Men In Uniform: Captivated By The Prince. Lynn Raye Harris

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      After eating breakfast alone in her suite, Emily knew it was time to make good her boast to find someone who would tell her a little about Ferara. Catching sight of an elderly gardener through one of her many windows, she hurried out of the room.

      He was as gnarled as an oak tree and, right now, as bent as one of its branches as he leaned over the plants he was caring for. Emily remained discreetly half hidden as she stared at him, wondering if she had made the right choice.

      She needn’t have worried about disturbing him. He was oblivious to everything around him apart from the roses he was tending.

      Emily smiled as she watched him. The old man’s love for his plants was revealed in his every move. He had probably worked in the palace gardens most of his long life. Ferara was that sort of place. Who better to tell her everything she wanted to know? He might not speak too much English, but her Italian was…not too bad, she consoled herself. They should be able to have a conversation of sorts—and anything was preferable to returning to the silence that dominated her ornate, but ultimately sterile rooms.

      ‘Buon giorno!’ she began hopefully, walking towards the solitary figure. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

      ‘Not at all, signorina. I’m delighted to have the company.’

      ‘You speak English,’ she said, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

      ‘I do,’ the elderly man replied, leaning heavily on the handle of his fork. ‘What can I do for you, signorina?’

      ‘Don’t you feel the sun?’ Emily said, shading her eyes with her hand. ‘It’s terribly hot out here.’

      ‘Yes, I feel the sun,’ he agreed. ‘I love to feel the sun. I love to be outside…with my roses,’ he elaborated, gesturing around him with one nobly hand whilst star-bright amber eyes continued to reflect on Emily’s face. ‘Do you like flowers?’

      ‘I love them,’ she replied.

      ‘Roses?’

      ‘Especially roses,’ Emily sighed, as she traced a petal wistfully. ‘They remind me of my parents’ garden in England.’

      ‘Do you feel homesick already?’ he asked perceptively.

      It was as if some bond formed between them in that moment. And as they smiled at each other Emily felt herself relax. ‘I’m surprised they flourish here in this heat so late in the summer,’ she said, reining back the emotion that suddenly threatened to spoil these first moments with a potential new friend and possible ally.

      ‘My own system of filtered sunlight and judicious watering,’ the old man told her proudly. ‘Like me, these roses love the sun. And, like me, in this hot climate their exposure to it must be rationed. Otherwise we’d both shrivel up.’

      He chuckled, and his eyes sparkled with laughter, but Emily could see the concern behind them, and regretted that she was the cause.

      ‘What’s this one called?’ she asked, determined to set everything back on an even keel as she pointed to an orangered, rosette-shaped bloom.

      ‘A good choice,’ he commented thoughtfully, stabbing his fork into the ground to come and join her. ‘This rose is named after Shakespeare’s contemporary, the great English playwright Christopher Marlowe. Here,’ he invited, selecting a bloom to show her and holding it up loosely between his fingers, ‘inhale deeply, signorina. You should be able to detect a scent of tea and lemon. Lemon tea,’ he declared, chuckling again, pleased with his joke.

      ‘Mmm. It is a distinctive scent,’ Emily agreed after a moment. ‘But what is the connection between Christopher Marlowe and roses?’

      ‘You don’t know?’ he demanded.

      It seemed as if she was going to have to learn something about her own culture before starting on his, Emily realised. ‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ she said ruefully.

      ‘Christopher Marlowe pressed a rose inside the pages of a book he gave to a friend after an argument…to express his regret over their disagreement.’

      ‘And did his friend forgive him?’

      ‘Who could resist?’ the old gentleman retorted, his eyes widening as he surveyed the array of beautiful blooms nodding in the breeze in front of them.

      Before Emily could stop him, he cut one for her.

      ‘Here, signorina, take this. Press it between the pages of a book…and always remember that if a rose is shown love and care it will flourish and bloom, wherever it is planted.’

      Taking the flower from his hand, Emily smiled. ‘Do you work here every day?’

      ‘I intend to,’ he told her, eyes shining with anticipation. ‘I intend to make this rose garden the most talked about in all of Ferara…all of Europe!’

      They talked for some while, and then she left him to his work.

      ‘I’m sure you will,’ Emily agreed. ‘It’s so very beautiful already.’

      ‘Would it bother you if I came here to talk to you again?’

      ‘Bother me?’ he exclaimed with surprise. ‘On the contrary signorina. I should love it.’

      ‘In that case,’ Emily said happily, ‘see you tomorrow.’

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