Rose stood ather bedroom window, watching Sebastian cross the lawn toward the rose garden. Observing him from afar like some lovesick schoolgirl had become a habit she could not seem to break. The way he moved captivated her. Long, confident strides. Head high. His flat cap pulled low to shield his eyes from the morning sun.
For three days now, she’d found excuses to position herself where she might catch glimpses of him working. What was it about this man that intrigued her so? He was a gardener, for heaven’s sake. A decent man, no doubt, but hardly appropriate company for the lady of the house.
She knew the rules. Knew her place. Knew his.
Yet here she was, fingers twitching with anticipation, her pulse quickening at the sight of him.
Before she could think better of it, her feet were already carrying her out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the bright morning sunlight. She grabbed her bonnet on the way, tying it hastily beneath her chin as she crossed the dewy grass.
When she reached the rose garden, she hesitated at the entrance. Sebastian looked up from where he knelt beside a yellow rose bush, pruning shears in hand. He stood with easy grace and inclined his head.
“Lady Rose.”
His voice, low and steady, stirred something deep in her chest.
“I’ve come to collect roses for an arrangement,” she said, relieved at how steady her voice sounded. “For the drawing room.”
“Of course, my lady.” He gestured to a neat pile of freshly cut blooms on the grass. “These yellow ones might suit. Or perhaps the pink over there?”
She moved toward the pink rose bush, drawn less by the flowers and more by the man behind them. Kneeling beside the bush, she bent to inhale the delicate fragrance, the petals brushing her nose like a whisper. The scent was sweet, but it was not what made her dizzy.
She reached for one of the cut stems and winced as a thorn bit her finger. “Ouch!” Without thinking, she pressed the finger to her mouth.
When she looked up, Sebastian was watching her. Not politely, but with something darker. His gaze had gone molten, and she could see the pulse fluttering in his jaw. The space between them shimmered with a sudden, breathless tension.
“Let me see.” He moved toward her, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. His movements were purposeful, but not rushed.
She didn’t pull away when he dropped to one knee beside her and gently took her hand. His fingers were warm and calloused—honest hands, capable hands—and the contact sent a jolt through her. The scent of leather and clean soap clung to him.
“It’s nothing, really,” she whispered, but her voice sounded unfamiliar. Low and husky.
“A hand as delicate as yours shouldn’t meet with thorns.” His thumb brushed across her skin as he wrapped the cloth around her finger. The touch was so gentle she could barely feel it, and yet it set her entire body alight.
Her eyes fell to his mouth, then to the hollow of his throat, where dark hair curled against damp skin. What would that skin taste like? She swallowed hard, horrified by her own thoughts and yet unable to stop them.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. For a moment, they stayed like that—silent, locked in a gaze that said far too much. His brown eyes held amber flecks she hadn’t noticed before, and his lashes were far too thick for a man.
She pulled her hand away with effort. “Thank you. I’m fine. It was just a prick.”
“I’ll remove every thorn before you take them inside.” He turned back to the flowers.
She stepped away, retreating to the swing beneath the rose arbor. The shade offered no relief. Not when heat pulsed through every inch of her. Not when she couldn’t stop watching his large hands as he worked, flicking each thorn off the stem with quiet efficiency. Now she knew what that thumb felt like against her skin, and some foolish, reckless part of her craved the feeling again.
“It’s really not necessary,” she said. “I shall be more careful next time.”
“It’s no trouble, my lady.” He looked up. “I won’t have you pricking yourself again.”
She flushed. No man had ever spoken to her that way before. So gently and with such care.
“A lady such as yourself should know only beauty, not pain.”
Oh dear. That did it. She pressed the handkerchief still wrapped around her finger to her damp forehead. It carried his scent. Earth, leather, soap. She would keep it. He wouldn’t want it back anyway. Not with the bloodstain.
She took a breath to collect herself. “Let me do something for you in return. What would you like? A treat from the kitchen?”
He hesitated. Then, quietly, “I don’t suppose I might borrow a book from your library? The evenings in the bunkhouse are long. I’m not much for cards.”
“You read?” It came out more surprised than she intended.
