Page 472 of From Rakes to Riches

The truth would set them free.

For as long asMargaret could recall, the rose garden had been a haven. As a child, any time she’d felt herself a bit unhinged, this was the place she’d come.

With over fifty species of roses in bloom, it was the loveliest early summer. The most delightful fragrances filled the air, soothing her troubled soul.

Today, she surveyed the garden with a critical eye.

Of course, it wasn’t what it was meant to be, but she had tended it the best she knew how to. She could get the roses to bloom, but she couldn’t keep leaves on the stems. Just now, she glowered down at the bush she was pruning.Drat thing.No matter that she gave it so much time and love, it didn’t seem to wish to thrive. Not merely for the sake of the garden, she wished George were here, and if he were, what would she say?

Your son is a fool. What in heaven could he have been thinking?

Alas, no one had been able to keep these roses flourishing the way Gabriel’s father had. He was a master with them, and he could coax them into blooming even against all odds.

Her shoulders slumped as she inspected the naked, thorny limbs surrounding her, trying to remember them when they’d worn more verdant attire. They’d never been the same since George abandoned them. It was, she thought, as though they were grieving, as well.

After George retired, they’d gone through a procession of gardeners, and not one of them had resurrected her fine roses. Finally, about four years ago—thinking, how hard could it be?—Margaret had taken them into hand, after dismissing the last gardener her father had hired.

She wondered if George had gotten her letter—wondered, too, if he would consider returning if she were to beg. After all, Gabriel was back now as well…

“Margaret?”

Startled from her musings, Margaret turned to see her husband standing behind her, but she gasped in surprise at the sight of him.

At least shethoughtit was her husband.

Her brows drew together in dismay. The man standing before her didn’t look like the man she remembered from last night. Were it not for those singular blue eyes, she might not have recognized him. He had mud streaked all over his face—as though he’d fallen flat on his face or washed his cheeks in a puddle. And those trousers! They were shredded at the knees and too short besides. She looked closely and saw that the hems had been rent and she wrinkled her nose, lifting her gaze to his shirt to find the sleeves too short as well. Grass and dirt stainsadorned the material, and those gentle hands that had roamed her body so wickedly were now caked with dirt.

“Gracious,” she said in horror over his appearance. “What happened to you?” She thought he must surely have been assaulted by brigands. “Gabriel?”

He grinned, looking so like the boy she recalled.

“You look ghastly!”

He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Then I should make a perfect addition to this garden,” he told her. “Tis a nasty piece of work.” He drew his muddy brows together into a frown, and it was all Margaret could do not to giggle as muddy flakes sprinkled from the pair. “What happened here?”

Margaret tipped her chin in indignation. “Tis a fabulous garden, I’ll have you know. I’ve been tending it myself.”

“You?” The single word was filled with as much incredulity as awe.

“Yes, of course. Why should that surprise you?”

Perplexed,Gabriel scratched his head.

Most of the garden was naught more than rambling vines, overgrown and fragile in appearance... as though no hand had bothered to tend them in years. His father would weep blood tears to see these roses looking so sad. Somehow, Margaret seemed not to realize—much the way she seemed not to recognize him. Still, humoring her, he looked about and grimaced in disgust.

“This garden is my pride and joy,” she assured him. “Look. Over there,” she said pointing to the hardiest rose of all, and then shading her eyes. “This is an interesting specimen. It isRosa Gallica Officinalis.”

The Apothecary Rose. Gabriel knew it only too well. The damned bush had only a single puny flower and very littlefoliage. It was one of the hardiest roses on God’s Earth, ancient as the devil, and, somehow, Margaret had managed to strangle the old bugger.

“Interesting story it bears,” Margaret said, snipping the only bloom and lifting it to her nose to sniff. “Reputedly, it was brought to France from Damascus by a weary crusader for his long-neglected lover. “’Tis used medicinally,” she told him. “Skin affections, in cordials. They used to give it to my mother before she died to relieve her throat inflammations. Alas, she died when I was young, so I barely remember. You could use a bit on your hands. If you crush the petals and rub them after washing, they’ll purify your skin. Also, I use it as an infusion for tea—quite a lovely taste.”

“Really,” Gabriel said, distracted by her mouth. Damn the Rose petal tea! He could scarce seem to forget the way her lips had tasted last night. It was all he could do to carry her to her bed, and then walk away. He’d craved more than anything to lie down beside her and hadn’t dared. The simple fact that she had given him the room beside her, both relieved and aggrieved him at once. If last night was any indication, he would sleep with an unattended erection for the rest of his days—particularly since she didn’t seem to be taking his hint. Aside from looking at him as though he were mad, she hadn’t an inkling what he was trying to say.

“And that one,” she said obliviously, pointing to a singularly unattractive bush. “It isRosa Mundi.Legend has it that she was named for King Henry the Second’s mistress, the Fair Rosamund Clifford.” Her gaze returned to him, and her cheeks began to bloom a far healthier color than the rose. “I’m afraid I cannot seem to make it produce much—but then, again, neither did Rosamund, I suppose.”

He smiled wanly.Muchwas an incredible understatement. More like not at all. He could scarce believe his eyes.

“And then, of course, there is this one,” she said, indicating an ambling vine that seemed to have the meandering will of a garden snake and the viciousness of a viper. Somehow, during the short time he had been standing there, listening to her carry on about flora, it had managed to wrap itself about his shorn pant leg, and when he tried to shake it off, it sank its thorny teeth into his flesh. “Bloody damn!” he exclaimed.

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