Author's Note: Updated to fix a couple typos!

Chapter 6

The moonlight illuminated her face when she asked him to sit with her. And when her hand touched his, he acquiesced without thought.

He needed to get her out of this room, out of Marlborough Mills, out of his mind. Her laughter, the feel of her hand in his, her warmth emboldened him. The more she softened to him, the more he longed for her. A second longer and he would have thrown caution to the wind and kissed her. She was now clearly distressed, and he assumed it was because of his behavior and the growing inevitability that they would be discovered and forced to marry. Or maybe it was not that, exactly.

He had been wrong about her feelings before, but he could not help but wonder…hope…that she did not think as poorly of him as she had for most of their acquaintance. If he was not mistaken now, she had seemed receptive to him a minute ago. Regardless, an almost kiss was hardly love, and he could not marry her if she did not want to marry him. And the mill…the possibility of the mill failing loomed in his mind. Should he marry her, when he was not even sure of the quality of life he could provide for her and their children?

The last time he had spoken directly of his feelings for her, it had all gone wrong. He had offended her. But John needed to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling. He wanted to speak her name aloud, for she had been Margaret in his mind for many months now. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but that she was not obliged to him in anyway if she did not want him, his own reputation be damned. But what did she want? John swallowed, trying to find the words to put to his clashing feelings of protecting her from him and wanting her for himself forever.

John was hit with a familiar pang of jealous heartache. She was not his now, never was, and still might never be. Now that he knew who Frederick was, his thoughts went to Henry Lennox. Suddenly, a question he had wondered for some time came out without being able to stop it.

"Miss Hale?" he said. She shifted her head to look towards him, but he could not see her well.

"Hmm?" she murmured.

"Was Henry Lennox the other gentleman who asked…" John could not finish the question, from shame at admitting his jealousy at the mere thought of Henry Lennox approaching her in such a manner.

"Henry? Was Henry what?" Margaret asked, confused. "Oh!" she said suddenly in understanding. She shifted uncomfortably, though it caused her shoulder to lean further into his.

"It was an impertinent question to ask, Miss Hale forgive me-" John said, wondering why he was always compelled to express every thought that crossed his mind. He was an open book to her, whether she wanted to read him or not.

"Yes, it was Henry," she responded after a moment of silence. "He misunderstood the meaning of a passing comment I made about my idea of the perfect wedding day. It was mortifying," she explained. "That may be unfair to Henry, but he is like a brother to me, especially with Frederick being away. I have never considered him in that way, and to be perfectly honestly, I do not think he truly felt anything for me. It was more the idea that appealed to him. Oh, I should not even have told you all this," she said, bringing her hands to her face in embarrassment at the memory. "Poor Henry."

"Poor Henry," John agreed.

"Hush. Do not mock him, Mr. Thornton," Margaret chastised.

"I have great sympathy for him, believe me," John responded. secretly satisfied with himself for accurately deducing Henry Lennox's intentions and pleased to hear Margaret so unequivocally denounce him. He knew from Mr. Bell that Lennox was a successful lawyer, quickly rising in prestige and fortune. Though, in John's opinion, far too soft for fiery Margaret, Lennox would at least be able to provide for her.

The state of the mill came again to the forefront of his thoughts. She deserved to know the truth and make her decisions with her eyes open.

"Miss Hale, I must be honest with you. My only regret with the situation we find ourselves in is that I am no longer sure I can provide the comfortable life you are used to."

"Is the mill doing so poorly?"

"Yes. I have a large loan from the bank, and every day it is looking like I will not have enough to continue running the mill while repaying my creditors. I do not know how long I can keep the mill open."

Margaret was quiet as she contemplated his words. She brushed a wisp of hair from the left of her face, grazing her temple, and when her hand came down to her side again, it landed near his on the ground.

"Miss Thornton told me about the speculation. I was surprised to hear you would take the risk," Margaret said, tilting her head as she looked at him.

"I do not plan to," John said. It was easy to speak to Margaret about the mill, about anything really, and he found himself eager to share his thoughts. "I cannot justify investing in the scheme when I have workers to pay and creditors to repay. If it fails, I lose money that rightfully should have gone towards them, not some foolish scheme."

"And if it succeeds?"

"It would bring me out of this difficult situation. I would have enough to repay the creditors, buy more product, maybe expand the mill."

"Or pay the workers more?" she offered. John smiled warmly at her.

"Perhaps. I wish I had my ledgers to show you. If I bought more product and was able to sell it, I would need to expand by hiring more workers to meet the demand…"

"But?" Margaret interjected, sensing a 'but.'

"But I could not pay them all more than I do now."

"Paying more than the other mills would attract better workers, would it not?" Margaret asked.

"Yes. The kitchen does that too, though, and costs me nothing but a building. The other mill owners are not happy about that kitchen. Either way, I am in a precarious situation. If the speculation fails, I would do harm to my creditors and workers. I cannot justify the risk. Right now, I still have a fighting chance of saving the mill even without the speculation."

"I understand," Margaret said pensively.

"You do not think it overly cautious?" John asked tentatively. She considered his question for some moments before responding.

"It is noble that you would act in accordance with your conscience in this matter, Mr. Thornton, especially under pressure from others. It sounds as though you have weighed the risks carefully. And I do not think you can be overly cautious when so many livelihoods depend on you," Margaret said carefully.

John was awed, and not because she agreed with him, but because she had considered and understood his reasoning better than many others he'd spoken with. She understood him. He could see more of her face now, the moonlight having shifted just right. She no longer looked distressed, simply pensive. She did not shy from his gaze.

"Mr. Thornton, may I speak candidly?" Margaret asked. John smiled at her.

"Of course," he said, resisting the urge to point out that she never needed his permission before.

"You presume to know what comforts I am accustomed to. I am but a parson's daughter. I do what I can with what I have, and I do not shy from work. I help Dixon since we cannot afford to keep another servant. I iron, and mend, and attempt to bake," Margaret tried to reassure. "Material gain has never been my motivation in this decision—"

"I am aware," John said, a tinge of indignation in his voice. She made that perfectly clear to him before.

"I do not want it to be a business proposition or something you or I or anyone feels obligated to do. Not then and not now. There are other, more important considerations—"

John's ire swelled, and he expelled a breath he had been holding. She had spoken of the future, as if she intended to accept him, and yet she continually mischaracterized his intentions.

"Miss Hale, I have always hoped, perhaps in vain, that my marriage would be the one thing in my life that was not business, though you insist on misunderstanding me on that point. What have I done or said to merit such accusations? I am only speaking of practical things because you deserve to know the full reality of my situation to make an informed decision," he said, more severely than he intended.

Margaret narrowed her eyes at him, and she looked cross before she schooled her face into a more neutral expression. She reflected on his question. It was true, in manners, he was always gentlemanly towards her. He never spoke of the material advantage of his offer. In the heated moment of his proposal, she said the worse thing she could think to say to him. She spoke from her prejudice, not her heart. Had he not shown her his true character? Did she not see the compassion he showed towards her mother, Nicholas, and his workers? We masters are not all the same. No, indeed, they were not, and beyond that, he was a good man. Kind, considerate, responsible. Margaret felt a now familiar rush of warmth towards him. Her face softened, and she touched his hand gently in apology.

"Mr. Thornton, forgive me. I was unfair to you. It is just when you speak about my comfort, it makes me think you believe me delicate and arrogant."

"I think no such thing," John cut in. That was his first impression of her, but as is often the case with first impressions, it was an inaccurate picture of her character.

"I am relieved to hear it," Margaret said, her eyes falling to their now touching hands. She wondered what he was feeling. Did he feel as warmly towards her as she did towards him? She grew nervous, and suddenly stood up and moved to the center of the room, facing away from him. He remained confused, unsure of what upset her.

"Mr. Thornton, do you truly only regret this situation because you are worried about the mill? It is my understanding you no longer desired such a connection to me. I do not wish to be the cause of a lifetime of disappointment for you…" Margaret's words came out haltingly, and her speech trailed off as she spoke into the darkness.

John stood up, spurred by a rush of irritation. She thought him so fickle. The idea that he would have moved on, after not half a year since her rejection, was an insult to his feelings. He softened as he recalled that she had no choice but to think that based on his own words and behavior towards her as of late. John sighed.

"Miss Hale?" he asked quietly, stepping forward to close the space between them. He was near enough to touch her. When she did not turn, he wondered at her shyness. Why was she not looking at him? Margaret, who would defend him against a mob, who he never once saw retreat in the face of opposition, seemed suddenly hesitant, afraid, and in need of reassurance.

John recognized in her how he felt in the aftermath of the riot. He was so unsure then, so afraid of her disdain, and in desperate need of her reassurance. When he stood in her parlor and declared himself to her, it was the most afraid he had ever been in his life. He felt his heart beat quicken as he wondered if that all-encompassing, wild, feeling was the one thing that Margaret Hale would shrink from.

He could only see the shadowy profile of her figure as her head turned sideways towards him, "Well? Do you not regret the loss of your choice? Choice of a wife, I mean. Surely, you have other prospects…"

"Other prospects?" he choked out, shaking his head in disbelief. "Miss Hale, I have suffered. I have been angry at you and bitter about what I misunderstood. But I never wavered in my love for you—"

"But you said—" Margaret interjected.

John shook his head again, and his fingers fidgeted, desperate to reach out to her. He clenched his fists at his side instead.

"I know what I said. I was trying to convince you, and myself, that any affection I held for you was gone, but it was a fool's errand. Margaret, look at me," he pleaded, and reached for her arm to turn her towards him but hesitated, unsure if his touch would be welcome. To his relief, she turned to face him on her own accord, her arms crossed protectively in front of herself. He could only just make out her face and her wet eyes glistening in the moonlight as she looked up at him. He continued,

"You speak of choice, as if I had not made my choice long ago. For me, it is you or no one. I choose you freely now, as I did then. I will choose you every day if you let me. Send me away again if you must, but you will not stop me from choosing you in my heart still," he slowly raised one hand to caress her face, his fingers lightly running across her temple, and he wondered if she had a scar. His thumb tenderly wiped the edge of her eye where tears were pooling as he cupped her cheek in his hand. She relaxed into his touch.

"Why are you crying?" John asked gently.

"I thought I lost your good opinion," Margaret said quietly.

"Forgive me—"

"Please allow me to finish. I do not fault you. For months, I have not understood why I worried and fretted over what you thought of me," she continued. "I think so highly of you, Mr. Thornton. I have wished for your renewed friendship, at least, and to think that after everything that has passed between us, everything I have said and done, you still…that you might still…" Margaret paused, hesitant and unsure. "I am crying because I am overwhelmed…I have never felt this way before. I have never spoken of it. It is difficult to find the words," she said and let out a small laugh. John stared at her in wonder.

"Take care, Margaret. You are giving me hope," John whispered. He caressed her cheekbone softly with his thumb before bringing his other hand to cup her face in his palms. Their bodies seemed to have gravitated to one another as Margaret spoke, and she was now pressed against him.

"Margaret, I love you. Are you saying you could learn to love me?" John spoke as gently yet resolutely as he could so there was no question in her mind of his devotion. He kept the desperation from his voice, knowing her answer would seal his fate. He would accept whatever she said. If she could not find it in her heart to ever love him, then he would leave her be. He would continue to love without hope of return, and he would be a better man for having loved her.

"Oh, Mr. Thornton—" Margaret whispered, her eyes searching his, trying to draw on the strength she always found there. She took a deep breath and in the silence that filled the room listened to every part of her body, mind, and spirit that called out for John Thornton, and had, for some time. "Yes, I can. I already do."

And there it was. The answer to the prayer he held in his heart every time he spoke her name. He lowered his forehead to hers, his eyes locked intently on hers. His thumb ran gingerly over her cheek before lightly caressing her bottom lip, causing a tingling sensation to snake down Margaret's neck. She waited, her heart beating loudly in her ears in anticipation.

"Margaret…May I kiss you?" John murmured tenderly.

She nodded once, then twice.

"I need to hear you say it, Margaret," he pleaded. John needed certainty that he was not overstepping, and he wanted to hear her invite him to the paradise that he once thought closed to him.

"Yes. Kiss me, Mr. Thornton—"

His name was hardly out of her mouth before his lips were on hers. The feeling was foreign to them both. Margaret was surprised by his gentleness. And yet she knew it was precisely like him to treat her with care, as he did all things he loved. She reached for him, her hands gripping his vest to pull him closer. Closer was all she could think, and she pressed herself against him as his lips met hers again and again. Her brain fogged with euphoria. Margaret stood on her toes to give herself more height, as he was inclining his head a great deal to reach her. He tasted of citrus and wine and his own unique flavor.

John varied the kiss, moving carefully, slowly. Her face was radiating heat onto his trembling hands, and despite his nerves, he savored every inch of her mouth, the taste and feel of her. She loved him, and she was kissing him. Together, they found a rhythm. She mirrored his movements, and when his lips parted more, so did hers, and John's heart tighten with desire. He felt as though she was cleansing him of his deep feeling of unworthiness, his loneliness, the rigidity, and self-denial he lived with for so long.

His hands moved from her face down to her shoulders, holding her tightly. A kind of muscle memory was ignited within her, and Margaret threw her hands around his neck, stepping forward. The force of her enthusiasm caught him by surprise, and he was pushed backwards. John landed against the wall with a thud, their lips still locked in a kiss, and he thought he would be undone then and there. He had longed to feel her clinging to him like this again. He smiled into her kiss, drunk from the feel of her arms on his neck, her fingers grazing his hair, the pressure of her embrace. If it was entirely up to John, he would kiss her just like this for the rest of this life and the next.

"Margaret—" he panted out. He was raw, his breathing heavy with barely contained ardor. He hands fell lower to her waist, and a delightful sound escaped from Margaret when he pulled her closer, and their kiss became more fervent.

"John—"

John always thought he knew how she would love. Yet he never dared to hope that she would respond to him in such a way, that her instinct would be to lead, to challenge, to match his gentle fervor with her own, but then was that not how she always was with him? He savored the opportunity to yield to her, here, in the shelter of her embrace, where he was John and she was Margaret, and they were each other's.

Margaret's breathing was heavy, and she thought her heart was going to beat right out of her chest. Every part of her skin tingled. John moved from her lips to plant slower, tender kisses on her face and then, cautiously, towards her neck, and she intuitively tilted her head to allow him easier access. It felt glorious, and the thrill that ran down her was sinful enough to prompt her sense of propriety.

"John," she breathed out, her eyes opening to the dark room. He sensed her sudden hesitation and stopped, and in the semi-darkness, she could make out the worry in his eyes. She kissed him, once, on the lips, to reassure him, and he touched his forehead to hers, his eyes half-closing as they both caught their breath. It was then that she realized she had pinned him against the wall. When had she done that? And how fervently had she been returning his kiss? Margaret felt her already hot face grow hotter, this time with shame.

"John—Mr. Thornton, forgive me if I have caused offense," she began, but he shook his head against hers.

"You never need to apologize to me for being expressive, Margaret," John replied, in a velvet voice that made her heart flip.

"Truly? You do not think me too bold?" Margaret asked shyly.

"Yes," John responded with a smile, "But that is one of the qualities I love about you," He unwrapped one of her arms from around his neck, planting a small kiss on her wrist before holding her hand to his lips.

"I must ask you the question I have never properly asked," John began ardently. She gazed at him fondly, waiting.

"Margaret Hale, will you marry—"

He was unable to finish, as they were both distracted by the sound of the old, rusty doorknob roughly turning. The door to the storage room opened widely.