She found herself free to do whatever work she felt like doing. There was no one telling her what to do or how to do it. There was no one to gainsay her if she wished to go for a walk or take a nap. It was freedom, and it should have been glorious. Because Nigel was not there, she should not have felt fear. But she did. She found herself waiting—waiting for Dumond to criticize, to disapprove or demand or lose his temper. She found herself working harder with each day that passed, striving to postpone what seemed inevitable. She wanted to give him nothing to criticize and no reason to hit.
But her pessimistic expectations came to naught. Dumond never said an insulting word to her. In fact, he hardly spoke to her at all. He never lost his temper because he hardly seemed to notice what she did.
It's like walking on eggs, she thought as she yanked yet another ragweed plant out of the ground and tossed it onto the pile of weeds by her side.
The feeling was a familiar one. During her two years of marriage, she'd walked on eggs most of the time, dread building to an almost unbearable level, and now, even though she was in a different house, and it was a different man, she was still waiting.
She pulled another weed from the ground and gave a grimace as she straightened, pressing a hand to the base of her spine as she surveyed the weed-choked expanse of garden that still remained before her. She'd only pulled a few weeds and already her back was beginning to ache, but she did love being the garden.
The afternoon sun felt warm on her neck and the pleasant hum of bees surrounded her as she worked. The bright red of a ladybug on the leaf of a weed caught her attention. She pushed the insect gently off the leaf before pulling the weed from the ground. A long-ago voice reminded her, “Ladybugs are good to have around, Tessie.”
She smiled, remembering old Herbert laying out bedding plants with gnarled hands, showing his five-year-old assistant how to train pole beans, letting her plant the nasturtiums and sweet peas because she could easily hold the large seeds in her fingers.
The vicarage garden had been one of her childhood joys, one of many. There had been love and laughter in her life then. Even after her mother's death when she was fifteen, even after her father became so very ill, that love had carried her through. He had approved of her marriage. “Aubry will take care of you after I'm gone, Tess. You'll be a countess. You'll never want for anything.”
She hadn't married Nigel because he was an earl. She had married him because she had loved him. The moment she had first seen him at the parish church in Ainswick, she'd been in love. He'd come to Northumberland to visit his mother, but during the days that had followed, it was Tess who had become the object of his rapt attention. Those days of courtship had been exciting and heady. Swept off her feet by an earl's attentions and charming manners, she had never realized what lay beneath. Only after she’d married him, had she discovered the truth.
Tess stared down at the weed in her hand. Somehow, fate had played a cruel joke on her. Fate had given her two loving parents who had shown her what marriage and family were supposed to be like. In marrying Nigel, the man she loved, she had assumed her new life would have the same love and happiness of her old one. But that innocent assumption had been snatched away so quickly, replaced in that first month of marriage with coldness and brutality and pain. Her life had left her unprepared for such sordid emotions, and both her innocence and her love had died a quick death, and she had finally understood that there would never be enough love to fill the deep, empty hole inside her husband.
Not even her father had been able to help her. He had died during her wedding journey. And there was no one else, a fact Nigel had never let her forget. “You're the daughter of a dead vicar,” he'd sneer. “A nobody. You have no money, no family. You have nothing. Without me, you are worthless.”
Tess dropped to her knees and yanked another weed from the ground, anger seething up inside her. She had done nothing to deserve the horrible things Nigel had done to her. She had done nothing to deserve the humiliation, the abuse, the degradation. She had done nothing wrong. Nothing. She wasn't worthless. She would work hard and she would prove it.
She pulled weeds at a frantic pace, remembering how Nigel had denied her gardening, one of her greatest joys. “I have made you a countess!” he'd shouted down at her the first and only time he'd found her on her knees in a flower bed. “Do you want to have callouses and dirty hands?” He had dumped the basket of weeds over her head. “Do you want to be a bloody gardener, countess?” He had pushed her down, grinding her face in the dirt. “Do you? Then you should look the part.” She could still taste the dirt in her mouth.
Tess pushed herself harder, tearing each weed from the ground, crushing it in her hand, and throwing it onto the growing pile as if it were a piece of Nigel’s flesh. On she worked, not stopping until she reached the end of the row.
Breathless and sweating, she paused for a moment and sat back, staring down at her dirty, green-stained hands with both pride and fury. What would Nigel say if he could see her now? She wondered if men could see earth through the flames of hell. God, she hoped so.
***
Alexandre marched through the courtyard, slapping the straw hat he'd brought out for her against his thigh as he walked. He'd seen her through the window, weeding with a frantic energy that alarmed and angered him.
She'd promised him she wouldn't do any hard work. But every day, she seemed to work longer and harder, pushing herself to do more and more and more. He didn't know what was driving her, but it had to stop. He would stop it. “Mademoiselle!”
His shadow crossed her. She did not even pause in her task, but continued pulling weeds savagely out of the ground.
“I did not make you my housekeeper to acquire a slave,” he told her. “Stop this.”
She didn't. Her frantic pace only seemed to increase. “I have to finish this today. I have laundry tomorrow, and mending. And after that—”
“Mademoiselle!” He moved to kneel in front of her, slamming the hat to the ground. He grasped her by the shoulders. “I am your employer, no? I will tell you what work you can and cannot do. And you will do as I say. The sun is hot, and you are in no condition for this sort of work.”
She froze, her wrists locked in his hands. She looked up at him, and all the fight went out of her as quickly as it had come. Her face, flushed a moment ago, was suddenly pale. “Are you forbidding me to work in the garden?”
“Yes,” he said sharply. Letting go of her wrists, he raised angry hands to the sky. “What are you thinking of? Out here during the warmest part of the day, on your knees and pulling weeds in your condition?” His voice rose with his anger and agitation. “Have a care for the babe you carry, mademoiselle! No more!”
He was so frustrated and so preoccupied with his lecture that he did not hear her sharp, indrawn breath. But when he seized the hat and moved to slap it down on her head, she ducked and flinched, holding up her arm in a defensive gesture.
He paused, the hat poised over her, and he was dismayed by the realization of what she thought he’d been about to do.
“Mon Dieu.” He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling a little sick in his guts. Moving slowly, gently, he grasped her wrist and pulled her arm down, then placed the hat on her head. “This must stop, mademoiselle,” he said in a quiet voice. “You are working much too hard. I cannot allow you to injure yourself or the babe.”
He watched her slowly relax. Her gaze lifted to his face and he added, “I don't want to spend another week nursing you when you drop from exhaustion. Is that understood?”
When she nodded, he rose and pulled her to her feet. “I will weed the garden, mademoiselle. As for you,” he added as he led her several feet away to the base of a huge chestnut tree. “You will sit here in the shade and rest.”
As she sank to the ground beside the tree, he turned to walk back to the garden, adding over his shoulder, “And from now on, when you go out into the sun, always wear a hat. Your skin is fair, and the Provence sun is fierce.
You will burn if you are not more careful.”
He began weeding the garden, trying to figure out what it was about him that she feared so much. True, some of the villagers were wary of him, but Tess couldn't know about that. He knew he was a large man, much larger than the petite woman now sitting under the chestnut tree, but he didn't think he was a man who truly frightened women. Certainly, he'd never frightened Anne-Marie. They had quarreled nose to nose, shouting at the top of their lungs many times. Never had she flinched or trembled. But then, he and Anne-Marie had known each other since childhood. To this woman, he was a stranger. She couldn't know about his past or the rumors surrounding him, or she would never have come here. But perhaps she could simply look at him and know what he was responsible for.
He wished that what he had done three years ago could be undone. But it couldn't. He couldn't forget the past, he couldn't erase it. It would always come back to haunt him. And he would never be able to forgive himself.
***
He had raised his voice, but that was all. He hadn’t hit her; in fact, if the astonishment on his face had been anything to go by, the thought of doing so had never even entered his mind. The tension left her suddenly, washing away on a powerful wave of relief, and she sank back against the tree, tossing aside the hat. He’d been angry, yes, but not angry with her. He’d been angry for her. So long, Tess thought, since anyone had bothered to worry about her. Too long.
She watched him as he worked at an unhurried but steady pace, his tall body bending to pull handfuls of weeds then straightening to toss them aside with a rhythm and economy of movement that were somehow fascinating to watch.
At the end of the row, he paused, took a glance at the sun still high overhead, and undid the three buttons of his shirt. He pulled the white linen garment over his head and tossed it aside, then brushed his forearm across his forehead and bent again to his task.
Tess stared at him, unable to help noticing the strength that rippled along every chiseled contour of his body, from the long legs encased in tight black trousers to the knotted muscles of his bare chest and back and over wide shoulders and powerful arms.
He was so different from Nigel. Taller, wider—brawny where Nigel had been wiry. She thought of how Nigel had thrown her across the room with one push, had sent her spinning with one blow, had cracked her ribs with one kick. Nigel had possessed lightning-quick strength, the ability to lash out, inflict pain, and withdraw. Like a whip.
Alexandre Dumond had a different sort of strength. She thought of how he'd lifted her so easily, carried her up those stairs as if she weighed no more than the weeds he was now tossing aside. Alexandre had a hard, unyielding strength. Like a wall.
She knew what a man's strength meant, how it could hurt, but Alexandre hadn't hurt her. He could. He could decimate her with one stroke, more easily even than Nigel could have done. But he hadn't.
He was in the middle of the garden now, moving between the rows at that same steady pace. A fine patina of sweat made his tanned skin gleam like polished oak, and his long black hair had come loose from its ribbon. He paused again to wipe the sweat from his brow, making her appreciate that he was probably hot and thirsty. Tess rose and walked down to the well, where she drew up the bucket. She removed the jar of that morning's milk, setting it in the shade, and unhooked the bucket from the rope. She also removed the ladle from its hook beside the well and carried both to the garden.
Alexandre had not resumed work. Instead, he was watching her as she approached, and as she came to where he stood, she saw that wide, brilliant smile curve his lips. “I thought you might be thirsty,” she said, feeling suddenly, inexplicably shy.
“Merci.” He scooped a ladleful of water and swallowed it in one draught, then he refilled it and drank again. When he dipped the ladle into the bucket for the third time, she chuckled. “I think I was right.”
But to her surprise, he didn't drink it. Instead, he offered it to her. “Do you want any more?” he asked after she’d swallowed a few mouthfuls. When she shook her head, he added, “Then stand away.”
When she stepped back, he tossed the ladle aside and lifted the bucket and poured the remaining water slowly over his head. “Ahh,” he said with obvious pleasure.
Tess stared, watching the water flow over him, forming tiny rivers between the muscles of his body and glossing his smooth brown skin. A queer little ache hit her in the belly, forming a knot of heat and radiating outward, up her spine and down her legs, to the top of her head and the tips of her toes. She felt strange, suddenly, restless and fluttery, her gaze riveted.
When he flung back his head, drops of water spattered her like a light drizzle of rain, but it didn’t bring her out of this strange reverie. When he held out the bucket to her, it took her several moments to realize it.
“Thank you again, mademoiselle,” he said as she took the bucket from his hand, then he turned to resume his task.
“Can't I help you?” she called after him.
“Non. You have done enough for one day.” He paused amid the weedy garden and nodded toward the shade. “Lie down and rest. Have a nap.”
He resumed his task and she returned to the well, where she put the jar of milk back in the bucket and lowered it into the cool water far below. She then returned to the shade of the chestnut tree. She had no intention of napping, not while he was doing all the work, but the day was warm, and she did feel very sleepy, and some things were difficult to resist. It wasn’t long before her eyes fluttered shut and she drifted off to sleep.
That didn’t take long, Alexandre thought, smiling as he looked over to the chestnut tree and saw that the mademoiselle’s eyes were closed and her hands had fallen to her sides. He'd finish this row, he decided, and then he’d join her. A beautiful summer day like this almost demanded a nap. Besides, he hated gardening.
Tess was still sound asleep by the time he approached the chestnut tree, but he knew leaning back against the rough bark, with her head tilted sideways could not be comfortable.
He sank down to the ground beside her and grasped her shoulders. She stirred, but she did not awaken as he turned her body and eased her down to the grass. He stretched out fully, positioning his body perpendicular to hers, with her head in his lap. His belly wasn't the best pillow he could offer her, he supposed, but it would do.
Chapter Seven
Tess explored the vineyards and winery on the following day. She couldn’t help noticing the vines, which grew lush and unchecked along their poles, were badly in need of pruning. It seemed a shame that an established vineyard like this should go unattended, but Dumond didn't seem to care. She wondered if there was anything he did care about.
Thinking of him brought back memories of the day before, when she’d woken from her nap with her head resting on his stomach. Shocked, she’d moved to sit up, but his hand had reached out in sleep to stroke her hair, and for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she had remained where she was, forcing herself to relax. Slowly, her shock and apprehension had eased away, allowing her to actually enjoy the feel of his strong fingers caressing her hair and his flat, hard stomach beneath her head and the deep, rhythmic sound of his breathing.
Tess stopped walking, staring with unseeing eyes at the grapevines that stretched out before her. She’d enjoyed that sleepy afternoon yesterday and that brief touch of human contact. After a while she’d sat up, careful not to wake him, and watched him as he slept. It was a curiously intimate act, watching a man sleep, and something she’d never done in the whole of her married life. Nigel would never have allowed it, and even if he had, she certainly would not have enjoyed it.
But she’d enjoyed watching Alexandre, liking how his thick lashes rested like tiny black fans beneath his closed lids and how his hard, lean face took on an almost boyish quality in sleep. She’d noticed how his wide chest tapered to his narrow waist, noticed it with a wholly feminine appreciation she hadn’t felt in a long time.
When he had woken, she'd liked the l
azy way his arms had moved above his head, his body stretching even as his eyes remained closed. She hadn't seen any more because she'd turned her face away and leaned back against the tree with eyes closed, feigning sleep as she’d heard him sit up.
Tess looked around, seeing more than a vineyard, remembering long-forgotten truths. One man wasn't always just like another. A man's hand could do things other than inflict pain, such as spoon soup into the mouth of a sick woman, paint life into a blank canvas, provide a gentle caress. She’d forgotten that.
She remembered other men. Her father, whose hand had composed sermons and wiped away her girlhood tears. Old Herbert, whose hands had planted flowers with loving care. Nigel had blotted out everything good she’d known about men. But Alexandre was helping her to remember.
The sound of a bird rustling its wings as it flew past broke into Tess's reverie. She resumed her walk through the vineyard, feeling lighter of heart and more optimistic about life than she had felt in a very long time.
At the edge of the vineyards, she found the gray stone buildings that formed the winery itself. She tried the first door she came to, and when she found it unlocked, she went inside. Stairs to her right led down into the yawning darkness of cellars below ground, while all around her lay dusty, unused equipment.
What a waste, she thought, walking between rows of shelves laden with dusty, empty bottles, the sunshine pouring through the doorway lighting her way in the cool, windowless room. She knew little of wine making, but it was clear this winery had been productive and busy. Thrifty by nature, Tess simply could not understand why such a viable source of income remained unused.
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