Winter Garden (12 page)

“Mate.”

She didn't move.

Her hand felt warm, the skin smooth, and he ran his thumb over her knuckles just once.

“I didn't see that coming,” she said shakily.

“I know,” he returned, conveying a far-reaching certainty. “Some of the greatest surprises in life happen when we least expect them.”

She blinked, momentarily confused by his rather vague comment. Then she did the unexpected.

Regaining her poise, she straightened and turned her king on its side. “I am tired of the games, Thomas,” she announced thoughtfully, her expression determined. “I think it is time for me to win.”

Her eyes, brimming with confidence, shimmered in firelight, and his heart beat faster. She pulled her hand
out from beneath his and gracefully raised her body from the sofa, taking two steps around the chessboard so that she stood directly in front of him.

“Madeleine,” he drawled.

“Maddie,” she corrected with a cunning smile, grasping the arms of his chair with both hands. Then, leaning over him, she placed her lips on his.

Thomas didn't immediately respond to her boldness or the sudden fullness of her warm mouth against his. Part of him wanted to wait to experience the physical between them, but that part was very rapidly losing the battle. He raised his hands and grasped her upper arms, but he neither pushed her away, nor pulled her in. He simply allowed her to stay in control.

She knew what to do. Expertly she began to kiss him, tilting her head and caressing his mouth with her own, applying more pressure as he began to reciprocate.

His breathing quickly grew shallow, and that made her eager. She pressed into him, though still keeping her body from touching his. Her hot, wet tongue traced the outline of his upper lip then drove past it, searching. Suddenly she was breathing as fast as he, and very slowly he began to draw her against him.

She wouldn't allow herself to close the distance completely. He remained in his chair, and she remained standing over him, off to the side of his thighs. Her tongue darted freely into his mouth, playing intimately with his, and when she finally raised a palm and placed it on his chest, he quietly moaned in pleasure and she sighed in understanding.

This kiss was better than the first, but he was also better prepared. She smelled of rose perfume; tasted of
sweet wine and woman—a pleasure so long denied. He felt the heat from her hand through his fine linen shirt as she very slowly began to caress his chest in wispy circles. And then, indicative of her desire, she started to skillfully unbutton it.

This time he would let her have her way. At least for a few precious minutes.

Reaching in, she stroked his skin through thick curls as her lips continued to burn his with a marvelous torment. He responded in kind by gently massaging her arms, running his thumbs along the delicate underskin. That made her whimper faintly.

“Make love to me, Thomas,” she pleaded in a whisper against his mouth.

His heart thudded soundly. Only in his dreams had he heard her asking for him to love her totally, and now, after long last, it was real.

She was real.

In desperation he couldn't begin to put into words, he finally did what he'd ached to do for years. With measured slowness, he lowered one hand to her breast, covering it completely as it burned his palm through thin layers of muslin.

She moaned, kissing him deeply as she pushed into his caress, giving him all, silently asking for more, allowing him the greatest physical fulfillment he'd experienced in recent memory. His breathing grew harsh, and his throat tightened as he glided his thumb across her still-clothed nipple, feeling it harden to a point in response to his touch.

She moved her hand lower until she ran her fingers over the waistband of his pants. He was erect to the tip, hard with an ageless need, and she certainly felt it.
Boldly, her lips and tongue still teasing his, she closed her hand over the length of him, rubbed him once with her slender palm, and he nearly lost control.

In fear of embarrassing himself, he quickly grabbed her wrists, encircling them with his fingers and thumbs as he gently pushed her back.

A heady, dark arousal glazed her eyes as she looked into his. They were exquisite eyes expressing hope, passion, and the loveliness inside that she seldom revealed to anyone. He saw it all now, rousing the bittersweet memory of the first time he'd seen them, and he knew without question that he would never disappoint her when she looked at him like that.

Swiftly he was on his feet, taking control at last as he shifted her once again toward the sofa. She didn't say a word or glance away, but her moist, full lips pulled up in a knowing smile.

She sat upon the cushion and lifted her feet to stretch out across it, her head resting on a pillow at the armrest. Thomas released her wrists, extinguished the lamp next to them, then stood above her, watching firelight reflect off her golden skin and her thick, silky lashes create soft crescents on her glowing cheeks and brows. She stared at him, reached for him with an open hand, her raw hunger exposed. It took all that was in him as a man not to lift her skirts, climb above her, and enter her sweetness. It's what she wanted, probably expected, and that in itself was all the pleasure he needed for now.

“My gown,” she said breathlessly.

He shook his head. He was desperate but not ready for total exposure. That would come at a later time when he had much more to reveal. Yet like this he could still give her what she needed.

With a pounding heart, he awkwardly lowered himself to his knees between the sofa and the tea table, leaned into the cushion, rested a hand upon her forehead, and placed his lips on hers again.

Madeleine, for a very brief moment, thought she was dreaming. The man didn't take, he gave. She hadn't been prepared for that, or for the intensity she witnessed in his longing. She had seen it in his eyes all evening, and now she felt it in his extraordinary touch.

His lips lingered on hers, and she raised her arms, clasping them about his neck, entwining her fingers in the soft hair at his nape. The heat radiated from every pore, from her skin to his, even through clothing that she hoped he would soon remove, piece by piece, layer by layer, until nothing remained in the way of their joining.

She inhaled sharply when she realized he had taken her breast in his palm again and rubbed her nipple to a peak, wishing through this marvelous dream that he would take it in his mouth, that he would take all of her in his mouth.

“Thomas…” she whispered through an aching breath.

He remained silent as he began to kiss a trail across her cheek, stopping at her ear, stroking it with his tongue, causing her to tremble. He moved to her neck, down her throat and chest, until he reached the tops of her breasts, his hot, moist breath coming in uneven waves and setting her skin on fire.

Madeleine raked her fingers through his hair, clasping the back of his head as he kissed the top curve of both breasts then gently ran his cheek across them, his rough whiskers causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms.

“Maddie…” she heard him whisper.

“Don't stop, Thomas.”

With that, his passion became fierce. He captured her mouth again with his own, his tongue thrusting inside until he found hers and began to tease, flick, suck, his palm on her breast, kneading the fullness with his large, warrior-like hand.

She whimpered and reached for him, but this time he grabbed her arms, forcing them above her head. Her fingers struck the chess pieces, knocking several of them over onto the marble board, but he didn't appear to notice the noisy intrusion. Instead he clasped both of her wrists together with his free hand and held them there.

Squirming, she tried to raise her skirts with her legs without much success, and he took to the task and finished it for her. She lay there exposed to him, only sheer linen drawers between them, and desperately she wanted him inside of her.

As if sensing her need, he suddenly released her wrists and mouth, and lowered his head to her breasts where he began to rub his cheeks, then his lips and teeth, across the tips of them, over her gown, striking her with the dull ache of pleasure as her nipples tightened against his ruthless caress. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of want, his hand took over at her breasts, and she felt him move farther down her body until his head rested on her belly at her hips.

She pushed up against him, her still-covered mound dusting his cheek, and she heard him inhale deeply, then moan and mumble something she could not understand.

With shaky fingers, he reached between her legs, ur
gently now, and she sensed the intensity in him rising. He fumbled with the soft material until he found the slit and parted it. At long last she felt his fingers touch her where she desired him most, at first timidly, then intimately as he began to stroke the wet, slick heat.

She gasped his name again, lifting her body just enough to meet his tender probing, but he didn't raise himself, or turn to face her, or kiss her again as she so anxiously wanted him to do. He made no move to enter her, but continued to stroke her breasts with one hand and her cleft with the other while he kneeled on the floor and leaned against the sofa.

Madeleine closed her eyes tightly, fingers in his hair, holding his head as she realized he wanted her to climax like this. And she was nearing it. It was so fast, so erotic to her, this man with his face in her feminine curls, inhaling and moaning and kissing her there while his fingers explored her at first cautiously, then bravely as he slowly pushed one of them deeply inside.

She sucked in a sharp breath, jumping involuntarily when his thumb touched that delicate center nub, but his pursuit was perfect. He didn't stop. He pushed his left hand down and inside the top of her gown to grasp what he could of her breast, massaging it while he continued to torment her below, his finger within, his thumb stroking her faster and harder, taking her to her crest.

She whimpered again, over and over, clutching him with firm hands when she felt the steady rise to that blissful point of no return.

He recognized it.

“Come to me, Maddie….”

She obeyed the command.

Her belly tightened; her legs stiffened. And then the
climax burst forth from the inside, tearing a cry from her lips as she clenched her fists in his hair and her hips jerked against his hand and cheek, and she in turn stroked his finger with internal spasms of pleasure.

“Oh, God.” She heard him groan from deep in his chest.

Suddenly his palm gripped her breast, and his embrace became rigid as she arched into him. She felt his quick breath on her inner thighs, his enormous body shudder against her at her completion, and she held to him tightly until it subsided.

Gradually she quieted, and he calmed his movements. Neither of them spoke or moved for a minute or two as their breathing became regular and her body relaxed. At last he pulled his finger from her and turned his face so that his forehead rested on her hipbone. She caressed his silky hair and glided her palm along his neck.

“I want you inside of me, Thomas,” she said very softly.

He inhaled with finality and stroked her intimately one last time. Then drawing back, he lifted his arms and hands from her body and awkwardly stood.

Without a word, or even a glance to her face, he walked away, his limp pronounced with every step of his boots on the wooden stairs that led to his room above the cottage.

W
hen she awakened to an empty house, Madeleine knew she would find him by the lake. It was Thomas's favorite spot for thinking things through in peaceful silence, and it was quickly becoming hers as well. She would talk to him there.

Stepping onto the porch and into the clear morning, she breathed deeply of the frigid air and took a moment to close her eyes to the rising sun, just peeking above the thin layer of clouds on the horizon. Then she donned her gloves, clasped the neck of her cloak together tightly, and turned toward the path that led to the back of the cottage.

The night had passed slowly, and she had slept little. The wind had died down without so much as a drop of rain. What had kept her awake was the memory of Thomas's hands on her body, the look in his passion-filled eyes when they stared into hers, and the troubling
memory of him leaving her—without taking what she wanted to give, without a single word.

She just didn't understand his actions. No man had ever left her like that before, and although her experience with the larger sex wasn't exactly limited, she wasn't so thoroughly seasoned that she could say she understood male sexuality to any degree of perfection. No man had ever made love to her and then not received his own satisfaction at her request, although it was true that Thomas was like few men she had ever known. Still, at base level he was a man, and a man who desired her—so blatantly, in fact, that it was almost charmingly humorous.

At first thought in the late night hours, as she'd lain awake in bed staring at the ceiling, she'd decided he was simply insecure. If his leg injuries were more severe than she had earlier assumed, it was possible he was reluctant to let her see them. Yet this didn't entirely explain his silent departure. He could have had her without removing his clothing, and although his legs might be mangled to some degree, he should know her well enough by now to realize this would never repulse her.

Her second consideration centered on the question of impotence. She had felt him briefly through his clothes, and that part of him seemed to be perfectly formed—well proportioned and long and very definitely hard for her. He had certainly been erect, but had he been able to sustain it? She couldn't tell after she'd stretched out on the sofa, and with a little embarrassment, she realized she hadn't thought of trying to touch him when he'd started to bring her to orgasm. But then that was natural.
Still, he'd said he wasn't impotent, and one would suppose the man would know his own body.

The only other conclusion she could draw was one of nonconclusion. He didn't want to be completely intimate with her for reasons known only to him, which, she reminded herself, was exactly what he'd told her three nights ago. This notion troubled her the most, and that, in turn, amused her. She was reaching the point in their relationship where she was beginning to care for Thomas as a person, and she wanted him to want her. She wanted him to need her. She wanted him to make love to her, not just for the sake of sexual release, but for the sake of being intimate with her alone.

Madeleine pushed a long branch out of her way and stepped into the clearing beside the lake. As suspected, Thomas sat on the bench, staring out across the calm water, his legs spread wide, elbows on knees, hands clasped together in front of him. He wore his heavy twine coat, scarf and gloves, leading her to believe he'd been out in the woods for quite some time.

She walked toward him slowly, arms crossed over her stomach, her leather shoes crunching on the leaves and twigs at her feet. He undoubtedly heard her approaching but he didn't move his body or look in her direction.

“It's a beautiful morning,” she said brightly.

He exhaled forcefully through his nostrils, nodding. “My favorite time of day.”

“Mine, too.” She stood behind him and off to one side, gazing down to his profile. Tiny lines spread out from the corner of his eye, his lips hard set and grim. He looked older this morning than his thirty-nine years,
but distinguished and darkly handsome. She wished she could kiss the tension from his face but she didn't think she should be so forward. It was obvious that he needed the space.

“I have two questions to ask you, Thomas,” she remarked after a moment of silence.

His jaw tightened noticeably, but he said nothing. Apparently she would have to do all the work.

“What do you think Baron Rothebury does with the books?”

Quickly he jerked his head around and stared at her, his eyes wide, mouth slack. The fact that he appeared so suddenly surprised at the innocuous question made her suck in her cheeks to keep from giggling.

“Books?” he repeated, confused.

She raised a brow and rubbed her toe along the forest floor. “Lady Claire's books. Why is he buying them?”

He sat a little straighter, composing himself as he realized where her thoughts were heading, but he didn't move his steady gaze from hers. “I've been wondering about that, too. After meeting him I can't believe he's a collector or a dealer. It doesn't fit his personality, or at least what I know of him. He's an extroverted man, educated to the degree most nobles are, but he's not an intellectual.”

Madeleine took a step closer and briefly scanned the baron's home on the other side of the water. “He also doesn't seem to be of need financially, which is exactly what was said at Mrs. Rodney's tea. Buying books just to sell them as a dealer wouldn't be especially profitable anyway. And that means,” she reasoned solemnly, “he purposely lied to Lady Claire.”

“Yes, I believe he did.”

Thomas's voice sounded gruff to her ears. Masculine. She looked back into his lovely brown eyes, wanting him again. “Why?”

He shook his head, brows drawn together. “I don't know. Socially she's of his class, but I can't imagine him calling on her for anything. He might invite her to parties because it would be expected, but other than that I'm not sure why he'd want anything to do with her, or her extensive library.”

“Maybe because she wants you, Thomas,” she maintained smoothly, running the fingers of one hand back and forth along the top of the bench. “The woman certainly doesn't hide that fact, and he doesn't like you for reasons unknown. Maybe he feels you're intruding in Winter Garden where the opposite sex is concerned?”

His eyes narrowed carefully, his gaze piercing hers, and it suddenly occurred to her how that must have sounded. Like a jealous wife. How thoroughly unlike her. She could kick herself for making such a statement without thought or provocation.

“So he's buying her books to get even or attract her attention? That makes no sense at all. He wouldn't find her any more appealing than I do.” He paused, then lowered his voice in calculation. “You're a better thinker than that, Madeleine. What are you really saying to me?”

She tried not to consider that an insult. He was right, naturally. She felt her cheeks flush hotly, which, of course, he noticed. But she didn't turn away. She needed to get to the point. He was waiting for an answer.

Straightening, she dropped her arms to her sides and daintily raised her chin. “I want to know why you left me last night.”

He almost smirked. “I thought so. I'm sorry about that.”

“I didn't ask if you were sorry, I asked why,” she returned matter-of-factly.

He hesitated, rubbing his hands together nervously. “It's complicated.”

That irritated her. His answers to personal questions always seemed to be purposely evasive, and she was tired of it. She tried to ignore the feeling; to remain cool was her persona. “That's a very common excuse for you, Thomas, but I really would like an explanation this time. I think I deserve it.”

Shifting uncomfortably on the bench seat, he faced the lake once more. “It wasn't you.”

“I should hope not,” she agreed curtly. “You obviously made certain I would enjoy myself. And I also think it was obvious that I did.”

His cheek twitched, and Madeleine wasn't certain if he was amused at her comment or annoyed. She couldn't see his eyes. But he seemed to grow more discomfited by the second.

“Are you afraid to become intimate because of the injuries to your legs?”

The words drifted softly through the morning air, but her question hit its target. Everything was out in the open now. He would have to talk of it.

Stiffly, palms to thighs, he pushed himself up to a standing position. With one shove of his gloved fingers through his hair, he walked forward several paces until he stood on the shoreline.

Madeleine waited, unmoving.

“I'm not in the least afraid to be with you, and that
wasn't the problem last night,” he said through a coarse breath.

She refused to be intimidated by his unnecessarily cool manner. “Then why did you leave me?”

Abruptly he replied, “I'm a man, Madeleine.”

Was she supposed to be shocked? “Yes, I know. I felt the evidence of that.”

“You don't understand.” He thrust his hands in his coat pockets and stared at the water. “You were there, and I was ready. You were—hot, so hot. So…wet inside. Wet for me. I was making you that way.”

Madeleine frowned and began to walk toward him. The conversation had immediately jumped from the evasive to the intimate. She supposed this was the perfect place to discuss it, though, as they were secluded, but she kept her response hushed nonetheless. “It's a natural physical reaction, Thomas. I desire you. I've desired you since the day we met.”

“Why?” he whispered without looking at her.

She hadn't expected that, and it gave her pause to wonder if he were attempting to alter the tone of their talk. “You're a very attractive man,” she answered candidly, standing close to his side. “I enjoy your smile, your quietness, your…thinking, rational mind. You are unlike any man I've known before, and every day I want even more than that last to be your lover. I think we could find enjoyment in each other's arms for the time we are together, but I don't understand your reluctance. If it's because of your physical problem, I can tell you now that I find you to be one of the most masculine men I have ever known, handsome of face and form, and very charming despite your private nature. You are
robust and intelligent, and I think strongly attracted to me. Why do you keep protesting what is sure to take place?”

He exhaled loudly. “I don't think I've ever protested the desire, only acknowledged that our being intimate with each other could complicate our work.”

Madeleine calmed on the inside and smiled broadly. “You will be my lover.” It wasn't a question. She'd stated it without reservation or expectation, and he didn't deny it this time. He didn't say anything. She grew warm to her toes from his silent affirmation and confidently reached out to place a palm on his arm. “Why not last night?”

He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, stalling.

For the first time, Madeleine caught a glimmer of something else, another explanation for his quick departure, and her heart and body began to melt.

“Tell me, Thomas,” she said gently.

He stood rigidly, eyes tightly shut as he faced the brightening sky. Finally, in a murmur of his own, he revealed, “You can't understand what it was like for me, Madeleine. You were there, so beautiful, wanting me, moaning my name, begging me with your eyes and body to love you, to touch you, to caress your breasts, your hard nipples. Then you let me put my face on your mons, so near where your need was greatest, to touch you there, and you were wet, so wet, and the dark hair between your legs rubbed my cheek and lips. I could—smell you, reach out with my tongue and taste you, and you were so sweet, Maddie, so sweet to taste. And then you let me put my finger inside of you and you were hot, and soft, and wetter still. And when you climaxed—”

His voice shook, and he swallowed hard, his body
stiff at her side, his eyes squeezed shut. Madeleine silently watched him, partly in confusion, partly in wonder, while he recounted what sounded like a far-distant memory.

“When you climaxed,” he continued, almost inaudibly, “I could feel you. Oh, God, it surrounded me, and I could feel it, feel your wetness cling to me, flow over my fingers, feel you squeezing me inside, stroking me, rubbing against my hand. You climaxed because of how I touched you, just touched you—” He shook his head again and clenched his jaw. “You can't understand what knowing that, what being there and experiencing that, can do to a man. You were moaning my name, responding to
my
touch, and I realized I was smelling and tasting and feeling the release of true feminine beauty. It was no longer a dream. It was real,
you
were real, and I couldn't—” He tensed and shuddered. “I couldn't contain myself, Madeleine. I haven't been with a woman in years.”

The cold outside completely disappeared for her as a surge of exquisite warmth spread through her body and lingered. She didn't know if she was more stunned by his disclosure, touched by his honesty, or flattered. But it was true, she decided there, that a man had never been so open with her, especially about something that so affected his masculinity.

No man had ever described female sexuality to her in such lovely terms before, either. Even the French, who were, in general, more graphic about it, described it from a distance, as if it were a beautiful thing to admire and treasure, like a work of art. Thomas had described it as if he were a part of it and could feel it inside him, could feel her intimately with all his senses. As if he
found
her
sexuality beautiful, and beautiful to him alone. Madeleine knew at once that this was one of the most unique moments of her life, if not one of the most wonderful.

So. What could she say to him now? That it was all right? That it didn't change her desire for him? That she understood, when in fact she was a woman and probably didn't? Could she ask him why his sexual life has been lacking for years, and how many has it been anyway? She did, however, understand that he was embarrassed, and the moment between them now, regardless of his honesty, had to be exceedingly awkward for him. This was probably not the time for a detailed discussion of his past. But she could, if nothing else, let him know how she felt.