Page 42 of Snowy and the Seven Doves
Margaret knew that Arial had been developing the flower gardens on the Stancroft estate since she and Peter took it over, but as they worked and talked, she discovered Pauline had played a big part in the restoration, particularly of the much-neglected rose garden.
Pauline was excited to hear about the rose breeding program Margaret had set up in the country. Margaret had crossed several varieties, trying to increase the size and quantity of rosehips, which she used to make a beneficial syrup. Pauline shyly admitted that she was trying her hand at cross breeding roses, though for color and form, rather than rosehips.
As they chatted, they moved outside, where they harvested leaves for the stillroom and the kitchen before the sun got too hot. They then clipped the seed heads that were ready to gather, and further pruned the bushes to encourage new growth. In the potting shed they tied the heads in bunches and hung them above trays to catch any dropped seeds.
The sun was getting hot now, but the work had gone very quickly with Pauline’s help. Margaret decided she still had time in the day to cut long shoots from the silver willows. If they were left much longer, the bark would be harder to harvest. She was describing which shoots to cut, which to leave for further growth and what she would do with the bark, when they were interrupted by a footman.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, miss, but you asked me to let you know when the young gentleman woke up.”
Margaret cast a disappointed gaze at the willows. Still, there was always tomorrow.
“I’ll go and see what Mr. Snowden needs,” Pauline offered. “You cut your shoots. Perhaps you could bring them inside, and we could strip them together?”
Margaret accepted, gratefully. Pauline went inside, and Margaret fetched her sharp pruning knife from the potting shed.
She had returned to the willows and was bending over to decide which shoot to cut first when she heard a step behind her on the gravel path.
“I thought that other woman would never go inside,” a familiar voice complained.
Martin!Margaret straightened and turned, some instinct prompting her to hide the pruning knife in her skirts.
How had she ever found his grin charming? No, not a grin; more of a leer, as he said, “Hello, darling.”
Margaret gripped the handle of the knife. “I amnotyour darling, and you are not welcome here.” If she yelled, would anyone in the house hear?
“A pity I spoke,” Martin said. “Such a lovely, shapely behind. I should have just lifted your skirt and had you. I suppose that would have been ungentlemanly, though given that you have already let me do it, you’ve no grounds to complain now.”
His effrontery and crudeness took Margaret’s breath away. All she could do was shake her head, but as he approached closer, she opened her mouth to yell. Before she could make a sound, he was on her, one hand over her mouth and the other clasping her to his body, trapping the hand that held the knife.
“Not yet, sweetheart. You can yell and fetch witnesses once I’m inside you. You were a bit of a disappointment when you were a girl. Let us see if you have learned anything since I initiated you.”
Margaret struggled, but that was the wrong move for it only caused him to clasp her more tightly and to push her back against the garden wall so his body could help to hold her in place. She willed herself to become still, even to relax.
“That’s better, darling,” Martin said approvingly. “Not that I mind a bit of a fight, but it will go easier for you if I don’t have to force you.”
She glared at him, putting into her gaze everything she could not say with her mouth held shut.
He laughed. “Such a good thing looks cannot kill. Now, now, Margaret. You seem to forget you promised to marry me. You gave me your virtue. I have only come to claim what is my own.”
Margaret held her body still, but her mind rejected his self-serving words.You seem to forget that you released me when you broke your promise; when you told my father what we had done and offered to go away for a price.
At last, he dropped his imprisoning arm to begin pulling up her skirts. “Can I trust you not to scream if I let your mouth go?” He thought about it. “No. Probably not.”
Her skirts were now above her waist, and she could feel the hard length of his male organ through the coarse fabric of his trousers. His free hand fumbled between them.Not yet.A moment more, and he would believe he was about to reach his goal.
He would be distracted and vulnerable. She hoped.
There. Bare flesh against hers. She snatched her hand out of her skirts and drove the pruning knife into his thigh.
With a scream, he staggered backward. Margaret scurried around him and ran toward the house. She did not hear him pursuing her, and when she reached the top of the steps to the terrace, she looked back. He lay writhing on the ground by the willows, his hands over his wound. Even from this distance, she could see blood seeping between his fingers.
She hurried inside the house, shouting for the butler. “There is a man in the garden,” she said. “He attacked me, and I stabbed him. Please take some men and detain him.”
But by the time Bowen had marshalled several footmen, Martin was gone, leaving only the pruning knife and a trail of blood that led to the gate at the bottom of the garden—a gate that should have been locked, but was not.
*
At Fortescue’s office,Snowy was shown straight in.
