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 really 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 aloud, 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 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 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 wicked thoughts.
After all was said and done, it was a good thing he’d had the 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 would serve as a reminder for the next time not to abandon herself so shamelessly to temptation. But she prepared herself for naught.
Dressed for the day in a lemon-yellow chiffon dress, she entered the dining room only to find herself 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—and yet, 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.
Why then, had she expected to find anything different this morning?
Had she hoped to discover a husband who would greet her with a “jolly good morning, darling” and a peck on the lips?
Perhaps yesterday she had not, but after last night…
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.
That was the one place she felt most at ease, and she needed to figure out how to handle this 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 an exceptionally unsightly rose 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 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 it surprised him 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 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 the loveliest 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 merely 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 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, as though they were grieving, as well.
After George retired, they’d gone through a procession of gardeners, and not one of them had resurrected 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, Margaret 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 too short as well.
Grass and dirt stains adorned the material, and those gentle hands that had roamed her body so wickedly 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 brigands. “Gabriel?”
He grinned, 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 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.”