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Rubbing his face, he reluctantly packed away his burgeoning urges and vowed to unleash them another day.

For now he had to return to the estate.

By the time he returned to the manor it was still reasonably bright outside, but the air was once again becoming charged; the electrical current from an impending storm raising the hairs on the back of his head and arms.

He made a quick stop in his bedchamber to change into fresh clothes before seeking out Gemma.

Although he checked her room and looked in the library, where he had expected to see her, she was nowhere to be found in the manor. Frederick stopped one of his footman in the corridor to ask whether he or any of the other staff had seen her leave.

“No, Your Grace, she did not leave,” the man said, frowning. “Matter of fact, I think I saw her earlier, helping some of the grounds men plant a new section of the garden.”

Surprised, he strode to the gardens to search her out. As he rounded the gazebo, he saw her sitting in the shade of a majestic old tree, a large sunhat on her head and her gown covered in soil and grass stains. Beside her on the grass lay a small spade, a pitchfork and a hand-rake.

“Your Grace,” she looked up, startled by his sudden appearance

He waved away her attempt to get to her feet, then crouched near her for a while and shifted the rake, sparing a look at the sky.

“You have been occupied, I see.”

“I was never one to lie in bed for long, despite what the nuns thought.”

Sitting on the blanket beside her, he bent his knees and rested his arms on top of them.

“Do you have a favorite flower, Your Grace?” she began, “Mine have always been roses. I would see them in drawings, effigies, the stained glass in the chapel, at the town church and at times in books.

I asked a nun why Mary, depicted in a beautiful painting in the church, was holding a rose because I did not imagine they had such roses in those times. She told me that the rose was mentioned in Solomon’s love poem, the Song of Songs.

“So, it was natural that Christian devotion should use the rose as a symbol of the beauty and the attractive power of the mother of God,” she added. “I still feel it was inaccurate and that, during the translation, they could not find the true word for that flower and chose roses instead.”

He chuckled. “Please tell me you said that to the nuns.”

“I did,” she replied then paused. “In my dreams.”

Shaking his head, he added, “it is abominable that you were not allowed to speak your mind.”

She fiddled with a seedling near her and trained her gaze away. “How did you fare today?”

His attention sharpened at her question. “At the meeting? It went well. The men there have some interesting options for earning money that I will consider, but I find the lady and the lord of the house are a curious pair.”

Gemma craned her head to him, her brows lowered. “Why would you say that?”

“I cannot say,” he shrugged. “I get the feeling that she is guiding him by the leading strings, like a parent would a child.”

“Oh,” she mumbled.

When she bit a corner of her lip, clearly to stop herself from speaking her mind, he found himself adding another question to his growing list.

A rumble in the air made him aware that the sky was becoming dimmer and darker as the minutes passed by.

The sun was setting and another storm was brewing. The clouds were heavy and rolling over the hills, dark with threat. His concern shifted from their conversation to ensuring they had enough time to get out of the incoming storm.

Gemma’s head tilted and she must have realized the same, as she set the tools and seedlings into her basket and stood up.

“I think we need to go inside,” she said.

“So do I,” he said, getting to his feet and taking the basket from her. “And we need to hurry.”

They hastened to the nearest entrance to the manor house, knowing that the grounds men were also hurrying to safety. They made it inside just before the thunder began to roll and crash like a cannon ball. The rain had not yet begun, but it was only a matter of time.