TT Amy Elizabeth Saunders Forever

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He kissed her until her laughter turned to soft sighs, and she welcomed him into her body, murmuring
words of passion and promises that would last forever.
Preview from
Sweet Summer Storm
By Amy Elizabeth Saunders
"I think she's lost her mind," Geoffery said to Stewart, as they dumped the buckets of fresh milk into the
cooling pans in the buttery.
"I always said she wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. This proves it."
Gareth didn't have to ask who they were talking about.
"What now?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer.
"She's been out in the garden since sunup, wandering in circles," Geoffery informed him.
"When we went out to do the milking, she was crawling under a hedge, talking to herself," Stewart
added.
In Latin," Geoffery said, in a tone of foreboding, as if this was proof that Christianna's sanity had, indeed,
deserted her.
"Crawling under a hedge?" Gareth repeated, wondering if his brothers were right.
"Aye, and when I asked her what she was doing, she said, 'Following where the sunlight falls.' She's a
few eggs short of a custard, Gareth."
"Following where the sunlight falls," Gareth repeated, his brows drawing together. "Are you sure that's
what she said?"
Geoffery nodded. "Aye. I asked her what she meant by it, and she said, 'Never mind.'"
"And then when we came back, she was out behind some bushes, cursing the blackberries." Stewart
dropped an empty bucket to the brick floor with a clatter.
"That sounds sensible enough," Gareth observed. "Blackberries are a damned nuisance."
His brothers exchanged glances.
"Not for 'Her Highness' " Stewart objected. "How would she know a blackberry vine from a potato?"
Gareth shrugged. "Who cares? As long as she's not cursing me or fainting in the kitchen, let her crawl
around in the hedgerows."
"Lost her bloody mind," Geoffery muttered, gathering up the empty milk pails.
"Be that as it may," Gareth concurred, "it's nothing to do with us. I need you fellows in the field. We can't
wait for rain any longer; so today we need to load the barrels onto the cart and water the plants."
Geoffery and Stewart looked pained.
"Cheer up," Gareth told them. "Well all go down to the Broken Bow tonight and get sotted, if you like."
They cheered up at the mention of their favorite pub.
"Haven't seen Polly for a month," Stewart said. "Now that's my idea of a woman. Tough as an old boot
and ripe as a peach."
"Not like that little madwoman crawling around the garden," Geoffery agreed.
"Oh, leave off," Gareth ordered. "Ill go find Richard and see you in the barn."
Christianna pulled some weeds, threw them over her shoulder, and examined the thin, spindly stems left
in the dirt.
"Dianthus caruphyttus," she muttered. "I think. Or bachelor's buttons. Well have to wait and see."
She took a heavy pair of shears from her pocket and began hacking at a blackberry vine that had twined
its way around a spindly, yellowing rosebush. "Die, you ugly thing," she ordered, wincing as the thorns bit
into the soft flesh of her fingers. She threw the cut brambles over the mossy brick of the garden walls,
stood back, and beamed at her progress.
"Roses," she repeated to herself, picturing the open page of the book Daniel had given her, "must be cut
beneath clusters of five leaves to promote new and healthful growth."
She cut the roses more tenderly than she had the intrusive blackberries, taking care to leave
the few branches with buds, examining the flowers that had managed to survive beneath the cloak of
brambles and weeds that had covered them.
"A weak and pale rose," she quoted, "is one that had not been fed. The manure of cows or chickens
should be placed at the base of the plants and covered with straw."
She wiped a hand across her damp forehead. "That should be lovely," she remarked wryly.
She had begun pulling weeds and unhealthy looking flowers an hour ago, and although it was still
morning, she was already bathed in sweat. The sun beat down on her back, and her hair was tangled
with leaves.
She dropped tp her knees and examined a stand of ragged leaves, the tall stalks of the plants bending
hungrily toward the sun.
"Delphinium consolida!" she exclaimed triumphantly, peering at the tight buds that showed a hint of
deep blue. "Larkspur! You may stay," she told the plant in a benevolent tone. "I'd like a nice dark blue
display, next to the pink roses, merci beaucoup. But you," she said, turning a stern face on the more
common, spiky lupines that grew beside them. "You go. There are quite enough of your kind about."
Ruthlessly, she pulled them up by their roots, and they followed the blackberry vines over the fence.
"Discrimination of the aristocracy over the vulgar masses," a voice said behind her,
and she turned to see Richard and Gareth behind her.
"You go to hell," she told Richard pleasantly and resumed her work.
He and Gareth laughed.
"What are you doing?" Gareth asked, stepping forward.
Christianna's cry of alarm stopped him, and he looked down at where her dirty finger pointed to a
creeping vine beneath his heavy boot.
"Nigeria damascena," she explained, "or love-in-a-mist. Call it what you'd like, but don't tread on it."
Gareth stared at the delicate, fernlike plant, which looked to him like a weed. "As you like," he said at
last, baffled by Christianna's sudden interest in the long-neglected garden.
She disappeared behind a stand of thick, bushy leaves.
"Blues and pinks may stay," her voice said. "And red, certainly. But Calendula officinalis does not
belong in this corner. You'll be too bright; you'll distract the eye. Like carrying an orange fan with a pink
gown."
"God forbid that should happen," Richard muttered.
Christianna popped up from behind the leaves, a branch hanging from her tangled hair. "Go away," she
ordered. "You're interrupting."
She examined her forefinger, where a thorn had torn the skin, and stuck it in her mouth.
Gareth smiled gently. "Here," he said, pulling a battered pair of leather gloves from the pocket of his
breeches and tossing them over the dense foliage to her.
She accepted them without a word and disappeared into the bushes like a rabbit.
"Come on," Gareth said to Richard. "There's a revolution happening here, and I think that the aristocrats
are winning."
They turned toward the waiting fields, glancing back at the sound of a triumphant laugh.
"Fritillaria meleagris!" Christianna's voice recited. "Checkered lily will grow to the height of six hands."
By evening, a brick pathway had appeared, the blanket of moss and clover that had hidden it carefully
scraped away and disposed of. The rows of lavender that bordered it looked thin and scruffy, but they
would grow, Christianna told herself, now that the weeds were no longer choking their roots. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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