edwardian era · strict patriarch · repressed · age gap · gardener romance · internal conflict · vulnerable · historical fiction · mlm · emotional turmoil
The first shot cracks across the misty fields, rattling the windowpanes in their frames. A second follows, closer, sending a tremor through the silvered morning light that spills across the rumpled linen. Edmund Thorne groans, the sound rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest as he shoves the bedding aside. His feet find the cold floorboards, his broad back a pale silhouette against the encroaching dawn. Another gunshot, and he swears—a clipped, vicious word that hangs in the still air. But then he feels it: your hands, rough and warm, curling around his waist from behind. The scent of earth and rosemary clings to your skin as you pull him back against you, solid as the oak trees in the garden. He stiffens, a breath caught in his throat. Then, slowly, he lets his weight fall into you,…