My Darling Caroline (20 page)

In all of his life, through the loneliness, the devastation of war, the trench of death, he’d never felt so frightened of the unknown, of what was to come. Philip was probably already in England, and Caroline’s very existence was now in his hands.

“I will keep you safe, my love,” he whispered into the cold, quiet night, burying his face in her hair. “I will keep you safe.”

Chapter 18

H
e watched her walk toward the door of the structure, her dark hair flowing loosely behind her in the breeze, her dirty hands filled with some sort of dark vine she evidently intended to plant inside. She hadn’t noticed him crouching in the brush, and in fact had seemed completely oblivious to his presence for the last five days.

Philip couldn’t have been more pleased.

She was an ugly little thing, being English and dark, although to be fair he’d only laid eyes on her from a distance, and each time she’d been clothed in rags and covered with dirt. He would hardly call her handsome, and certainly she was never blond. The English pig was so stupid, and had he not checked his facts, he’d have probably killed the wrong woman.

Still, he considered, staring hard at her in growing appreciation, she had a marvelous figure, which was undoubtedly why the Raven married her, as she was full-breasted, small-waisted, and a sensual pleasure to watch, her hips swaying so erotically as she walked that she made even him grow fully erect each time he saw her. What he wouldn’t give to surprise the Raven’s English whore of a wife, climb on top of her, and force her to succumb to French passion before he sliced her throat.

He gazed at her until she opened the door and disappeared inside, his trained mind absorbing everything, knowing it was all falling into place at last, as he now had what he needed. He knew when she arrived each day, how long she stayed, and she was almost always alone except for the occasional company of Christine’s sick, half-English little girl.

Yes, the Raven’s wife was his weakness, the flaw in his armor, regardless of whether he cared for her, because haughty English scum prided themselves so much on heirs and bloodlines. He would just take it upon himself to deprive the English of one more quality heir by disposing of the broodmare before he took vengeance on the only person to arrogantly think he’d bested the great Philip Rouselle, to arrogantly think he could infiltrate the French and not pay the price.

Slowly he backed up and moved silently into the trees. It was getting late, the air unbearably chilly and growing colder, and the fat English pig was probably already missing him.

But it would be over soon, and then he’d find himself on a long holiday with several bottles of red bordeaux and a willing Frenchwoman to wrap her legs around his body of ice. He deserved such comforts after living so long in utter filth, and with each passing week he grew more restless. The time had come to strike.

In days it would all be over.

…I hope you’ll not have any further delays in leaving England, since we’ve been anxiously waiting to combine your experiments with ours for more than a year now.

By the way, Mr. Grayson, we’ve finally been able to produce the lavender species; however, they’re unstable, and the purple tips don’t always breed into them. We’ll certainly be thankful to have you with us on a permanent basis…

Caroline folded the letter and placed it next to a stack of notes on her desk. Stephanie had brought it to her only that afternoon, along with other correspondence and the innocent announcement that she’d be wearing her older sister’s emeralds for various social functions throughout the holiday season. Stephanie had never once considered selling them to help her, she’d admitted bluntly, confident that her sister would see reason, admit to the growing affections she felt for her husband, and stay in England. How anyone could be so sweet and naïve, yet at the same time so calculating, Caroline couldn’t fathom.

Sighing complacently, she returned to her planting.

She needed to write Professor Jenson and explain as well, but doing so, even thinking about it, saddened her tremendously. Although she’d been her husband’s eager and passionate lover for nearly three weeks, the turmoil still burned within. Her mind and talent as a superior botanist would never be known and used to the fullest. Never would she realize her dream of becoming one of Europe’s leading experts on plant breeding, all because she’d allowed her heart to envelop her rational thinking the night she gave herself to her husband.

How ironic that she would allow her wonderful, giving husband to unwillingly and unknowingly take away the only thing she’d ever truly cherished. She almost laughed with bitterness as she realized Sir Albert’s original letter of rejection was quite literally correct. She would no doubt make her husband and family proud of her accomplishments, and in a very small way, even content as she was at Miramont with Brent, she felt hurt and frustrated that they would be the only ones to lay witness to her beautiful creations, her expertise.

What really made her angry, though, was knowing that the men in the world had won again. She just didn’t live in a time when women were allowed any advancements or achievements, any personal recognition; gradually, as if maturing to fully grasp the complexities of life, she realized she should just be grateful for the things she had. Even with anguish raging inside each time she thought of the world of adventure and study she’d given up for love, she would have to accept her life as it was. There was no turning back. It would simply have to be enough.

But she did have her greenhouse, and that she adored. During the last two weeks she’d begun filling it with greenery and flowers from the estate proper, watching as they took to the soil, some of them budding almost at once. Most of the plants inside, however, were those she’d finally had transplanted from her greenhouse at her father’s home, and all were different from those in the garden. During the coming months she expected the structure of glass to fill with color and brilliance, producing just as well as her creations did in the open air.

She’d been working on vines for twelve days, and although the woodbines were already taking to the soil, the scarlet runners would be difficult, for they only grew ornamentally in northern climes, and she hoped to provide them with the ability to sprout their edible beans in her greenhouse as they did in the tropics, their natural environment. Botany, as with any science, usually proved to be the greatest unknown, and she adored the challenge.

Within the week she intended to return to flowers—rhododendrons, violets, carnations. After that she’d again delve into the nightmare of breeding her cherished lavender roses. With so much work in the coming months, she hoped her mind would be too full to contemplate America and what could have been.

Thank God she had a husband who allowed her the freedom to do what she loved.

That thought made her smile as her hands dug into the soil. He’d left at sunup, quite secretive about his plans for the day, but she didn’t care. Her work took her mind from everything else, and she’d just pry it out of him later.

He quietly opened the door, the box in his hands, trying to come to terms with his feelings as he gazed inside the structure that had, in part, torn his family to pieces more than thirty years ago.

“It’s as…green as I’ve ever seen it, Caroline.”

She whirled around and smiled. “Well, if it isn’t Miramont’s resident spy sneaking up on his wife again.”

He grinned and stepped inside, taking in the surroundings.

She’d placed two large, oblong tables parallel to each other along the center, both almost completely covered with greenery. To his immediate left was a small desk piled high with papers, books, and what he assumed to be notes, and to his right along the glass wall were three small wooden benches, side by side, leading to a basin for water in the far northeast corner. Beyond that, the greenhouse was full of nothing but plants, dirt, and tools. This was where she belonged, and in a rush of guilt he wished he’d given it to her sooner.

Taking it from her again wouldn’t be easy. He only hoped his little gift would lessen the blow.

“I brought something for you,” he said mischievously, sauntering toward her.

“A gift for me?” she returned, grinning, and reaching for a towel to wipe her hands.

He stopped in front of one of the tables, placing the small, ribbon-tied box on the only clearing he could find. “I will, however, demand compensation for my effort,” he teased, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hip on the wooden surface.

She gave him a sideways glance, smiling slyly in return, as she slowly started toward him, hands on hips.

“Compensation? A…plant for your sill perhaps?”

She stopped two feet in front of him and leaned over the table to lift a small pot containing some ugly green thing with sickly leaves.

“That’s…not exactly what I had in mind,” he murmured, watching her breasts push hard against her blouse as she strained to reach it. Seeing that was enough.

Quickly he moved to stand directly behind her, pinning her against the table, pulling the ribbon from her hair, and nuzzling his face in the long, shiny locks as they fell down her back.

“You intend to take advantage of your wife in her greenhouse?” she asked sweetly, as if she couldn’t feel him against her, his rigid erection gently rubbing her backside.

“Mmmm…”

She sighed loudly, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “Coupling in the dirt doesn’t sound all that romantic.”

“It doesn’t have to be romantic. It can be fast and furious.”

“Fast and furious?”

“And just as gratifying,” he whispered gruffly, wrapping his arms around her, caressing her stomach.

She laughed softly, attempting to turn, and with that he reached down and began to lift her skirt, holding her firmly against the table. He felt a shiver escape her as his left hand began to knead her breast, the tiny bud hardening against his palm.

“Brent—”

“Rosalyn is with Charlotte. We’re all alone, little one.”

“You planned this,” she said sternly.

He nuzzled her neck. “Of course I did. I’m not going to walk all the way down here for nothing.”

She ran her palm along his arm. “What about my gift?”

Slowly he pulled her skirt up to bunch around her bottom, and before she could protest, he started stroking the outside of her thigh with his fingertips.

“Open it,” he whispered.

Her breath began to quicken, her skin flushed beautifully, but he knew, as did every man, no woman could refuse a present when it sat directly in front of her, beckoning to be opened.

She reached for the small oblong box, gently trying to push his hand from her breast to no avail. He clung to her, caressing her, running his fingers along her thigh, and then, when finally she had the satin ribbon completely untied, he quickly moved his hand to hold the top closed.

“I thought you said open it,” she exasperated with feigned annoyance.

He softly kissed her ear. “Spread your legs for me first.”

She turned her head sharply to glare at him. “That’s obscene, you insolent man.”

“I know.” He grinned. “And you cannot imagine how pleased I am that you wear nothing under your work gowns. Had I known this little fact, I surely would have taken advantage long ago.” He lowered his voice to repeat impishly, “Spread your legs, Caroline, or no gift…”

For a long, drawn-out moment she did nothing. Then, smiling coyly, she turned back to the box and moved her feet just wide enough to allow him access. With her surrender, he lightly moved his fingers forward, around her thigh to the front of her, inside, then covered her completely with his palm.

She drew a sharp breath as he started to move his fingers back and forth along her cleft, already growing wet and hot to his touch. He lifted his hand from the top of the box and placed it back on her breast, cupping her, kneading her through the softness of her blouse, grazing his palm across her nipple.

“Open it now,” he whispered.

“You’re tormenting me,” she murmured in a deep, sexy voice.

“It’s my duty as your husband.”

She placed her fingers on the box.

He kissed her neck, gently squeezed her nipple, and slowly continued stroking her.

She lifted the lid, and as comprehension enveloped her, she nearly stopped breathing, fell completely still.

“This is what you mean to me, my darling Caroline,” he said in a thick, deep whisper, stroking her back and forth, teasing her breast in slow circles with the tips of his fingers.

For a moment she just stared at the box.

“Don’t cry yet,” he added tenderly, placing little kisses along her ear and neck. He eased his fingers between her folds, found the tiny nub hidden so intimately, and began rubbing it gently, quickly, making her gasp. “I need you first.”

“How did you—”

“Shh…”

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes to the feel, her breath growing erratic and fast. He kept her pinned with his hips and chest, unable to move, one hand caressing her breasts, the other between her legs, under the table and her gown, pushing her against him while his fingers moved expertly, faster, harder.

She moaned softly, and he quickened his movements, ran his tongue along her ear in slow form, and he knew she was fast approaching her peak.

He nuzzled her neck, breathing her scent, rubbing his swollen member against her backside, trying to stay in control.

“We shouldn’t…” She clutched his arm. “Brent…”

“I love to hear you say my name,” he whispered in her ear, squeezing her nipple gently once more. “I love to watch you when you’re aroused. I love to feel you in my hands, your moist heat surrounding me, making me ache to be inside of you, a part of you.” He increased the pressure and speed of his fingers, making her whimper, making her hips move rhythmically, instinctively, erotically against his hands. “I love to touch you, Caroline…”

Suddenly her nails dug into his arm. “Brent—”

Then she cried out, clinging to him, her body quivering against his. He held her tightly, feeling the tiny spasms with his fingers as he continued to stroke her, sucking her earlobe, kissing her neck and cheek over and over until he heard her soft whimpers of pleasure, felt her slow to his touch, her body begin to relax.

She breathed hard and raspy, eyes squeezed shut, face beautifully flushed. Then slowly, shaking, she turned, and this time he allowed her to do it, pulling his hand from her and letting her skirt fall once again to the ground.