All in all, it had been a relatively quiet evening at home. Margaret sat with her needlework, and her father occupied himself with a book. Few words were exchanged, and, though it was peaceful, she wished it were otherwise. She had at last finished writing a reply to Mr. Thornton just before supper, and as she still needed to post it, it sat in her room, just waiting for her to decide that it was terrible, forward, and all too short, finishing by casting it into the fire. The silence of the evening left it weighing on her mind, and she hoped that her father would provide her with some conversation to distract her.

But it was not to be, it seemed. The occasional glances she threw his way revealed that Mr. Hale was having a difficult time getting through his book. Every once in a while, it would dangle closer to his lap, only to be recalled to its former position with a sharp intake of breath and a shake of his head. His eyes were beginning to droop, and he was clearly making no progress in his current state.

She was on the edge of suggesting that he retire to bed early when a forceful pull of the bell rang below. This pulled Mr. Hale out of his relaxed stupor, and they shared a confused look. It was not too late to receive callers, but they had not been expecting anybody. It was not long before they heard Dixon's movement to answer the door, and a muted conversation once she opened it. The brief thought that it might be merely a messenger or shop-person was quickly dispelled by the tread of footsteps coming quickly up the stairs. Only now did she dare to hope that it might be Mr. Thornton, and she was more than pleased to see him appear a moment later.

"John!" Mr. Hale exclaimed in surprise, his earlier tiredness temporarily banished by the unexpected visit. He stood and extended his hand, which Mr. Thornton took firmly. "We did not know you were coming this evening. Did you send word?"

Mr. Thornton shook his head in reply. "No, you must excuse me. I did not know until this afternoon that I would have the evening free, and by then it was too late to send a note. I hope I am not intruding," he chanced a look Margaret's way as he spoke, a little reticence in his manner as he awaited a greeting from her.

She would have said something, but her father spoke first. "Not at all, not at all. We are glad to have some company. Is that not right, Margaret?"

He still looked at her, a veiled eagerness in his eyes, and she was no less ready to welcome him and show her pleasure at seeing him. "Of course," she replied to her father, all the while keeping her gaze on Mr. Thornton, a shy smile peeking through the blush she felt overspreading her cheeks.

He returned her smile with a small one of his own, and she ducked her head in embarrassment. How was she to act now, especially in her father's presence? She may know his feelings and her own, but it gave her no knowledge whatsoever of how behave in company.

If he was restrained by the same difficulties, he gave little indication of it. Without another word, he stepped toward her and reached out a hand. Instinctively, her hand moved to meet it, and he took it gently in his. "I am glad to see you, Miss Hale," he murmured, the formality of his address belied by the caress in his voice and the soft pressure of his hand. Such a contrast drew her head up again, and she was immediately heated by the burning intensity of his eyes.

She felt herself overcome and captivated, but forced herself to speak. "I am glad to see you, as well, Mr. Thornton." His smile deepened, and she returned it happily. With a single action, he had made it abundantly clear who he came to see, and she was gratified and a little excited to know it was her. And as she met his eyes bravely, she resolved within herself to stop looking away from him, no matter how greatly he affected her. She rather liked the feeling he inspired within her with such a look, besides. It seemed to fill not only her, but the entire room.

A slight cough from her father recalled her to the reality that there was one person in the room who did not feel completely at ease, and she and Mr. Thornton took a step away from each other. As he threw an apologetic nod in Mr. Hale's direction and another smile back at her, she took her seat again, rubbing her hand where he had pressed it so tenderly.

"Can we offer you anything?" Mr. Hake asked, uncertainty lacing his voice. Evidently he was unsure of how to act in this new situation, as well. If his friend was here primarily to see Margaret, how much should he really take part in the conversation? "Shall we ring for tea?"

Taking a seat himself, Mr. Thornton replied, "That will not be necessary, thank you."

There was a tense pause in the room now that opening pleasantries were uttered, and Margaret could see her father's eyes darting back and forth between her and Mr. Thornton. He was so used to taking charge of the conversation when in Mr. Thornton's presence, and his silence now both amused and touched her. He evidently did not want to interfere with whatever Mr. Thornton and she would wish to say to one another, and she knew how difficult it was for him to make such an adjustment. She knew she had better say something to relieve some of the awkwardness.

"I hope that your being here means that business at the mill might be returning to its usual pace."

Mr. Thornton's face, at first startled by the inquiry, soon gave away that her statement was far from the truth. "I wish that were so. Matters are more complicated."

Obviously she had picked the wrong topic. "I am sorry," she said regretfully. "I do trust, however, that Nicholas has been a good worker. I would not like to think I was responsible for further trouble."

At this changed but related subject, his eyes lifted and the aspect of his countenance lightened. Here was safer ground. "He has. I must thank you for sending me an experienced worker who is also diligent. It would be a different mill entirely if all my hands were like Higgins."

"Certainly it would," she agreed with a smile. "You would be inundated with demands for improvements every moment if such were the case."

He grinned at her joking supposition. "Then I will not hope for such a fate, even if I could use more knowledgeable men." He sobered slightly. "But in truth, Higgins has not been at my ear too much. I think he is wary of making too much of a fuss and losing his position. He has too great a reason to put his place in jeopardy."

She smiled to herself at his perception, and he cocked his head in question at her secret amusement. "What is it?"

"Oh, that is just what he said the other night, isn't it, Father?" she extended an opening to Mr. Hale, who was stifling a yawn.

"Quite so," Mr. Hale assented with a bleary eye, "though he did give some credit to the idea that he wouldn't be put in too much danger by the occasional complaint."

"That is some comfort, I suppose," Mr. Thornton said. "He is not wrong; even the odd grievance would not be detrimental in his case. He is too valuable a worker to let off lightly. And I am not so easily offended as to dismiss a man for disagreeing with me."

"And even if you were offended," Margaret continued, "you are too fair-minded to do such a thing without just cause. You are not so petty."

True as her observation might be, he was still a little taken aback. When would it no longer be a surprise that she had a good opinion of his character? He gave her an embarrassed nod and muttered, "Thank you. But I think you know that I am still as capable of holding a grudge as any man. One in particular that I still struggle with, even after many years."

Her eyes grew soft at this admission and allusion to their conversation in the cemetery, and she leaned toward him. 'But you are trying to forgive him, are you not?"

Now it was he who felt captivated by her searching gaze, and he nodded again. "Yes. Though it is not easy," his voice dropped to a near-whisper.

Margaret felt a powerful urge to take his hand as an act of comfort, but her father, though quiet, was still in the room and she did not want to push her luck. Instead she gave him as encouraging a smile as she could as she spoke. "I have faith in you."

His lips parted as though to speak, but what reply was sufficient for the kindness in her voice, the softness of her smile, or the alluring light in her eyes? He felt himself torn between immense gratitude for her confidence in him and a building desire to draw her close in a scandalous manner. She appeared caught in his stare, as well, and his hand began inching forward of its own volition. Any moment now Mr. Hale would likely be injecting his cough to break the overwhelming anticipation. But so far nothing was forthcoming, and every moment increased the magnetic pull between them. It would not be long before he threw all caution to the wind, sprang from his chair, and took her in his arms.

But an odd curiosity nagged the back of his thoughts; why had her father not interrupted them by now? With reluctance, he looked away from her and glanced at Mr. Hale to see why he had not put paid to these increasingly intimate proceedings. Margaret, though slightly disappointed, followed suit and emitted a small gasp of astonishment.

Somehow, as quickly as could be, exhaustion had finally claimed Mr. Hale, and his head drooped to his chest in slumber, his spectacles precariously teetering on the end of his nose. Margaret was up in an instant, gently removing the spectacles before they clattered to the floor, moving the book from his lap to a table, then tucking a nearby blanket around his legs. This done, she looked up at Mr. Thornton, who had also risen to his feet in case his assistance was required. Their quiet surprise dissolved quickly into breathy chuckles, and Margaret covered her mouth in an attempt to smother her laughter. It was perhaps a little ridiculous how it came about, but now that they were more truly alone, she did not want to risk awakening Mr. Hale.

As their humor subsided, the earlier breathtaking tension arose again, and Margaret felt her mouth go dry as Mr. Thornton's eyes focused and intensified on her. Much as she desired their seclusion, she had not realized the poignancy of her emotions and desires until actually alone with him, and she was unexpectedly spell-bound by his powerful bearing. Still determined to meet his eye as he stepped toward her, she had to remind herself to breathe.

Sooner than she imagined, though it had felt an eternity, he stood in front of her, dangerously near. His darkened eyes were a veritable storm, and she could not tell what feelings dominated his being. But his face was gentle and inviting, and she did not look away when she felt his hand take hers. Before she was aware of it, he was leading her to the settee, and she had to look down to be sure her knees still worked as she sat beside him.

He did not relinquish his hold on her hand, and she marveled at the tender way he caressed it, wondering how such a strong hand was capable of such gentleness. But she did not speak aloud her wonderings, too afraid of breaking the enchantment he had woven about her.

But he could speak, though it was only one word, and he uttered it so softly she could have sworn he only breathed it. "Margaret." Her fascination with his hands must be left to another time, for how could she resist such an entreaty? She looked up.

"Margaret," he echoed, his gaze hungry as he explored every inch of her face, committing every line, every faint freckle to memory. At last he could speak her name, and it seemed a magical key to the barriers that had once separated them.

The tingling pressure was so great she was sure that in a moment she would be gladly crushed under it, but at the very moment they began to lean toward each other, she jumped back.

She had no idea what she was doing! She may have dreamed of his embrace and imagined such a scene, but suddenly her self-conscious fear overtook her, and she turned away sharply. She was careful to keep his hand entwined with hers, but still she could not speak. To admit she was afraid would be ludicrous!

Once more he spoke her name, but now with a curious questioning. "Margaret?" She dared a look at him, but it was almost agonizing to see the change in him, a glimmer of pain at the edges of his eyes. "What is it?"

She did not want to cause him hurt or make him feel rejected, but she did not know how to express herself just now. The only thing she could think of was to stand, whisper a hasty "Excuse me," and rush out of the room.

As she grabbed the letter in her room, she took several deep breaths. In some ways, she was so shy and ignorant, and she had never cursed her inexperience more than she did at this moment. If only her fear had not intruded at such an inopportune time! Could she explain herself?

When she returned to the drawing room, he was standing at the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantel, his face withdrawn and pensive. He looked over to her immediately at her reappearance, and she now saw a hint of somberness in his expression that she could only attribute to her retreat. He opened his mouth to speak, and she knew he meant to apologize, so she hastened to him and interrupted him before he had a chance to utter the words.

"Please forgive me," she whispered, taking one of his hands in hers and gripping it tightly. "I do not want you to blame yourself for anything that has happened tonight."

Curious amazement shone through his features as he looked down on her. "But . . ." he searched for a reply. "But you were clearly displeased with -"

"No, not at all," she interrupted again more vehemently. "Not displeased, not at all." She looked down for a moment, needing to find the words herself, then met his eyes once again. "I was only . . . unprepared. You must forgive me; I have never found myself in this position before, and I did not know what to do."

Understanding seemed to infuse his face and his hand returned the pressure she gave. "I see." A wry chuckle escaped him. "You seem to forget that this is a circumstance entirely new to me, as well. I hope you do not mistake my greater age for greater experience in such matters. Before I met you, I had never felt anything so strong for any woman, and it was never in my nature to trifle with anyone for whom I felt no great affection."

"I know," she replied. "And I do not want you to mistake me. I do desire your . . . attentions," she blushed hotly at the admission, made all the deeper by the rakish grin that passed over his face. "I am unused to the feeling, and am not sure of what to do in such situations."

A hint of that daring smile remained as he replied, "May I suggest that running out of the room is not the way to encourage a man?"

She ducked her head again in mortification, but his free hand reached under her chin, pulling her back up to meet his gaze. The roguish look was past, and his eyes penetrated hers with deep sincerity. "Nor would I have you be afraid of me."

She nodded mutely, and he dropped his hand. It was now that she recalled the letter in her other hand, and she held it up. "I know I have taken too long to write back to you, but I hope you will take it."

As he took it from her, she continued. "You must forgive me again, for neglecting your letter, for it was not neglect. I tried so many times to write and was never satisfied. I fear that even this might be insufficient. Please," she held out a hand as he moved to break open the seal, "please do not read it now. I would be too humiliated to see you read it in front of me. Please wait until you are returned home."

He inclined his head to agree to her request and tucked the letter into his pocket. He was intensely curious about its contents, but if given the choice between a mere letter and Margaret's company, there was no contest.

"Would you care to sit?" Margaret asked, gesturing once more to the settee.

He repressed a grimace at the invitation. It was too tempting, and the brief solitude she had given him had also reminded him of his original purpose for coming this evening. He had been too easily distracted at the joy of seeing her again that he had allowed himself to forget. To sit beside her now would be too great a test for his fortitude, and he must speak with her about the distasteful topic before he was distracted again.

"I should not," he muttered, and took her hand in his. "There is something I must speak with you about."

Her hand tensed in his, and he could see clearly the concern that filled her face. Something in his expression must have betrayed that this was no pleasant task. Before he spoke again, he led her to the settee, where he helped her to sit. Instead of placing himself beside her, he took the chair opposite her, a tense energy filling his frame.

This was an entirely different feeling to his warm focus on her only minutes ago, and she could not help a shiver running through her at the serious pointedness of his eyes. He glanced at her father's figure for a moment, making certain that the old gentleman was still asleep, then turned back to her.

"You mentioned that you and your father visited Higgins the other day," he began.

"Yes," she answered in bewilderment.

"He came to me just this afternoon to tell me of something that concerned him." He was silent a moment to gauge her reaction, but nothing in her expression gave anything away yet. "He told me he saw a man watching you."

Immediately her countenance changed and she gasped. "He saw . . .?" she choked out.

He nodded stiffly. "He also said that you had mentioned to Mary a feeling of being watched during one of your visits."

She felt herself floundering under his stare. "But I told Mary . . ."

"That it was of no consequence?" he finished for her. "That she did not need to worry?"

"Yes," she admitted.

"If it is of no consequence, Margaret, if there is no need to worry," he asked, his eyes boring into hers pleadingly, "why have you stopped visiting her?"

"I have not," she tried to protest. "I just told you that Father and I went to see them."

"You and your father," he pointed out. "When did you last go alone?"

She had an answer, but she did not want to admit to him how long it had been. He leaned toward her urgently. "You are not a woman easily frightened, Margaret. I know. What could have kept you from doing as you wished?"

She looked at the floor, ashamed that he had discovered her weakness. With a rapid movement, he was beside her again, taking her hands in a fierce hold. "What is it, Margaret? Why did you stop?"

A blush rose up in her again, but inspired by shame and mortification. "I . . ."

"Were you afraid?"

A hot tear escaped and ran down her cheek, but he reached out to wipe it away before she could. "You can tell me, Margaret. Did I not just tell you that you need not be afraid of me? You can tell me."

"No, I cannot," she whispered, mortification flooding her.

"Why ever not?" he asked, startled.

"Because I do not . . . I do not want to be weak," she admitted.

"Margaret," he said firmly, lifting her chin up. "You are not weak. It is not weakness to admit to being afraid. What's more, you are courageous. I have never met a braver woman. Who risked all her family's honor to protect her brother? Who ran out in front of an angry mob to protect a man she cared little about?"

She shook her head and tried to duck away, but he held her chin without yielding. "If you are afraid, it is not without reason. You have not imagined it, and it is nothing to ignore. And you need not bear it alone. You will not bear it alone," he amended ferociously.

Margaret's vision blurred as the tears came faster, but Mr. Thornton's hands were quick to clear them away. "Tell me, please," he whispered.

"You already know," she whispered back.

"Tell me, anyway," was the stubborn reply.

She took a shuddering breath. "I think . . ." she began. "I think someone has been following me."

There. It was done. "I know," he said, wiping off the remaining tears on her cheeks with his thumbs. "And I think you will be interested to hear of what Higgins and I discovered this afternoon."

He proceeded to tell her of Nicholas's report, his conclusion, and the confirmation of his suppositions by Betsy. The horror she felt was in the extreme, not to mention her anger now that she knew the identity of the man and his motives for following her.

Seeing her indignation, he was relieved to see her usual fire returning. He held her hands again as she expressed in no common language her enraged shock that such a fiend would dare torment her. Such strong expression gave him great pleasure, and he had to remind himself to hold back his smile, so she would not think he was laughing at her. This was no laughing matter, after all.

"What does he think, that I would betray my brother to him?" she repeated once her tirade wound to a close.

"If he does, he is not only a scoundrel, he is a simpleton," he agreed.

"But now I know who he is and what he wants. I do not need to be afraid of him any more," she declared with powerful finality.

"No. You need not be afraid of him." Now he allowed himself an affectionate smile and reached a hand up to her face. The stormy look in her eye did not entirely dissipate at this gesture, but it did soften at his touch. "I will take care of you."

"I am capable of taking care of myself, you know," she retorted in a muted protest.

"But it is my privilege to do so," he argued back. "I will always wish to take care of you, just as I hope you would wish to do for me." She nodded lightly as his gaze penetrated hers. "I will always care for you, Margaret."

When he returned home, he felt an odd mix of jubilation and determination. He wished that his determination was all focused on the goal of claiming Margaret for his own at last, but he knew some of it was directed toward putting a stop to Leonards. He would not allow for Margaret to be terrorized still. But his jubilation was, he knew well, all due to her. She had shied away at a critical moment, but could he blame her for that? Never had he imagined that she would have allowed him to be so close to her, and he could not wait for another opportunity.

He pulled out the letter she had given him, turning it over in his hands carefully. Then, no longer able to be patient, he tore it open. At first he was dismayed to see so little written, but he was quickly reconciled to its brevity.

Beloved John,

We have waited this long. But I am impatient, too. Do not make me wait a moment longer.

Your Margaret