Winter Garden Read Free

exchange. More so than he, shethought. 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.
    â€œOpen 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 accustomed. 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.
    â€œThe room on the right is yours,” he informed her