The Garden Has Its Weeds As Well As Flowers
“I’ll expect a new barouche,” muttered Aunt Mildred, who’d turned up uninvited, “as part of the increased stipend. And a new drawing room mirror for our insufficient townhouse, to make it appear larger and…”
Miles stared into his own mirror above the fireplace as she wittered on about curtains.
It had been five days since he’d seen Verity. Five nights dreaming of her – impassioned kisses and impatient touches that woke him bathed in heat. Five days of seething frustration.
Those feelings which he’d struggled to define, ones caught in the crossfire of her secrets and the past, had fallen into formation and–
“Are you listening to me? Have you been carousing all the nights? You certainly look…”
As Aunt now sustained a diatribe on his sleepless appearance, Miles perused himself and admitted she had a point: tousled hair, black shadows beneath the eyes and a carved-in frown. He’d looked better when sleeping on rough French ground in a leaking tent.
For most of the day, he’d been sitting in the dragoon’s office studying the black books and the list of names, as after searching the mews, they’d found a gouge in the brickwork of No.
20’s garden wall where the bullet had glanced off before landing in the gutter.
And there was a good chance it was from a cavalry-issued New Land Pattern pistol.
Of course once a man left the cavalry – in a box or otherwise – such a pistol should have been returned to the regiment but many were lost, looted, sold or surreptitiously kept, so the finding of the bullet had proved naught but–
“And you were seen, you realise? On outings with that…that scandalous scarlet spinster!”
Miles spun on his heel. “Who told you this?”
“Never you mind, Stonewold. But an artist, how could you?” A sniff. “By all means dally in private but cease being seen in public with that–”
“Enough!” Miles bellowed. She would not speak ill of Verity and he fixed her with the full force of his glare. “I suggest you end there or I shall rip up any contract for a new stipend within a breath.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t. Not over some…”
Jeremy, wearing a refined pale blue, lightly cleared his throat from where he was sitting on the sofa.
“Have you something to say?” Aunt Mildred twisted her head. “No, I didn’t think so.” She flapped a paisley shawl. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such wretched offspring and nephew.” She rose to her feet. “I thought the Taits from trade were bad but an art–”
“No more!” thundered Miles. “No more of the admirable Taits or the charming Miss Seymour, and if I hear of you spreading gossip, that small townhouse of yours that I own will be leased to more deserving tenants. You, meanwhile, will have the choice to live in either Riggs Moor upon the Yorkshire Dales or Tyle Garw in the Brecon Beacons.”
“I beg your pardon!” She held a hand to her bosom. “The Stonewold earldom has no estates in such godforsaken places.”
Miles curved his lips. “We will do if I hear so much as a gasp from you concerning Miss Seymour.”
At last, he beheld comprehension in her eyes.
“You are nothing like your brother.”
“No, I am not. And I care naught for the opinion of you or the Ton. Good day, Aunt Mildred.”
Doubtless a dozen unpleasantries trembled on her lips but the loss of stipend and townhouse would win out.
It did and her eyes lowered. “Jeremy, come,” she hissed. “We shall see ourselves out.” And she swished from the study, skirts flapping like a standard in retreat, her elder son trailing.
Miles braced one hand against the mantelpiece before a slow handclap ensued.
“Well said.”
He swivelled to Alasdair who’d kept his counsel upon the corner chaise, cradling what was left of the unfavoured Lowlands Bladnoch in his lap.
“Though she was correct on one matter,” he continued. “You do look like a man who’s not slept for…oh, about five nights, I’d say.”
Miles merely grunted, grabbed the poker and took his frustration out upon the coals. A plan was required. In all haste. He needed this whoreson caught so more pressing matters could proceed apace.
Verity had laid siege to him, a force that would not be denied, and he was ready to surrender.
He needed her.
Courtship be damned.
Heaving a sigh, he replaced the poker and turned. “I miss her, damn it.”
Dair smirked. “Well, remember my motto…”
“Never drink one’s own liquor if someone else’s is available?”
“Amusing and true. But no…” His eyes gleamed. “When you want something, take it.” He quaffed the remainder of his whisky, grimaced, rose and sauntered out.
Miles linked his hands behind his neck and ordered his thoughts.
“Lynch!” he yelled.
“Blister me ears, ‘C’tain. I were only in the hall.” And his factotum stepped smartly into the drawing room. “Making sure yer cousin ain’t pilfered a decanter.”
“He won’t. There’s no Glenlivet left.” Miles scrunched his eyes. “Set up a meeting with my man of affairs, will you, and the solicitors. Perhaps we have set our sights too narrow thus far. Perhaps with all that hellish paperwork when I inherited, I signed something that has caused this.”
“Will do.” Lynch scratched his nape. “And if yer going down that route, might be worth sending a message to the estate steward. See if any tenants have a grievance. ’Tis a long shot, to be sure but…”
“No, good idea. We’ll proceed on all fronts.”
Lynch saluted with a stiff flick of the wrist and strode out whilst Miles peered back to the mirror – to his shadowed eyes and haggard cheeks.
When you want something, take it.
And perhaps, just for once, he would follow Dair’s advice.
A meadow beckoned, its knee-high hotch-potch of seedheads and dried stalks waving their welcome in the nimble autumn wind.
So Verity darted onwards.
But not alone.
For Miles held her hand. Green eyes blithe.
And barefoot, they rushed through the woven tapestry of sienna and saffron, skirted the dried thistles and jumped the crisp yarrows.
His grip was firm, skin warmed by the sun, and she laughed to the soft sky, happy as the swallows that swooped over their heads, the dried grasses a symphony of whispers in the breeze.
The world was theirs and theirs alone.
Effortlessly, Miles swung her into his arms, around and around, white skirts winged, Miles the core, the unshakeable heart around which everything spun.
Before he kissed her.
Soft and tender as a whisper – the hand to her nape belying deeper passions, claiming and caressing.
Toes slipped to the ground and she smiled into his fervid eyes. Kneeled and fell back to lie in the meadow grass that crunched beneath her, closed her own eyes and held out her arms.
Waited for Miles in this haven of hay and earth.
Yet he did not join her.
Such teasing. She opened one eye.
No Miles.
Just a lead-grey cloud swallowing the sun whole.
Frowning, she sat up, twisted, but of Miles there was no sign and a shiver seized her as a darkness that murmured of winter covered her eyes, the chill of impending frost.
She was…alone.
Grasses leached their saffron hue and the swallows fled.
She blinked. Felt a tear slide. Winter was coming.
Verity stumbled to her bare feet, shuttered her eyes before the darkness enclosed her and–
A whisper against her cheek.
Another.
Lips soft as a harebell.
And she frowned.
“Open your eyes,” a voice murmured, yet she shook her head. Had no wish to see the winter that surrounded her.
Yet the lips continued murmuring sweet promise before they settled on her own – gentle and divine.
She lifted her lids.
And there was Miles.
“You’re a dream,” she whispered, and promptly closed them again.
“A pleasant one I hope,” this new Miles of her dream whispered back.
“Yes. But you’ll leave. You always do. And then I’ll be in the dark meadow again.”
“No.” His breath brushed the place between her ear lobe and neck, the place that made her shiver and ache and burn. “I’m not leaving.”
And from his tone, she believed him. So her lids opened once more. And there he still was in the lantern’s light.
“Miles… How…”
She should ask why he was here. In her conservatory. She’d merely fallen asleep on her chaise.
But instead she kissed him. With fervour and passion and all the emotions he made her feel.
“Verity,” he mumbled as her hands became busy, stroking his cheek and shoulders and chest. “I came here to say–”
She kissed him again, didn’t want to know, for she knew what her heart wanted. What she’d always wanted.
A deep groan and as his lips trailed down her neck, she opened her eyes full and wide, saw the wood of the conservatory roof and smiled.
Dreaming a dream with eyes wide.
Miles leaned up on corded forearms and she beheld such magnificence: his muscular shoulders, tanned throat and green eyes that glittered in the lanternlight. She breathed in nature and sandalwood melding to a musky spice that spun her wits.
He solely wore a shirt and buckskins and vaguely she noted his greatcoat folded by the Ficus carica.
And she drew his mouth to hers once more.
“Hell, Verity, we have to stop. I cannot–”
“I’ve waited forever. Since I was seventeen.” She hushed his lips. “And what did you say at Kew. Life is made of brief, fragile moments. We must appreciate each one.”
Courtship could wait.
His lips remained stern and with his hair dishevelled and shirt utterly askew, he looked less like a disciplined soldier than a man waging a losing battle against his desire.
Desire for her.
“I am at your command but…” His lips brushed the swells of her breast above her bodice. “There’ll be no talk of us not being together.”
And in that moment, Verity knew her heart and her mind. In the depths of this night, she knew.
Her recurrent dream had been overcome tonight, the ending rewritten with Miles’ return, and she would not gainsay its portent. Of what was meant to be. The world beyond them with all its complications was a blur, the weight of it left for a daylit hour.
It was just him. Here. And she was breathless with the simplicity of it.
So she raised a finger and placed it in front of her sealed lips.
And Miles growled.