A Rose For Christmas

By: Charlotte Bennett Copyright © 2001 by Donna Simpson Web Site: http://donnasimpson.tripod.ca Email: [email protected]

SAMPLE COPY ONLY -- NOT FOR SALE Real Romances An imprint of: Blackfriars Publications Company P.0. Box 24013, London, Ontario, N6H 5C4, Canada. Web site: http://realromances.tripod.com Email: [email protected] Copyright  2001 Donna Simpson All rights reserved. Cover Design & eBook layout: M.L.Simpson No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, (which includes: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this eBook.

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Chapter One

Margaret Rose paused at the top of the long sweep of stairs that led down to the first floor of Rose Manor. A sound, like a muffled thump, echoed through the still, chill upstairs. Father was in the village with the Comte de Feullide, their houseguest, and Mary, Melanie and Millicent, her three younger sisters, were off at the Banister’s, their nearest neighbor, planning some holiday frolic. It must be a servant, Margaret thought. Still, instinct made her dash swiftly on silent slippers into a dark alcove when the door to the Comte’s room slowly opened. Hiding behind some draperies Margaret watched, fascinated, as a head, capped in red-brown curls, emerged and swiveled. She held her breath and was promptly assailed by the desperate need to sneeze. Dust! She would certainly have a talk with Mrs. Connor about the condition of the hall draperies! She clutched onto her nose and watched, wide-eyed, as the head swiveled in her direction. The new gardener’s assistant-- what was his name? She had seen him from a distance, and that red-brown hair was unmistakable. Colin Tremaine! Yes, that was his name. What was he doing in Comte de Feullide’s room? And why was he sneaking out, if it was something as innocent as an errand or task set him by the butler? He showed a definite stealthiness that indicated guilt to Margaret. Tremaine silently closed the door behind him and slipped down the hallway toward the servant’s stairs with a noiselessness that belied his considerable size. For he was not a dainty fellow, Margaret noted. He was tall, even for a man, with a balancing breadth of shoulders tapering to-- yes, well, that was quite enough of that. As the lady of the house she had no business noticing the gardener’s assistant, nor his impressive bulk, nor his ruddy good looks, nor how his every move seemed to indicate a restrained power that was fascinating in its intensity. And so she hadn’t noticed. Not at all. Free to sneeze in peace, the necessity went away. She moved out from her hiding spot and gazed with thoughtful eyes down the hall, where Tremaine had disappeared. She would speak to Gill about this immediately, she thought. The elderly man must have hired him, as he was head gardener, and had been since long before Margaret was born in the ‘86. Thirty years. Turning her mind away from unprofitable thoughts of her rapidly approaching birthday, one far too memorable for an unmarried lady, she again determined to go and visit Gill. Gill would know what to do about his stealthy and 3

likely thieving assistant. Margaret lifted the hem of her elegant cloak and picked her way through the benches in the humid potting room. It took up one entire end of the largest of the succession houses that provided Rose Manor with fruits and vegetables well into late autumn and even the winter. Thanks to a stove in one corner, the room was warm, Margaret’s father being solicitous about the health of his head gardener, who was 80, at least, though he would not even admit to 70. Gill was why Rose Manor was famous for its gardens. He had spent his life tending them, designing them, nurturing them until they were the marvel of the Lakes District. Nobody in Cumbria had such a profusion of roses in summer, nor such a variety of herbs and vegetables. At this moment he was bent over a begonia, trimming browning leaves from it with deft hands. “Gill! What a lovely plant!” The stooped, elderly man turned with a ready smile. “Miss Margaret! What a pleasure to see a perfect Rose in these surroundings,” he said, bowing to her. She smiled. It pleased Gill to make up new compliments and jokes on the family name. By now he was reusing his old ones, but she still treated each one as if it was fresh. “Gill, you are overly clever today I think.” They spoke for a while about the plants. Margaret’s mother had died many years before and as the eldest daughter by many years, she had taken over the household management. She was nearing thirty and was a spinster by choice, as she told her friends, all married years before. What more could she want in life than a beautiful house to look after and the love of her family? She had had proposals, but not one that could tempt her to leave Rose Manor simply to look after some other man’s abode. No, she was the chatelaine of the most beautiful house in all Cumbria, and she was satisfied with that. There were guests coming for Christmas, so Margaret consulted with Gill, checking that there were adequate cut flowers for guest rooms and bouquets on all the tables. There were late chrysanthemums in gorgeous bronze and gold shades that would mix beautifully with fragrant pine greenery. Holly and mistletoe would be gathered by the family and guests closer to the actual day. As they finished their discussion, and Margaret was just about to broach the topic of the furtive Tremaine, Gill clapped his hands together. “I have something special for you to see!” he crowed, his protuberant, red-rimmed blue eyes alight with joy. He extended one cragged hand and took Margaret’s arm with the familiarity of long service, leading her through the tables to the corner of the humid room. A heavily-caned plant, thorny and thick with glossy green leaves, sat on a table in lonely isolation. Margaret examined it and shrugged. “I give up. I can see that it is a rose bush. Am I missing something?” “You are indeed, Miss Rose. You are missing one perfect bud.” The deep, cultured voice behind her made her whirl around. Tremaine, the gardener’s assistant, stood nearby. “Ah, lad, this is Miss Margaret Rose. Miss Rose, my brilliant new under-gardener, Mr. Colin Tremaine. I was showing her your prize, lad!” Gill patted her arm. “I must go back to my begonia. Colin can explain what is so special about the rose.” Gill shuffled away before Margaret could protest. She stared at Tremaine, his height

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and breadth even more imposing in the confines of the potting shed. She was oddly breathless and lacking for words, not quite sure what to say. ‘What were you doing in the Comte de Feullide’s room?’ seemed a little bold. She took a deep breath and drew herself up. She was Miss Margaret Rose of Rose Manor, not some kitchen maid to stand in awe of a rather gentlemanly gardener’s assistant. “So, Tremaine, what is so special about this flower. And why did Gill speak of ‘your’ prize?” Margaret heard her own voice, haughty and icy, not a tone she usually employed. Tremaine smiled, his well-defined lips curving, deepening the lines on either side of his mouth. His eyes, a mellow brown, seemed to laugh as much as his lips, but Margaret kept her own expression carefully neutral. She would not be taken in by a possible crook making use of poor old Gill, posing as an under-gardener when he was really a jewel thief. It had occurred to Margaret that Tremaine was likely after the ‘Rose de Malmaison’, a magnificent ruby necklace the Comte had in his possession, one of the remnants of the Empress Josephine’s rich array of jewels and named after her country home. Malmaison was famous for its fabulous rose gardens, designed after consultations with the Englishman, Kennedy. In the middle of the raging war, now over for just a year, Kennedy had, with special dispensation, traveled to the Empress Josephine’s home to consult on the rose gardens. Perhaps Tremaine did not know that the necklace was locked in Father’s safe, along with the Rose family jewels. Though surely he could surmise as much— Tremaine moved closer to her and she found herself backing up a step, suddenly nervous. She glanced around to ascertain Gill’s whereabouts, but Tremaine came no closer. He stopped directly in front of the plant and gently-- surprisingly gently for a man with such large hands-- pulled away some of the foliage. There she saw one enormous bud that showed slivers of palest pink through the rich green of the enclosing sepals. The bud was large and perfect, with no marring insect nibbles or brown spots. “It’s… I can see that it’s a rosebud.” “Yes, Miss Rose. A rosebud. In December. Set to bloom just before Christmas.” “A rose for Christmas!” Margaret gasped. It occurred to her in that moment how strange that sounded. “Yes, miss, very unusual. Especially in the Lakes District like this. So cold… and dark… and isolated.” A shiver went down Margaret’s spine and her eyes darted up to meet Tremaine’s. Was that impertinence in his voice? He surely did not speak like a servant. He spoke as if he were one of them, one of the privileged inhabitants of Rose Manor. Her chin went up. “It’s not so isolated,” she said, the icy haughtiness returning to her voice. “Why, we must visit with… at least ten families. There are the Banister’s, and Squire Newhook, and… and… the new Viscount St. Marc, if he ever deigned to...” Tremaine was smiling at her again and she completely lost the thread of her thoughts. Such a very good-looking man to be a gardener’s assistant! His eyes so brown, and richly burnished hair that gleamed in the dying sunlight. And strong, big hands, and broad shoulders-- His eyes had warmed to the color of caramel, and she felt her heart thud in her breast. What was wrong with her, standing and staring like a green girl? She turned away. If her voice was a little breathless when she spoke, she trusted he would not notice. “Very interesting, Tremaine. Carry on with… whatever it was you

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were doing.” She stalked away, back ramrod straight. Colin Tremaine could not have moved, though, if the shed had been falling in upon him. He stood as if rooted to the floor and stared after the young woman who almost trotted in her hurry to be away from him. Did she feel it too? Was she as aware as he of what had passed between them? He would likely never know. Maragaret spoke to Gill before she left, asking him what he knew about the young man he had hired. “Oh, lass, I didn’t hire this fellow. No, not at all. T’was yer father’s idear. And more glad I never have been, Miss Margaret, for the man is a dab-hand at plants and flowers, and that be the truth,” Gill had finished. “I’ll not be able to carry on forever,” he continued, showing for the first time that he knew he could not live forever. “It’s my fondest hope that the lad will take over from me and keep the Rose Gardens the talk o’ the district.” As she walked away from the potting room, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders to keep out the chill of a quickly darkening late-autumn afternoon, something-- a prickling at the base of her hairline-- made her turn back. At the greenhouse door, watching her leave, his powerful frame outlined by the lamplight within, stood Colin Tremaine.

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Chapter Two

Papa?” Margaret, dressed for dinner in a moss-green gown of soft cashmere, swept into the study, where her father was ensconced with the Comte. She curtseyed to the Frenchman and said good evening, turning away from his unctuous compliments to speak with her father, who was perusing some papers by the light of an oil lamp. “Papa, I need to talk to you.” Her father, his bulbous nose making a weird shadow on the desk, looked up. “What is it, Posy?” Normally she would have corrected him. His pet name for her was something she felt she had long outgrown, along with loose hair and a governess. She was a woman of nearly 30, not 13, and mistress of Rose Manor. But he had ever called her Posy. It was a pet name, and indicated his extraordinary attachment to his girls. He had pet names for each one of them. Margaret knew he was not like other fathers. When her friends would speak of their fathers with fear and loathing, she would offer up in her evening prayers her gratefulness to a merciful power above that had given her such a sweet and adoring papa. But now was not the time to be thinking of that. She was worried about Tremaine and his reason for being at Rose Manor. What was a man of such obvious intelligence doing as assistant to an elderly gardener? It did not make sense. Through the afternoon she had become convinced that her father, the sweetest of men, had been imposed upon in some way to hire that wicked scoundrel. She glanced over at the Comte, who examined his fingernails casually. “Papa, may I speak to you in private?” “Can it not wait, Posy, my poppet?” Loathe as she was to display rudeness to their distinguished guest, an acquaintance of her father’s through the war office, it was vital that she speak with him about Gill’s assistant before any more time passed. “No, Papa,” she said, firmly. “I am afraid it cannot wait.” The Comte stood, languidly moving toward the door. He was a handsome man in a dark, compelling way, and had flawless manners. He had many times and in many ways given Margaret reason to think that he admired her plump, opulent looks. She had caught him gazing at her décolletage during the evening parties that were a part of her

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father’s celebration of the season, and his eyes told her he approved. But his admiration did not warm her, but left her feeling oddly chilly instead, as if his eyes were ice. She would be glad when he left, some time after Christmas. He bowed elegantly. “I would not interfere in a ‘crise de famille’. I shall leave the Mademoiselle with you, M’sieur Rose, and make my way to the salon, there to find the bouquet of Roses!” Margaret smiled as she knew he expected for his faint witticism, referring to her gaggle of sisters, the Misses Rose, as a bouquet. She had lived her whole life with such gallantries, and there was not a one that was new. Impatiently, she watched the door silently shut before turning back to her father. “Papa,” she said, sitting at the chair in front of the desk and leaning into the pool of golden light. “Why did you hire that man, Colin Tremaine, Gill’s new assistant? I confess to being puzzled that you would bother yourself about such a position, when Gill has always hired his own help in the past.” Mr. Rose rubbed his bulbous, red-veined nose and squinted. He shifted in his chair and gazed toward the flickering fire in the hearth. “Well, truth of the matter is, he’s… he’s the son of an old acquaintance. Down on his luck, don’t cha know. Outta work-thought as how I’d give him a shot. Gill complaining?” “Not at all,” Margaret said abstractedly, tapping her fingernails against the polished wood desktop. Something did not ring right. Why would an out-of-work gardener’s assistant have to come all the way to Cumbria for a position? Surely with the number of plant-mad aristocrats in London and its environs there would have been a better job, if he was as good as Gill seemed to think. And why, if the man truly was a gardener, would he be risking his career and reputation for the hazardous life of a jewel thief? Had her father been imposed upon? Was Tremaine, perhaps, not who he said he was? The most telling objection she could think of she could not voice. No one would ever convince her that Mr. Colin Tremaine was ‘just’ a gardener. The man had presence-- a commanding presence akin to that of Wellington, and Margaret had been very impressed with his Grace when she had met him for the first time a couple of years before Waterloo. Like the Great Duke, Tremaine emanated an aura of tightly-controlled power, like a coiled spring. And he had bearing, that ineffable stature that no man could fake, nor abandon. So who was he, and what was he doing at Rose Manor? He must concentrate, Colin admonished himself. He tiptoed up the back servants’ stairs by the flickering light of a tallow candle. He had searched the Comte’s sitting room earlier-- now it was time for the attached bedroom, assuming the man’s valet was not present. A step creaked and he swore softly under his breath. He wasn’t thinking again! Or rather he was thinking. Blue eyes the color of heaven, cheeks the blush pink of a Celsiana rose, and a rose scent wafting from her luscious, plump, gently-rounded form-damn his straying thoughts! Miss Margaret Rose. Her direct gaze had bewitched him and he had known, the moment he saw her, what the name of his new rose would be. Now, when he should be concentrating on the task at hand, he found his mind wandering back to the moment in the greenhouse when she had turned, swathed in her plum velvet cape, gorgeous chestnut hair gleaming in the

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slanting late-afternoon sunlight, and he had seen for the first time the face of the woman with whom he would fall in love. He had known in that second, as surely as he had known what his career would be, as surely as he had known he would choose the long and arduous path in life rather than the easy way. She was his woman. She was his woman and always would be, even if they could never be together. And he was her man. She had known it, too. It was in her eyes and in her movements and in the soft intake of her breath the first moment their eyes had locked. And he was going to ruin everything if he did not stop mooning about the woman! He shook his head and stole down the hall with the stealth born of long practice, glanced swiftly up and down the passage, and slipped into the unlocked room. His accomplice had made sure the room would remain unlocked, though the Comte was a cagey fellow, as was his valet. He glanced around him at the luxurious furnishings, trying not to stare at the soft, elegant feather bed. How he longed for a decent night’s sleep! It had not been his for many years now, the privilege to sleep without remaining awake in some deep core of him. Always he had to maintain that vigilance, and it was wearing him away. Ah, well, it would not be long now. He must reach his objective, and then, soon, perhaps, he could sleep with no dagger under his pillow. Now, where would the man hide it? Colin set to work. Margaret, her heart thudding in her breast, waited outside the door. The scoundrel was at it again! She should call the footmen, tell her father! And then Tremaine, if that was his real name, would be taken away and hanged as a jewel thief. For if he was after the Rose de Malmaison, it was a safe bet this was not his first such job. Why would a strong, handsome, captivating man like him choose such a dastardly career? She wrung her hands together. To see him hanged, his body fodder for the crows, his beautiful brown eyes dull and lifeless-- a sob choked from her, and without another thought she stole into the room after him. She was very quiet, and as her eyes adjusted to the flickering candlelight she saw Colin Tremaine on his knees in front of the Comte de Feullide’s trunk, rifling through that man’s possessions as if he had a perfect right to them. “How dare you!” she hissed. “How dare you abuse my father’s kindness in giving you a position!” Tremaine shot to his feet, papers fluttering to the floor around him and the candle guttering and going out. Now there was only the light of the embers in the fireplace. “Miss Rose! What are you doing here? You must leave... this is not safe.” She advanced on him, her hands outstretched. “Mr. Tremaine, it is you who must leave. I beg of you, give up your life... give up jewel-thievery! Make a fresh start. A man such as you should not end up a gallows bird!” His brown eyes widened and his red-brown curls glinted a burnished copper in the firelight. He was a magnificent specimen, Margaret thought, so tall and square and sturdy. He stepped away from the papers and looked down into her eyes with a quizzical expression. “Why have you not turned me in, Miss Rose?” His voice was dangerously soft, deep and cultured.

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There was a look in his eyes, a look of some undefined emotion that Margaret could not read. Again, she was alone with him, and this time in the most compromising of situations, a bedroom. But she was not afraid of him. She realized it with a start and then examined the fact with her customary habit of analysis. He did not frighten her in that way, in the way of feeling that she was physical danger from him. No, he made her heart pound, but it was not fear that he would harm her. It was-- well, to be honest, it was her fear of the attraction she felt for him. She could not answer his question. “Miss Rose,” he continued. “What claim has a… a lowly jewel-thief on a woman such as you… a lady such as you?” “I… I...” She was at a loss to explain. “I did not stop to think. It would just be a shame… surely you can find another way to live, sir?” Those eyes again, she thought, like pools of warm caramel, set under lashes and brows a couple of shades darker than his coppery-brown hair. Every instinct within her screamed that this was a man of rare strength and depth, but her common sense told her he was a common thief who deserved no mercy. He stepped toward her. She was about to step back, but he reached out and his big hands encircled her plump upper arms, just below the edge of the little cap sleeves of her evening dress, and he pulled her toward him. She gasped at the burning feel of his ungloved, callused hands on her bare flesh. Too late she saw his intent. It was written in the flickering warmth of his eyes. And then his lips were over hers and common sense, propriety, modesty, everything else was forgotten. He carried with him a pleasant earthy scent, overlaid with the clean smell of soap and fresh air. She should scream. She should wrench herself away and slap him. She should-- Her hands stole up and around his neck and her fingers tangled in the mass of coppery curls as she clung to him, standing up on her tiptoes. Colin felt himself drifting, his awareness of the room around him becoming hazy and uncertain. Her lips were as soft as velvet, and she was warm and sweet-tasting with a lingering flavor of sherry on her mouth. At first she was passive in his arms, but then her hands stole up his chest, setting his heart pounding and his flesh tingling under the rough cloth of his shirt. Her fingers threaded through his hair and he felt his slumbering body awaken, the blood pounding through his veins, stirring him to arousal. He pulled her closer, desire burning within him to feel the length of her sweet woman’s body molded to his. She was his woman. He had known it before, but now the truth was branded on his soul-- if he ever bedded a woman again, it would be her, and her alone. No one else would ever stir him. Only gradually did he awaken to the fact that she was now writhing, trying to pull away. He let go of her and she stumbled back, her hand to her flushed lips. He took a deep shuddering breath. “Miss Rose, I...” “You… you cad!” Her blue eyes were wide and frightened and he clenched his fists. Damn, he had scared her! Never before had he forgotten himself like that with a maiden, and to know that of all the women in the world, he had alarmed her. “I apologize, Miss Rose, I took advantage-- ” “Sir, you did more than take advantage.” Her voice was low and trembling, not the shriek of most scared females. She would do well in his line of work, for she was under control even if she was scared. “I should scream for help right now,” she said.

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Colin straightened. “I am not holding you, Miss Rose,” he said, quietly. “I… I think you should get out of here. A…away from Rose Manor.” She thought him a jewel thief, and yet she would let him get away rather than call the law down on him? He gazed into her eyes. Was it just her compassion and hatred of the hangman’s noose, or was there something else? He had known, somehow, the moment he had gazed into her eyes, that she was the woman who could end his long celibacy, a self-imposed and rigidly maintained denial of his sexual needs first embarked upon to afford him focus on his important task, a task not yet accomplished but oh, so close. He would relish making love to her, and her passionate response had told him that she was a woman who had remained a virgin too long. Ah, he longed for the moment when he could, in good conscience, take her in his arms again, but not yet. Not yet! And if he did not settle down and complete his self-imposed task, he never would hold her again. He watched her, wondering what would happen next. She looked undecided. That was good. He awaited her decision as to her course of action, and wondered again why she was not married. According to Gill’s gossip, she was unmarried by choice, though her thirtieth birthday approached. And yet she had a passionate soul, one he had barely touched with his unguarded kiss. Had she always known? Had she been waiting for him? He liked the idea of that, that they had owned each other, belonged to each other, long before either knew of the other’s existence. “I… Miss Rose, I have nowhere to go,” he said, shrugging. He needed more time to accomplish what he had come here to do, and he could not leave until he had what he had come for. Tears started in her eyes and she glanced fearfully over her shoulder. “But you must! You must go!” she pleaded. “I… I cannot conceal your wrongdoing from my father forever. It would not be...” “Give me one week.” He stepped forward again and stroked his hands up and down her bare, plump arms, relishing the touch of her soft, ivory skin under his work-worn hands. He was deeply touched by her compassion for a lowly jewel thief, and hated that he must make use of that tenderness, but he had no choice. She quivered under his fingers, and he knew then that she was as affected by his touch as he was by her nearness. “Just one week, my sweeting,” he whispered, longing to brush away the hint of tears in her gorgeous eyes. “I give you my promise... my word of honor, if you can believe that such as I, have honor... that I will steal no jewels in that time if you will give me one week.” She gazed into his eyes. She should be appalled. He had called her his ‘sweeting’. He had taken unforgivable liberties on her person. But in those few moments in his arms she had felt something that no beau over the years had ever made her feel. Her senses had stirred, and when his lips touched hers she had gone from lady to woman. She must be mad to believe the word of a jewel thief. But something in his voice, something in his eyes-- she would just have to trust him. He released his hold on her, and she felt strangely bereft. If she could have, she would have thrown herself back into his arms and never left. He knelt, shuffled the papers back together again, and placed them carefully back in the trunk. He picked up his candle from the table and took her arm, guiding her from the room. “One week,” he whispered in the hall. He pulled her close and touched her lips with his, just the barest brushing of lips against lips. “Goodbye, my sweeting.”

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Chapter Three

It was the week before Christmas. There was much to do for Margaret, with the usual large house party gathered. The hard frost had become snow and the hills and valleys were white, with long blue shadows in the hollows between the low fells. The younger members of the house party, including Mary, Melanie and Millicent, went sleighing, while the older ladies and gentlemen gossiped and read. The very elderly knitted or dozed near the warmth of the many fires in saloons and parlors. There was the usual gathering of Roses: wilting Roses, pretty Roses, unpleasant Roses, all of her father’s relatives, rich and poor, happy and grim. The fragrant scent of gingerbread and mincemeat wafted up from the modern kitchen that was in the basement rather than in a separate building, as had been the tradition in bygone eras. It mingled with the smell of fresh pine and cedar, and the perfume of chattering ladies and the hair pomades of well-dressed gentlemen. The mansion was filled with warring scents, all delicious, and sounds: children’s laughter, chatter from the adults, murmuring from the gossiping elderly ensconced near the generous fires. Margaret oversaw the decorating of the public rooms, every inch of her body aware of the constant presence of Colin Tremaine. It could not be any worse, but protesting would only have made it seem she had some particular antipathy for Tremaine, and she dared not mention even his name for fear of her voice trembling. He had been commandeered by the butler, as the most presentable and strongest of the gardening staff, to bring in the long garlands of evergreen and piles of holly and mistletoe the Rose girls and their guests had gathered, and so he was often in the same room as she, and Margaret was aware of his gaze which seemed to rest constantly on her. She felt like she had a fever, and her pulse throbbed erratically whenever he came near. Her fingers would tremble and she would drop a bough. He would be right there, picking it up for her, his handsome face grave. His whispered voice haunted her. ‘You look lovely tonight’, he would say, or he would call her ‘the most beautiful woman I have ever seen’. ‘I have not forgotten my promise, sweeting’ he said once. Every treasured word was remembered and foolishly repeated in the quiet of her bedchamber at night. She would lie awake under her cozy blankets and picture his burning gaze as he spoke. The kiss they had shared stayed in her memory too. Other young men had kissed her, and she had thought there was something lacking in her that she felt nothing for them. She was made to be a spinster, she had joked with her friends,

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made to dandle other women’s babies on her lap and never her own. But then there was Colin Tremaine. How could she fall in love with a man she didn’t even know? How could she tremble in his presence and long for his touch, even when she knew it wasn’t right, knew him for what he was? But it felt like love. He was gentle and strong, and he stirred her senses like no man in all her London seasons, since her come-out at Seventeen. She had been courted and she had been kissed, but never had her implacable will to remain her own woman been shaken as it now was. Was she mad? She had fallen in love with a jewel thief! All of this ran through her mind while she decorated, surrounded by the musical laughter of her guests, and the tinkling of the pianoforte as one young lady picked out a Christmas song. She was aware of nothing but Tremaine. Colin watched Margaret Rose as she fastened a piece of mistletoe with a golden bow and stepped up on the short ladder to hook it over the doorway. Her sensual woman’s figure stirred him and he swallowed hard, trying to maintain a servant’s bland demeanor. He had been close-- so very close!-- when last they kissed, to giving up his quest, his self-appointed task. Almost he gave way to the seductive temptation of Miss Margaret Rose and the hold she had on his heart. He could have her; he could confess all and take her away. But what kind of man would he be giving her? What kind of man quit when he had given his word? He watched her and felt again the slow burn of longing that crept through his treacherous body at the sway of her plump, round bottom, his very core of maleness responding to his mate, his woman, and the siren call of her beautiful body and adorable goodness. In the past week he had seen her every day, seen the quiet instances of sweetness and charity which was her habitual manner to servant and guest alike. She listened to the elderly, soothed the young, and encouraged the dependent. And he fell in love more every second he spent in her presence. She gave the gold bow a pat and stepped down, but somehow her toe caught the hem of her dress and she stumbled, falling from the last step. Nimbly he darted forward and caught her in his arms, cradling her close to his heart and staring down into her startled cornflower eyes. One of the younger Roses-- Millicent, he thought-- giggled. “Look! Margaret has caught a beau under the mistletoe! She must be kissed!” The girl’s other sister gasped at the suggestion, and a few of the guests surrounding murmured in disapproval, but Colin grinned. Even a cat can look at a king, and a gardener’s assistant may kiss a lady under the mistletoe at that most festive time of the calendar. He lowered his lips and touched hers lightly, resisting the urge to carry her off somewhere so he could plunder her sweetness with all the urgency that pounded through his veins. Her eyes were open, and when he lifted his face from hers, he surprised a glimmer of a tear. Pain ripped through his heart. Gently he put her down and stepped away, shaken and deeply moved. He bowed and said, “Excuse me, ma’am,” and left. It was not a game. Never had that truth pierced through him in his long years at his chosen profession as it had tonight, holding Miss Margaret Rose in his arms. He had lived with misunderstanding before, and many women had thought worse things of him than did Miss Rose, and he had winked and teased his way past their wariness, using

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what charm he had in the game he played. But what was between them could not be taken lightly, not be flirted with nor teased. He laid his head down on the table in the potting shed. She felt something for him-- perhaps, if he was very lucky, she even loved him-- and she thought him a jewel thief. It was bringing her pain. It was time to get his task done once and for all, so he could declare himself and ask for her hand. Beg for it, plead for it, go down on bended knee and promise anything just to be given the privilege of loving her! She was the one, the woman he had waited for his whole life, and he was impatient now to claim his prize, the prettiest Rose in the bunch. But he had one thing to do before he could rest. Nearly midnight, and the festivities still went on in the drawing room. Chandeliers sparkled, jewels gleamed and gay voices were raised in gossip and laughter. In the servant’s wing, too, a party went on. Every footman, abigail, and maid, even down to the knife boy and tiniest scullery maid, made merry in the servant’s dining hall, broken only by the ringing of bells when one of the above-stairs merry-makers needed something. Colin stole down the corridor, toward the Comte’s room once more. It had to be there, and this time he was not leaving the room until he had it. All week he had tried time and time again, but either the Comte was nearby, or there were people in the hall, or the French aristo’s valet was in the rooms. But now it was Christmas Eve, and even the French valet, who normally held himself apart with disdain, was down with the other servants, lured by the prospect of making merry with gin punch and Cook’s pastries. More than one of the pretty chambermaids had intimated that if he, handsome Colin Tremaine, gardener’s assistant, would join their merrymaking, he might find some sweets sweeter than Cook’s pastries! But he had just smiled and nodded, making no promises and telling no tales. And now, while the house rang with happy sounds of frolic, he crept into the Comte’s bedroom. There was the trunk, still. No alarm had been raised about the disorder in it, so it had either not been noticed, or the Comte did not want to make a fuss. He certainly had his reasons for not wanting to draw attention to himself. Colin opened it and rifled through the pile of clean shirts and stiffly folded cravats, pulling out the papers underneath. He sat down on the floor, candle on a low stool nearby and perused the documents. His eyes ached from straining in the low light, but he could not risk anything brighter. “Aha! This is it,” he whispered to himself. He held the document closer to the light. It was the proof he needed. His task was done. “How could you do this? You p... promised!” The low wail took him by surprise and he twisted around to find Margaret Rose, a wounded expression on her lovely face, at the open door. He must be losing his touch if he didn’t hear her creep up on him again! He lumbered to his feet, papers in hand. “Miss Rose, I can explain,” he said, his voice low and urgent. It was vital that she not give him away. Her face drained of color suddenly, and her body jerked. She was shoved rudely into the room and the door was slammed shut. De Feullide stood, gun in hand and pointed at Miss Rose, a sneer on his darkly handsome face. “I should ‘ave known,” he growled. “On the look-out am I for the government agent, but nevair did I suspect the gardener!”

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The soft silk cord from the bed hangings was amazingly harsh when it was tied tightly about one’s wrists, Margaret thought, squirming to try to find a comfortable position. And a man’s cravat made a surprisingly effective gag. She watched the Roses’ aristocratic houseguest tie Colin Tremaine’s wrists behind his back, her last bit of hope that the supposed under-gardener would be able to subdue the Comte, ebbing away. What had she expected? The man had a gun trained on them the whole time, as his weaselly valet had joined them and was aiding his employer. From the conversation that had taken place before Colin had been gagged, she had learned that the Comte was responsible for the brutal deaths of countless English soldiers. He had been supposedly working for the English during the war, but had turned traitor, accepting money from both sides and betraying both. The French wanted him too, as an enemy of their people, but Colin Tremaine had been trying to bring him to justice for the English government. It was the proof on paper that he had been searching for in the Comte’s chest. Margaret gazed at the heavily-bound figure of Tremaine. The French Comte had taken no chances, so Colin was trussed up as securely as a hog on the way to market. He shot her a look and she gasped around her gag. The warmth in his gorgeous eyes was unmistakable, and she felt the tears start. How could she have doubted him? Every fiber in her body had screamed that this was a man of worth and intelligence, but she had mistrusted her instincts. Appearances were deceiving, perhaps, but the clues had been there if she had chosen to look. She remembered when she had caught him in the room previously, it had been papers in his hand, not jewels or anything else. As she gazed into his eyes, feeling hopeless, he dropped her a wink. She glanced down and stared in amazement. While she had been worrying over their fate, he had been wiggling from his bonds, though she could scarcely believe it was possible! But his large hands were free, though he kept them still behind his back. The Comte and the valet, conversing rapidly in French, confident in the knots they had tied, had their backs turned, an enormous mistake in the presence of a man of Colin Tremaine’s determination. Colin leaped to his feet and, flailing the rope, caught the Comte’s wrist, disarming him even as he lashed out with one booted foot, bringing down the small valet. The Comte was not to be so easily disposed of, however. With a growl of anger, he caught Tremaine around the throat, all pretense of languid elegance abandoned. The two tall men wrestled to the floor. What could she do? Margaret’s gaze slewed wildly around the room. She couldn’t scream, but she could get to her feet. The two men writhed in a desperate struggle. There was no time for lady-like hesitation. Wishing she had on more substantial shoes, Margaret waited her chance and then slammed the heel of her foot into the Frenchman’s groin. It was really a most effective way to eliminate an enemy. He went down like a stone and the valet gave up the fight the moment his employer was incapacitated. Margaret wrapped her plum-colored velvet cloak around her and slipped out the side door into the frigid darkness. Dawn was near, but the sky was still dark, illuminated by the moon riding high over the snow-covered fell above Rose Manor. The message she had received had been mysterious, slipped under her door, merely telling her to look in the potting shed for her first Christmas present. It was family tradition to hide gifts

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everywhere and make the person work for it, but who would have hid something in the potting shed? Her heart beat faster as she slipped in to the glassed-in room and saw the candle glowing on the bench beside an enormous terra cotta pot, adorned with a huge red velvet bow. A card sat beside it, and she opened it. May I introduce you to the Miss Margaret Rose? She glanced up. The rose had bloomed into huge, pink perfection, the depths among the profuse petals a deeper rose, melting into palest pink toward the edges. She took in a deep breath, inhaling the lovely perfume of the rose, the ‘Miss Margaret Rose’. “Gorgeous,” she breathed, her exhaled breath a puff of steam indicating how chill the room was, even with the banked embers in the stove in the corner of the room. “I agree.” The voice was deep and quiet and she whirled, to find herself face to face with Colin. “M... Mr. Tremaine...” “No. Not exactly.” His eyes looked darker in the dim light from the candle. He swept her a low bow. “Viscount St. Marc, at your service, Miss Rose.” “What? How...” In brief, clipped phrases, he explained his deception, that it was to be his last assignment before retiring from service with the military to take up his newly inherited position-- he was a distant relation of the last viscount, but the last direct male heir, which explained why he had never been seen around the area before-- and that he had been on the Comte’s trail for a long time. Margaret’s father had not known the full story, only that the military wished to place Colin in the Rose household. Since he had used the cover of a gardener in his career, and so knew a great deal about plants-especially roses, which were a hobby of his-- he was placed as Gill’s new assistant. Feullide had carried proof of his treachery in the form of papers, which was what Colin had been searching for. Now it was done and he was free. Free to take his rightful position in society. Free after long years in the service of his country to think of himself and what he wanted. “And what do you want, Mr. … er, my lord?” He moved toward her, his eyes glowing golden in the dim, flickering candlelight. His answer was on his lips as he touched them to hers. She felt his warmth and the subdued power within him and shivered. Her thoughts shied away from any contemplation of what his answer, what his kiss, meant. “Are you cold, my sweeting?” he whispered. “No.” “I will warm you anyway.” He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close to him. “Have I thanked you yet for that very well-placed kick that will have Monsieur le Comte in pain for some time?” Margaret leaned her forehead against the solid wall of his chest, hiding her flaming cheeks. “My… my governess once told me it was a most efficient way of selfprotection.” “What a fiery woman to have as a governess! And how glad I am you did not decide you needed protection from me.” He held her away from himself. “You know you don’t need protection from me, do you not?” She glanced pointedly around at the lonely potting shed and raised her eyebrows.

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“Ah, but I have only good intentions, Miss.” He knelt in front of her and pulled her gloves off her hands, throwing them impatiently to the floor. “Miss Margaret Rose, flower of my heart, I love you with every breath in my body and to the deepest reaches of my soul. I have from the first moment of seeing you... really seeing you... in this very room. Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?” Margaret gazed down at him. In the village, bells were ringing to signal dawn of a snowy, crisp Christmas morning. “Oh, Colin,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I love you, too. Of course I’ll marry you!” Springing to his feet, Colin grasped her waist in his large hands and swung her off her feet. “Yes!” he shouted. Gasping, breathless from the unaccustomed feeling of having her feet swept out from under her, Margaret cried, “Colin! St. Marc… I mean, my lord… oh, blast, whatever I am to call you, put me down!” He did, gently, sliding her down his strong body until her cheeks were flaming with shyness. Then he pulled her close and bent his head to her, touching her lips gently with his own. “May I make you as happy for the rest of our lives as you have made me this moment,” he whispered. His kiss deepened into an intimate caress as he parted her lips with his tongue and tasted of her sweet essence. Urgency pounded through his veins, and he felt the surge of desire thread through his body. Lord, but he hoped she would not hold out for a long engagement or a fancy wedding. Perhaps he could persuade her to be his before the bells rang for the new year, 1817. Neither of them was getting any younger, though if he ever said that to her face he would deserve her ‘French Treatment’, as he would always think of her well-timed blow to the Comte. What a story he would have to tell their children, and if he was fortunate, their grandchildren! He gazed down into her eyes, and saw reflected the love he felt for her, given back to him with all the strength of her womanhood. And then bells rang out again to chime a carillon song of the season, as Colin and Margaret lost themselves in the love they discovered anew with each kiss and each whispered word of devotion. They stayed twined together, hearts beating in time, witnessed only by a Christmas rose.

THE END

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