared to be afflicted. From the way he moved, she knew it had to be an old wound that had likely left scars.

“Thomas—”

He paused in midstride, effectively cutting her off, but he didn't meet her gaze. “It's all right, Madeleine,” he replied in a deep whisper.

Then he brushed by her so closely she felt the heat from his body, and she instinctively took a step away. He continued, though, without observing her unusual preoccupation with his physique, rounding the corner and heading toward the front road.

Madeleine, who prided herself on her poise and constant attention to detail, found herself thoroughly embarrassed by the exchange. More so than he, she
thought. Her reactions to the man were so out of character, her blunder so tactless, their first meeting so odd. As she thought about it she became increasingly annoyed that Sir Riley hadn't mentioned her new business associate to be an invalid. That really was something she should have been told.

Madeleine turned, shoulders back, cheeks burning, and retraced her steps, walking through the grass and along the side of the house. Thomas hadn't waited for her to follow but had already stepped onto the road and was well out of sight. She moved to the porch and stood silently, hands folded in front of her, refusing to watch him collect her things, although she was inexplicably drawn to do so—not because his injuries intrigued her but because the rest of him did.

Within minutes she heard his uneven footsteps on the gravel. Then he reappeared from behind the trees that lined the road, and in his hands he carried both trunks, one atop the other, as if they weighed nothing more than ounces. Incredible strength.

She moved her gaze from him to regard the freshly painted trellis as he stepped past the gate and onto the stone path.

“Open the door?” he requested in a solid voice lacking any sign of strain.

God, what was wrong with her? She should have done that already. Appearing to be a gawking, witless Frenchwoman was not at all how she wanted to begin their working relationship. He'd wonder at her competence.

Forcing a confidence she didn't feel at all, she lifted her valise with one hand and reached for the knob with the other, pushing the door open easily, then stepping quickly to the side to allow him ample room to enter.

She followed him into the cottage, finding it at first glance to be more spacious than it appeared from the outside. Past the small foyer, vacant but for a brass coat-rack, she entered the parlor, the only visible room for entertaining, decorated sparsely in shades of brown and green. In the center, facing the grate on the west wall, sat an ordinary sofa in muted teal brocade, beside which rested the only chair, also of the same material, high-backed and padded generously, with a matching footstool in front of it. There were no paintings on the floral papered walls, although long windows took up most of the space along the north wall to her right. The hardwood floors were also bare save for the brown oval rug running the length of the sofa in front of the grate, held in place by a sturdy but ornately carved oak tea table. Between the sofa and chair, on top of a matching end table, sat a marvelous chess set, chiseled beautifully in coral and brown marble—the only thing in the room besides a few potted plants and scattered books that made the cottage actually look lived in.

Thomas rounded the corner to his left when he entered, continued down a short hallway, and disappeared into a room she assumed would be hers. She noticed a narrow staircase leading to the second floor on her immediate left, and underneath it, at the edge of the hall, a doorway opening to the kitchen. She stood silently where she was, waiting for an invitation to sit, although she knew this was now essentially her place of residence, too.

It was much smaller than her home in Marseille where she lived alone, and she saw no servants here, another essential to which she was probably far too ac
customed. In Marseille she had only one personal maid, the very efficient Marie-Camille, who took care of meals, the house, and even her wardrobe. Normally Marie-Camille traveled with her, but the instructions from Sir Riley had forbidden that. She would have to make do on her own in Winter Garden.

Thomas returned after only moments, his head almost touching the ceiling as he ducked to keep from hitting a beam with his forehead. This appeared to be out of habit, though, since his eyes were once again focused solely on her.

“The room on the right is yours,” he informed her quietly. “Beth Barkley, the vicar's daughter, comes in every other day to cook meals, clean, and collect the laundry. I had her put clean sheets on your bed this morning.”

“I see.” She pulled her blue leather gloves from her fingers, still feeling mildly uncomfortable for reasons unknown to her. At least he didn't appear to witness her discomfiture. “And where do you sleep, Thomas?”

He stopped about three feet from her, hands on hips, apparently finding no underlying significance to her question. “I've taken the room upstairs. You'll have plenty of privacy. The water closet is next to your room, at the end of the hall. We have no tub for bathing, but the local inn charges a minimal fee for the use of theirs, and it's clean.”

She attempted a smile and began to unbutton her cloak. “Thank you.” She really wished he would stop looking at her with such hard, assessing eyes, as if he didn't recognize at all how feminine she was but instead found her…something of a contradiction, maybe?
Certainly Sir Riley had told him what to expect of her. Yet he appeared to be studying her closely rather than admiring any part of her.

“Would you like tea?” he asked politely, cutting into her thoughts.

“Yes, please,” was her quick response as she lifted her cloak from her shoulders.

He reached out and took it and her gloves without comment, only briefly scanning her figure clothed in an ordinary traveling gown of sky-blue muslin. Then he turned and disappeared into the hallway once more.

Madeleine shook herself and breathed in fully, trying to relax, fighting a tired, aching head and binding stays that had been wrapped around her middle for nearly ten hours. She needed to keep her mind clear and remember her purpose. She was here on government business, and so was he. His thoughts of her, his impression of her person, were irrelevant. Where he was concerned she couldn't understand herself either, or her reactions to him upon first meeting. Usually, when choosing male companionship, she preferred dashing, sophisticated men of gentle breeding. Thomas Blackwood was unlike any she'd ever been attracted to before, yet that in itself intrigued her.

She heard him rattling dishes in the kitchen but didn't feel like walking in there herself. What would she say to him? Of course, they had plenty to discuss, but she felt more comfortable letting him lead the conversation, which he would undoubtedly do over tea. And she was far too restless to simply retire to her own room so early in the day.

Instead, Madeleine entered the parlor proper. She liked the spacious feel of it, surprisingly light and airy
considering the dark furniture, and windows that only faced north and west. The embers in the fireplace were low but would soon be stirred, coal added, to warm the house for the coming evening. Above the grate, on the mantel, she noticed a gold-faced clock indicating the time was nearly four, and next to it what appeared to be a wooden music box. She wondered if these were his things, if anything in the room was his. Certainly the chess set was. She didn't know this for a fact, but the hardness of it, the solitude it implied, seemed to suit what little she knew of him.

She stopped in front of the set and picked up a brown marble knight, rolling it between her thumb and fingers. It felt heavy, cold, sturdily sculpted. Yes, this was his.

At the sound of his booted feet on the hard wooden floor she looked up. He walked into the room carrying a silver tray complete with china teapot and matching cups on saucers, a sugar bowl and pitcher of cream. He looked straight at her, into her eyes again, his expression flat and unreadable.

She sank slowly onto the sofa, holding his gaze and trying not to smile at the picture he presented—the enormous, warrior god-man, dark and sensually arousing, carrying a tray to serve tea to her personally. Instead, she maintained a neutral expression and managed a general question. “Who owns this cottage, Thomas?”

His brows rose fractionally. “I'm not certain.” He set the tray in the center of the tea table, reached for the pot, and poured two cups, placing one in front of her. “Sir Riley offered me only the key and directions. The few things in this room are mine that I brought with me from home. The bedroom furnishings and
kitchen items were here when I arrived.”

Madeleine adjusted the hem of her skirt, pulling it in so he could take a seat in the chair next to her without stepping on it. He lowered himself stiffly, cup and saucer in hand, regarding her.

“Then you're not from here,” she commented rather than asked, keeping her eyes fixed on his face.

“I'm from Eastleigh, several hours to the north of here,” he returned without pause or pretense. “I've been to Winter Garden twice on holiday, although it's been six or seven years since my last visit. I knew nobody when I arrived this time, but I've managed to meet several people and make some acquaintances during the last few weeks.”

“I suppose that will be helpful to our cause,” she responded thoughtfully.

“Mmm.”

An awkward moment passed silently. She glanced back to the marble piece she still held in her palm. “You're a chess player, Thomas?”

He raised his cup to his lips, taking a small sip of his steaming tea. “I play frequently. It helps me think, sometimes to relax.”

His tone had dropped as her questioning grew personal, but she ignored the significance. “I imagine you play with someone from the village, then?”

He was quiet for so long she felt compelled to raise her gaze back to his. Almost at once his expression had become clouded, intense.

“Only with myself, Madeleine,” he answered through a low, thick breath. “I've had no one to play with for quite some time.”

She had absolutely no idea how to take that, feeling
warm suddenly from the closeness of his body and the heat of his eyes. Did he have any idea how suggestive that sounded to her? Like a secret, sensual remark between lovers. Without question, she knew that if they were in a room with ten people she would be the only one to find that statement erotic. Was he thinking the same?

He watched her, his sculpted lips pulled back vaguely in challenge, his eyelids lowered just faintly. The muscles in her belly tightened, but she couldn't turn away. Oh, yes. He knew. He knew exactly what he'd said, and he knew exactly how she'd interpret it.

“Do you play?” he questioned, his voice dark, quiet.

Madeleine blinked quickly and straightened, turning her attention to the chessboard beside her, very gently replacing the marble knight. “I can, although it's been a while since I have,” she admitted with a diffidence that surprised her. “I assume you're good, Thomas?”

“I'm very good.”

She hesitated. “Do you…usually win?”

“My skills haven't failed me yet.”

He hadn't touched her at all, and yet she felt him, felt his puncturing stare—blatant, probing, daring.

“I think I might enjoy the challenge,” she conceded quietly, looking back at his face with forced candor. “But perhaps you should know I also play to win.”

He lengthened his body in his chair, stretching one booted leg out to rest on the footstool. “And do you?”

“Win?”

He nodded negligibly.

She fidgeted on the sofa cushion, running a moist palm slowly along her thigh over her gown. “Usually,” she confided, her throat dry, tight.

For a fleeting moment she was certain he almost smiled, something she had yet to see him do. Then he brought his cup to his lips again with slow, calculated precision, taking a long sip, never averting his eyes from hers.

“I'm sure you'd agree,” he said seconds later, “that it's always better when both players have the opportunity to win, to keep the game…mutually enjoyable.” He paused, then added in a soothing whisper, “I think it would be fascinating to watch the jubilation on your face when you do, Madeleine.”

She couldn't believe he had said that and she couldn't take any more. The room felt stuffy to her suddenly, thick with a tension she couldn't describe. She wished she had a fan. But it was nearly winter. The heat she felt was entirely from within, brought out by a man she hardly knew as he caressed her with innocent words having vivid, sexual meaning they both clearly understood. All in the guise of playing chess.

The clock on the mantel chimed four, startling her. Madeleine was the first to look away, quickly reaching for her tea, stirring in a trace amount of sugar and cream with uncommonly graceless fingers, taking special note of the intricate detail in tiny purple tulips etched into the dainty china cups.

“Would you like to hear about our assignment?”

She felt jittery in her skin, but he'd become indifferent again, almost formal. He was good at this, she considered, and obviously quite the expert in masking his thoughts, feelings, and probably his emotions. She read that in him immediately. She was good at it, too, but he did seem to have the advantage when it came to the time it took to compose himself. Certainly he wasn't
flushing as she was right now, something he no doubt witnessed. For a second or two she wondered if he'd been as stimulated by the exchange as she had, but it was difficult to tell and she tried not to think about it.