Winter Garden Read Online Free PDF Page B

the Continent as one of the greatest beauties of their time.
    He didn’t know how long she’d stood behind him in the garden that afternoon before he’d realized she was there. She’d been watching him, he was sure of that. Her scent had reached him first as the breeze lifted her perfume and mixed it with the particular essence that made her a woman, carrying it to him, rousing him, making his heart pound. It had taken moments to gaincontrol before he could look at her. When he’d finally gathered the nerve to do so, she had entranced him instantly with her glossy, chestnut hair coiled around her ears in thick plaits, her heart-shaped face so soft in an expression of innocent question, her flawless, ivory skin that begged to be caressed. And those eyes. Her eyes shattered resolve—ice-blue but the most sensual thing about her somehow. Eyes that could cut and wound deeply, or melt a man as they shimmered in pools of longing arousal, vivid hope.
    Oh, yes, he’d been immediately affected by her, as any man would be. And, God, the conversation over chess! How had he started that?
    Thomas expelled a long, slow breath, turning on his side at last and shoving his arm beneath the pillow, staring at the swaying trees as they moved in shadow across the moonlit wall.
    He’d never expected to be so forward with her and yet she’d caught his mood, had been so perceptive as to understand the meaning behind his words. He knew she’d lost her virginity years ago, and had spent time in the company of men far more charming and attentive than he, far more exciting, far more worthy of her beauty. But she had responded to his sexual suggestions, regarding him with a confused fascination she couldn’t hide, gauging his response, teasing him in return without really trying to, making his body succumb to that delicious ache as it hadn’t in years.
    She was attracted to him. He knew it and relished that knowledge in wonder. Madeleine DuMais, the belle of France, the darling of the English government, the smart, polished, engaging woman, who had sat across from him at dinner and licked her fingers so sensuallyof honey, was attracted to him. To him —Thomas Blackwood the ordinary man; Thomas Blackwood the huge, intimidating recluse; Thomas Blackwood the cripple.
    She was attracted to him.
    Smiling, Thomas closed his eyes and, for the first time in ages, fell into a deep, restful slumber—no pain in his body, no thirst in his soul, no hurt in his heart.

Chapter 2
    M adeleine woke badly. Her head ached, her nose was stuffy, her body freezing, and for seconds she had trouble remembering where she was. Perhaps her momentary confusion was due to the fact that a murky darkness filled the room, and the cottage seemed unnaturally silent. The wind had died down sometime during the night, and unlike her warm house and bed in Marseille, with the sound of street traffic always just below her bedroom window, she heard only the creaks of the cottage itself as it settled into the damp earth.
    It had to be mid-morning, although she had no idea of the time, probably due to the thick, overcast sky she could barely discern through her bedroom window. Usually Marie-Camille woke her by seven if she didn’t wake herself. Nobody would rouse her here, however, and Thomas certainly would never enter her room.
    Since the moment she’d stepped foot on British soil just three days ago, she’d had little time to contemplate her immediate situation and surroundings. She was back in England and essentially alone. Although accustomed to solitude, her life in recent years had been spent in the company of others, albeit only because her work had put her there. At home she was known in social circles, granted invitations as the respectable Widow DuMais, an acquaintance to many, friend to few—all ignorant of her deep-seated hatred for her French heritage and the childhood of near servitude she was forced to endure