It didn't take long to achieve her first objective; whoever said that cats were aloof had obviously never met Rex. Within five minutes of entering the castle and starting to call his name, he trotted out to greet her, ready for food and adoration.
Being no fool, Maggie had brought some sliced chicken with her. After Rex dined, he was quite happy to sleep off his meal while draped over her shoulder.
The lush, overgrown gardens were very lovely, the flowers bright with the flamboyant splendor of the last days before frost. She sensed no lingering trace of Varenne's evil, and for that she was grateful.
When Rex began to feel heavy, Maggie decided to sit and enjoy the sunshine. In a small rose garden completely surrounded by high hedges, she found a stone bench under a blossom-covered arbor. She sank down on it, grateful for the shade. The scene was extraordinarily peaceful, the silence broken only by the fluting of birdsongs and the gentle splashing of a small fountain in the center of the garden.
Rex slept with his head on her lap, the rest of him sprawled along the bench, one back paw in the air. The cat would be a fine tutor as she learned to live a normal, quiet life, for he had a truly remarkable talent for relaxation.
The tranquility soothed her strained nerves. Though the last weeks had been harrowing, the experience had been worthwhile, for she and Rafe had made a kind of peace. She also had an unforgettable night to cherish for the rest of her life.
Her musings were interrupted by the crunching of footsteps on gravel. She looked up to see Rafe walking swiftly along the path. Seeing her, he paused, then proceeded toward her at a slower pace, his expression reserved. Though his hair was uncharacteristically windblown, he was dressed with his usual damn-your-eyes elegance, and was so handsome that she realized she was forgetting to breathe.
Though this meeting would mean another night of tears, she couldn't help but respond to his presence. "Good afternoon, your grace," she said with a carefully casual smile. "What brings you to Chantueil?"
"You. May I sit down?" At her nod, he settled on the other side of Rex. "It's rather eerie. Apart from the Prussian guards at the gatehouse who said you might be in the garden, the place seems deserted."
"Not so much as a cook or a scullery maid left," she agreed. "It's fortunate that I came for Rex. Perhaps he could have survived on castle mice, but he would have been lonesome. He's a sociable creature."
Instead of answering, Rafe studied her face, his expression intent. There was something subtly different about him this morning. Perhaps it was only imagination, but to her eyes he looked less like a duke and more like the young man she had fallen in love with.
Before the silence could become too uncomfortable, he said, "One reason I came out here was to offer you an apology. Northwood was the one who claimed that you had lain with him. Looking back, it's hard to understand how I was fool enough to believe him."
She would much rather discuss weather or the gardens, but there were some things that should probably be said, since they were unlikely to meet again. "I learned that it was Northwood yesterday, when he boasted of what he had done. It was clever of him to pretend drunkenness—it's easier to believe a whisper than a shout."
Rafe grimaced. "Lord knows that I have been punished for my unreasonable jealousy. I'm profoundly sorry, Margot. Not trusting you was the worst mistake of my life."
He hesitated, as if seeking the right words, then said haltingly, "My parents had a fashionable marriage. After they did their duty and produced me, they were seldom under the same roof, much less in the same bed. I wanted a different kind of marriage. When I met you, I thought I had found what I was looking for. Yet I don't think I truly believed that it was possible for me to attain such happiness, which may be why I was susceptible to Northwood's slander."
"I don't remember you ever talking about your parents before," she said quietly.
He shrugged. "There was very little to say. My mother died when I was ten—her demise made so little difference in my life that I scarcely noticed she was gone. My father believed in Lord Chesterfield's maxim that there was nothing so vulgar as audible laughter. He was quite punctilious about his responsibilities to his heir, just as he was conscientious about caring for his tenants and taking his seat in the Lords. A true English gentleman." Rafe glanced down and began stroking the cat's silky belly. "Having Colonel Ashton for a father-in-law was a... refreshing prospect."
His uninflected words made Maggie's heart ache. At eighteen, it had not occurred to her that tall, confident Rafe had not only desired her, but needed her. She wondered why he revealed that. Not for sympathy, she was sure.
Deciding to ask a question that had often occurred to her, usually late in a lonely night, she said, "If I had denied Northwood's charge, would you have believed me?"
"I think so. I wanted—rather desperately—for you to throw my words back in my face." He stopped, then added painfully, "The fact that you made no attempt to deny it seemed like proof of your infidelity."
"My wretched, wretched temper," she said sadly, feeling the ache of old anguish. "I was so angry and hurt that I had to escape before I fell apart in front of you. I should have stayed and fought."
"My lack of trust was far more reprehensible than your justifiable anger," Rafe said, his voice tight with self-condemnation. "If your father hadn't felt that he needed to get you away from London, he never would have died in France."
She shook her head. "It's my turn to apologize. In spite of what I said when we had that horrible fight, I never blamed you for his death. It's true that we originally left England because of my broken betrothal, but we overstayed our time in France because my father was sending reports to army headquarters. He was sure that the peace wouldn't last, so he used our travels as a cover for observing French troops and armaments." She gave Rafe a wry glance. "As you see, I came by my spying abilities naturally."
Rafe sighed. "Thank you for telling me that. It helps a little."
"Life is a tapestry of interwoven events," she said slowly. "If we hadn't come to France—if Father hadn't been killed—if I hadn't gone to work with Robin—who knows what would have happened in Paris this week? Varenne might have been successful, and Europe would be sliding toward war again. So perhaps my father's death wasn't as meaningless as it seemed at the time."
"I hope you're right. There is comfort in believing that some good has come from the tragedies of the past." He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and handed it to her. "Another reason I came out here was because I wanted you to have these."
Recognizing the box, she tried to give it back. "I can't possibly keep the emeralds. They're too valuable."
His brows lifted. "If I gave you flowers, you would accept them. What is the difference?"
"At least five thousand pounds," she said tartly. "Probably a good bit more."
He laid his hand over hers where it rested on the velvet box. "The cost is unimportant. What matters is that they are from the heart, no more, and no less, than flowers would be."
The warmth that spread through their joined hands weakened Maggie's resolve. The truth was that she wanted the emeralds, not so much for their beauty and value as because they were from Rafe. "Very well," she said in a low voice. "If you really want me to keep them I shall."
"I would like to give you a great deal more."
His words triggered a rush of fury. Why did he have to say that and spoil everything? She rose to her feet, leaving both jewels and an indignant Rex on the bench. "I don't want you to give me anything more," she snapped. "This is already too much. Take those damned emeralds away and give them to a woman who will express her appreciation in the way that you want."
Back rigid, she stepped into the sunshine and plucked a rose from one of the bushes. As she broke thorns from the stem, she told herself that she was not going to lose her composure.
It was another resolution doomed to failure. Rafe came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. Though there was nothing overtly sensual in the contact, his nearne
ss undermined her good intentions with dreadful ease.
In his deep, mellow voice, he quoted, "'Come live with me and be my love, Then we will all the pleasures prove..."'
She yanked away, turning only when she was safely out of his reach. "Damn you, Rafe Whitbourne, we've been over this before! I won't be your mistress."
He could have followed her and used all the intoxicating weapons of the senses to try to change her mind, but he didn't. Instead, he said quietly, "I'm not asking you to be my mistress. I'm asking you to be my wife."
Maggie had believed that matters could not get worse, but she had been wrong. Rafe was offering the deepest desire of her heart—and his words triggered a numbing wave of fear and grief.
Not daring to investigate the roots of her distress, she said tightly, "You do me a great honor, your grace, but we both know that when men like you marry, they choose rich, beautiful, eighteen-year-old virgins." She gave a brittle laugh. "I am none of those things. High adventure can be like a drug—don't let a few days of excitement warp your judgment."
In spite of her flat refusal, Rafe felt a flicker of hope. Margot had said nothing about not loving him, which was why she had refused Robin, and which was the only reason that really mattered.
"I'm not 'men like me'—for better and worse, I'm the one and only Rafael Whitbourne," he said in his most reasonable tone. "I also have quite enough money for any two people, or even any hundred people, so fortune is not an issue. Beauty? That is in the eye of the beholder, and in my eyes you are the most captivating woman in the world. You always have been. You always will be.
"As for age"—he closed the distance between them and caught her gaze, willing her to believe—"the only eighteen-year-old I ever met who didn't bore me to paralysis is you—and the woman you have become is even more irresistible than the girl you were."
When her lips parted to reply, he touched his forefinger to them. "That being the case, why won't you marry me?" He thought he saw a flash of something dark and anguished in her eyes before she masked her expression.
Brushing his hand aside, she said coolly, "Because I know myself too well, Rafe. I could never share you with another woman. The first time you had an affair, I would turn into a raving shrew and make us both miserable. I suppose you might be able to conceal your other women from me, but I will never live a lie, be it ever so charmingly told."
"I didn't want a fashionable marriage when I was twenty-one, and I don't want one now," he said emphatically. "If we marry, I swear that I will never give you cause to doubt my fidelity."
Shrugging off his avowal, she said, "Everyone makes mistakes, Rafe. You don't have to marry me to atone for believing Northwood. I enjoy my independence, and have no desire to give it up."
"Are you sure? No one whose hands are clenched is thinking clearly, and this is too important to decide while upset."
With a choked sound between laughter and tears, she looked down and saw that her hands were white-knuckled fists. Carefully she straightened her fingers and saw that they were trembling. "The love we had when we were young was very real, and very special," she said unsteadily, "but we can never go back to it. Accept that it's over, Rafe."
He took her left hand and gently massaged the crescents that her nails had dug in the palm. "Why go back when we can go forward? Surely now we can bring a depth and wisdom to loving that we could not have done all those years ago."
She bit her lip, then shook her head.
"Can't we even try?" he said intensely. "Life doesn't offer many second chances, Margot. For God's sake, let's not throw this one away!"
She dared a quick glance at his face and saw that the layers of civilized detachment had been stripped away, leaving him open in a way that she had not seen since the morning he had ended their betrothal.
Wishing that she could match his courage, she broke away and retreated to the fountain in the middle of the garden. In the center of the pool, a worn stone cherub held aloft an urn from which the water flowed.
Staring at the cherub as if it were the most beautiful sculpture she had ever seen, she said bitterly, "You're deceiving yourself, Rafe. There are no second chances, in life or in love."
There was a long silence. She began to hope that he finally understood, and would stop trying to change her mind.
She should have known that he would not surrender so easily. He came to stand beside her, saying, "Don't keep retreating, Margot. You said yourself that it was a mistake to run away thirteen years ago. I won't let you do it again."
The undercurrent of her fear became stronger. "Leave me alone, Rafe," she said sharply. "I know what I want, and it doesn't include marriage to you."
He steeled himself for what must come next, for he sensed that unless he addressed the full horror of her past, she would continue to give him superficial reasons why they would not suit. "I know what happened in Gascony, Margot."
When she whipped her shocked gaze back to him, he said with slow emphasis, "I know all of it."
"Robin told you?"
"Yes, when we were in the cell together."
"Damn him!" she swore, her eyes blazing. "He had no right to speak of that, and to you of all people."
"I convinced him that... I had a strong need to know."
"So that's what is really behind your proposal," she said savagely. "Guilt. It's generous of you to be willing to accept damaged goods for your duchess, but it's bloody not necessary. I can take care of myself perfectly well without your misguided charity."
A spasm crossed his face. "Is that how you see yourself—as damaged goods?"
She sank down onto the rim of the fountain and buried her face in her hands. Until now, only Robin had known the whole, ugly story. It was unbearable that Rafe, of all people, was also aware of her disgrace.
The sunny garden disappeared as dark memories threatened to overpower her. She forced her mind away from them, only to come face-to-face with the fact that her utter helplessness had been even more devastating than the pain. In some ways, her whole life since then had been about proving that she was not helpless.
Battling desperately to avoid the ultimate humiliation of falling apart in front of Rafe, she said harshly, "More than damaged—shattered beyond repair. That's why I welcomed the chance to stay in France with Robin, why I wouldn't let even Lord Strathmore know my real name. Margot Ashton was dead, and I wanted her to stay that way."
"Margot Ashton didn't die—she became a remarkable, compassionate woman." Rafe's voice was very soft. "You have touched more lives, accomplished more good, than most people ever dream of. I won't deny that I feel tremendous guilt about how I treated you, but that's not the reason I want you for my wife."
Afraid of what he would say next, she raised her head and said wearily, "I don't want to hear any more."
Ignoring her remark, he seated himself beside her on the rim of the fountain. "When I was twenty-one I loved you with all that was best in me," he said soberly. "At the time, I was frightened of how much I was in your power, because I loved you more than pride and honor."
He plucked several strands of grass and absently rolled them between his thumb and forefinger. "After I lost you, only pride and honor were left, and I slid into all their traps. When I look back at the man I became, I don't much like him. If I was usually courteous, it was because it was beneath me to be rude. When I was sometimes arrogant, it was because being a duke gave form and structure to a life that was essentially meaningless." He turned and looked at her, his grave gaze holding hers. "You are what gives meaning to my life, Margot."
By exposing so much of himself to her, he was paradoxically making Maggie herself more vulnerable. Feeling more and more afraid, her gaze slid away so that he could not see her cowardice. "I don't want to be responsible for giving your life meaning."
"You don't have a choice." He twined the strands of grass around his finger like a ring. "It will be true whether we marry, or whether we never see each other again."
With ev
ery sentence, he was undermining more of her defenses. The horror of Gascony joined the separate fear she had felt when he proposed to her, creating a torrent of panic. Unable to conceal her feelings any longer, she cried, "I haven't the courage to try again, Rafe! The idea of risking myself with you terrifies me. Varenne's threat to blow my brains out was child's play by comparison."
The blades of grass snapped between his fingers. After a long silence, he said, "My life has been easy compared to yours, but I do know something about fear—I've spent the last dozen years living a life shaped by it. Because I didn't dare risk the kind of pain I felt after losing you, I kept life at a distance, never allowing myself to get close to a woman whom I might love."
"Then you should understand how I feel. Give up, Rafe, please." Her breath was coming in raw, painful gasps and she knew that she should refuse to listen any longer. Yet she was utterly unable to make herself leave.
"Not until I'm convinced this is a hopeless case," he said, his tone adamant. "Admitting that I love you terrifies me, yet I must risk it because even pain is better than the emptiness I've known for the last dozen years."
He turned to her, his gaze compelling. "After the riot in the Place du Carrousel you said that the only thing stronger than fear is passion. But you're wrong." With gossamer tenderness, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "It isn't passion, but love, that is stronger than fear. I love you, and I think that you must love me at least a little, or you would never have shared my bed. The love exists. Give it a chance to heal the wounds of the past."
She yearned for what he was offering like a woman dying of thirst yearned for water. Yet she could not accept. Ever since Rafe had come to Paris, she had experienced one brutal shock after another, and the barriers she had erected for survival were collapsing. The storm of fear intensified to hurricane force, threatening to shatter her beyond any hope of healing.
There was only one form of solace that she trusted.
She slid along the marble fountain rim, then twined her arms around Rafe's neck and kissed him with desperate hunger. His calm demeanor fractured and he crushed her hard against him. In the fierce embrace that followed, her fear retreated a little, driven back by the molten madness of desire.
Petals in the Storm: Book 3 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 32