They'd been walking the park for well over an hour already, Margaret estimated. She'd chosen the direction, hoping to see the season's last verdant shrubs before their edges all browned. It was not long before she realized that not even the greenest stretch of hill could have distracted her.

John had not inquired about her conversation with Hannah, which was just as well. Margaret had concocted a half-truth anyway, prepared to dismiss the subject as a "woman's matter." After the awkward start to the morning, she was in no hurry to supply more information than necessary.

Though the matter of consummation had been put to rest momentarily, Hannah's attack had plunged Margaret back into tumult. It seemed that anywhere she turned, some disgrace, whether real or imagined, would follow her.

Oblivious to the sudden downgrade of the path, Margaret's toe caught a small divot, kicking up a tiny clump of wet earth. John reached for her a moment after she had already steadied herself.

"Forgive me," he said, clumsily retracting his arms as though cursing their uselessness. "My attention was elsewhere—" He took a moment to straighten his collar, now slightly askew.

"—Though it seems that you were otherwise engaged as well."

"Yes, I am afraid I was," she equivocated. The shadow of scrutinizing worry on his face made Margaret all the more resolute to disclose nothing of her disastrous row with his mother.

"I was just...thinking of my family. So many months gone, but it still feels like only yesterday that we were all together as we shall never be again."

It was only when spoken aloud that she realized how much this painful truth, one she'd tried to push aside the day of her wedding, still gnawed at her.

"And I think no less of you for it," he finally said, his gaze drifting away from a moss-covered mausoleum. John's brow lined with the distinct aggravation it always did when the right words would not come. "I felt the absence of my father yesterday as well, though his death was many years ago."

He turned back to her with a brightening smile meant to dispel both their sorrows. "But we will be seeing your brother in a mere two days' time. It will be impossible for you to be unhappy there."

The reminder lifted her spirits in the way she was sure he had intended. "I cannot wait for it."

She wondered how noticeably she was shivering as he took the liberty of securing the uppermost fastenings of her coat. A slight flush warmed her as the leather of his glove slipped against the last button, his fingers skating over her collarbone.

Joining arms again, they resumed a brisker pace home. As the acrid scent of storm drew her eye to the horizon, Margaret noticed a gentleman rushing over the hill toward Princeton. He was unremarkable, his overcoat a drab brown. The sight, so ordinary, inexplicably set her ill at ease.

She almost stopped in her tracks when she made the unpleasant association.

"You promised last night that today you would tell me about that man, Everhart."

John's head turned sharply, but Margaret was already determined to prevent him from twice avoiding the subject. "I should not think you have already forgotten."

"I was rather hoping you would be the one to forget." The last of his smile dissipated as he eyed a particularly dark stretch of sky. "Not that Fanny helped on that account," he finished wryly.

"He seemed quite forward."

"His upbringing left much to be desired, to be sure. In fact, he is not an Everhart at all, despite his pride in the name. His father had an affair with a gypsy woman."

Silently discomposed, Margaret sidestepped a branch on the pathway, pretending to be more engaged by flora and fauna than their conversation. Everhart had not comported himself as a Northern gentleman, to be sure. Yet she knew enough to expect that his complexion would be dark, like that of the travelers she'd seen clustered in the camps lining the railways. He should not have possessed the pale, high-boned features that had reanimated too quickly in her mind.

"She—his mother—was Romanichal," John elaborated, somehow sensing her confusion. "Fairer than their brothers on the Continent. Farmers, most of them. It is only recently that they've become interested in trade."

"But he did not comport himself as a tradesman, surely."

John's eyebrow twitched ominously. "I told you rightly that he is not a man to be judged by appearances alone. He was the youngest, with two true born brothers before him. One died under miserable circumstances in Ireland and the other left for America some years ago, never to be heard from again. When the elder Everhart died, Thomas was the only kin left to inherit the fortune."

At that, Margaret's eyes narrowed. Intriguing as this wealth of information was, her husband was clearly avoiding the one question that needed answering.

"But I still cannot understand what compelled him to come to Marlborough Mills," she pressed. "To invite himself to a wedding celebration, no less."

John adjusted his collar again with his free hand, a motion Margaret now recognized as a symptom of nervousness rather than circumspection.

"You know that my father took part in a risky venture before his death."

"Yes."

He shook his head at Margaret's eager reply, the war over whether to speak or to repress culminating on his features. "Mr. Samuel Everhart—the father of our unwelcome guest yesterday—was the partner who betrayed him."

Margaret's heel wobbled, her present unsteadiness having nothing to do with the terrain. There was sense neither in John's revelation, nor his reaction to it. The John Thornton she knew would never entertain a man connected to his father's downfall, however self-inflicted it was.

"I am sure," she provoked, already knowing the answer, "that you allowed Mr. Everhart to stay only because you could not in good decorum refuse him last night."

John sighed heavily as though he had not heard her, releasing her hand as he strode onto the grass. Margaret followed him onto a small overlook, trying to forget the looming sky as her husband apparently had.

"That night at tea when I spoke of my father's passing, I also told you that Mother and Fanny and I were reduced to nothing. Even years of scrimping and saving barely afforded us our first payment on Marlborough Mills."

"What I did not tell you," he said in hushed tones, "is that Mr. Bell, at the time my new landlord, informed me that a one Mr. Loveridge was willing to broker a low-interest loan in exchange for a cut of profit until the loan was repaid. A sum of ten thousand pounds."

"Ten thousand?" Margaret repeated breathlessly.

"I was but nineteen and knew little of business. I had also never before had anything handed to me so freely. I was hesitant to sign without meeting the man, but we were already close to ruin. Mother and Bell encouraged me to accept. Not two months after the document was signed, Bell said that Mr. Loveridge was ready to meet with me." As though coming back to himself, he again stared up at the clouds, his teeth locked menacingly.

"Loveridge, you see, was the mother's name. Everhart used it for some of his holdings, including investments involving Mr. Bell. It was also to evade taxation—among other schemes, I am sure."

Margaret paused, both to digest such a wealth of information and to select her words. "And I presume, the meeting did not end well once you learnt of his true identity."

"I did walk out, if that is what you imply. Bell chased after me, swearing up and down that he had no idea the elder Everhart had a son at all." John laughed bitterly. "At first, I thought the generosity might be the younger Everhart's restitution for the father's crime. That, however, was giving him too much benefit of the doubt."

"But John, you were not to blame. What other choice could you have made? You were not more than a boy."

"I could still have made other choices." He turned with defiant conviction. "Ones I'd not have regretted."

Despite her desire to enfold him in her arms, Margaret knew no affectionate gestures could ease his despondency. She also could not bear him shrinking from her again as though she were a leper.

A sudden lightheadedness struck Margaret as the cogs all ground into place in her mind.

"So I am to understand," she broached, "that Everhart had a material interest in Marlborough Mills."

"In a sense, yes." John offered the smallest hint of a smile, his first since they'd begun unwinding this dreadful thread of conversation. "What Everhart did not count on was Mr. Bell signing everything over to you. As much as your father's friend and I did not agree, at least he had done that much."

"Everhart only came last night to discuss his property, then."

"No," John insisted, prompting Margaret to look up at the sudden flash of his eyes. "The man is a schemer. He caught me in London at the Great Exhibition, spouting nonsense about 'furthering his investment' in cotton. Now that he is cut from the profits of our mill, I've no idea about his intentions."

His choice of the word "our" swelled Margaret's heart with affection before she remembered Everhart's cloying intrigues. The blackguard had wanted only their property.

It was, she realized with a jolting fear, a property he well could have had if not for Mr. Bell's generosity. John, whose honor had allowed no less, had already defied convention by refusing to add his name to the deed when they wed. Margaret had never, admittedly, read through the document in full. It was a lack of education she would remedy as soon as possible.

As matters of fact and emotion, the situation was much to absorb. It was only in light of these new revelations that she'd remembered, with utmost discomfort, that her husband was her tenant. Legally, the mill was hers.

In the mire of all this, too, another fact remained: Had Everhart not come last night, she'd never have been the wiser to his schemes. Her ignorance, as much as his suppositions, had rendered her a fool.

Margaret's head whipped round, a day's worth of stress and confusion finally boiling to the surface. "How could you not have told me of his role in all of this? That I essentially robbed him of his investment?"

"I did not want to trouble you, Margaret. I know you take an interest. You are more than capable."

"If you esteemed me so greatly, there would be no reason to withhold something so significant."

"It was selfishly in the hope that neither of us would have to utter his name again," John blurted, throwing his hands up. "That I'd not have to think of those days or of my father's disgrace again."

If those words had not extinguished the fire of contempt in Margaret's breast, the sight of him would have. As people, they could not be more different. Yet, in that moment, she could see herself in his doleful eyes as her confession to Everhart sounded again in her mind. She had not wanted to think of those first days in Milton, to feel that stale sorrow clawing at her heart. It only stood to reason that her husband felt the same.

Taking his hand, Margaret raised his palm to her lips. He looked at her with the same gratitude and astonishment he had the day they rode home together—when she had kissed his flesh that way once before.

"You know better than anyone that I can withstand my share of troubles, John. There is nothing you cannot tell me."

A strange, faraway look brewed in his eyes, despite the welcome return of his smile. "And I might say the same to you."

A resounding clap of thunder echoed across the valley, ending any further discussion. Deep in their own thoughts, they hurried down the path winding into Milton. As Margaret's heels clicked on the first worn cobblestones inside Marlborough Mills' gate, she saw a plump, ruddy figure bustling toward them. Panic squeezed her heart as she realized it was Dixon.

"Mrs. Margaret! Oh, thank heaven you're back so soon." She clutched a letter in her left hand, waving her arm wildly.

"Goodness, Dixon. Whatever is the matter?"

"I do not know how to tell you." The frustrated prompting in Margaret's eyes brought a chastened look to the woman's round face.

"It's Master Frederick. He's written saying that you and Master Thornton musn't set sail for Cadiz. There's been an outbreak and—"

"The letter, Dixon."

Never skilled at hiding emotion, there was no mistaking Dixon's flinch for the hurt it was. Though she was still a servant, the suffering of these past two years had eroded the rigid strictures that had so long kept them apart. Margaret also knew well, however much it once irked her, that Frederick was Dixon's favorite.

"I am sorry, Dixon. I did not mean to sound cross."

"Oh, never you mind, missus," the old woman soothed, her voice breaking just a little. She thrust the letter into her mistress's hands.

Margaret read it intently for a few moments, only to consume the words repeatedly in disbelief as if rereading them might change their terrible meaning.

26 September, 1852

Dearest Margaret,

I must apologize for the brevity of this letter, as necessity rather than sentiment compels me to write it.

It is heartache enough that Dolores and I could not attend your wedding. You must know it pains me beyond words that I, your closest living kin, could not be there in our parents' stead to see you married.

Our present sadness to report is that yellow fever has already claimed 200 souls here in Cadiz. As of today we are quarantined, so we are unable to leave to see you, even if we would dare do so under normal circumstances. I know not when you and Mr. Thornton will be permitted entrance through the port.

Please pray for us that this shall pass soon and that we are not afflicted. I will write again once it is safe for you to travel.

Stay warm in the North. The sun of Cadiz waits for you both.

Your loving and faithful brother,
Fred

Margaret let the paper go limp in her falling hand. The letter was written days ago. There would be no way of knowing for certain if Frederick or Dolores were well—or even alive.

She had no wherewithal to protest as John took the note from her grasp. He scanned deliberately, as Margaret had seen him do the few times she'd witnessed him looking over his ledgers. What hope she held sank with the worry in his eyes.

"I shall see what can be done," he said, as much to himself as to the women. "Tell Mother that I will try to return before supper."

Not waiting for her to protest, he placed a hasty kiss on Margaret's forehead and was off.

She watched numbly as John bolted toward the gate, the sky threatening to open behind him. Dixon cushioned Margaret in an embrace, ushering her mistress inside as the first drops of rain splattered around them.

They had eaten dinner in silence. To his shame, John had welcomed it far too much.

He had indeed returned just before supper, drenched and exhausted. True to his promise, he'd tried to contact every acquaintance from Milton to Portsmouth in the hope of some good news from Spain. He'd even enlisted one of Slickson's connections, fruitless an endeavor as it would likely be. Despite John's hope, every response was the same: Cadiz's port was closed indefinitely. Courtesy of his position as magistrate, he had expedited a reply to Frederick that they had received his letter. It was, with both disappointment and irritation, the only material achievement to show for his efforts.

The day's events and revelations had already weighted his heart when Margaret had announced she'd retire early. For a moment, he contemplated rising to follow. He'd every mind to take her into his arms, to embrace her without a care for his mother or the servants. It would be a silent apology that could not be misconstrued.

Instead, as he saw that despondent dip of her graceful shoulders, John's optimism had finally broken. After a gruff rejoinder that he would be along shortly, he'd settled into his study. When he looked at his watch, he'd already spent half an hour there, his shallow fortification of brandy undisturbed. He'd apparently accomplished nothing but staring at the embers and doubting himself in every way possible. It was a long, slow trudge up the stairs.

Now, here he was staring at the door. The northern man in him abhorred avoidance. Likewise, fear could not easily unman him. Yet now, as he loitered in the room next to his wife, thoughts of that morning competed with the stir of irrational, impending happiness. He could almost taste the softness of her lips, could feel the shuddering warmth of her chest beneath her dressing gown. That heavy-lashed gaze as she'd spoken her halting words in his bed chamber (their bedchamber) had intoxicated him for all its innocence. Even in broad daylight, his hands had tingled with anticipation to mold himself to her curves, to...

He sighed, raking his hands through his hair. Losing control was a northern man's greatest sin. As such, he'd never been inclined to reveal his innermost thoughts. That indignant flickering in her eyes when he'd first offered his heart was still embedded too deep in his memory. Even the day she'd come home with him, he had kissed her with tender deliberation. Any rawer expression of passion was sure to offend.

Studying the most erudite philosophies could not compare to the taxing frustration of not speaking so coarsely. That, perhaps, was his most grievous sin.

Too long had he admired her fire and beauty without conveying the depth of his regard in the words worthy of such a woman.

Indeed, he thought bitterly, others had been quicker to act. Bell'd all but flaunted his interest. Worse was that prig Knox and his 'London break'...and last night...

If ever he could not speak his ire, that was the instant. He'd wrangled himself away from Slickson only to see that conniving bastard placing a flower in her hair. It taken everything not to hoist the devil up by his collar and toss him to the street as soon as he'd said hello.

It had taken almost as much restraint for John to say naught of her behavior. With mesmerized rage he'd watched her flush under Everhart's hand. It was that same subtle response: that sensuous brush of rose to her cheeks, that bewildered glassing of her eyes as when he'd held her on the train. That golden day when he'd selfishly forgotten himself.

The sight had plunged his soul into a familiar blackness. It ushered back that midnight chill; the feeling of his lungs being torn from his chest. For all its irrationality, he'd glimpsed her again in that imaginary lover's arms at Outwood Station. Again, for a moment, he'd let envy consume him until his ledgers blurred to white. To think of another man touching her—making her his.

And then, he'd remembered. How, with a single revelation from Higgins, his jealousy had been for nothing.

It was a lesson well learnt in objectivity, in restraint. What, indeed, had she done on that chaise with Everhart? Her physical discomfort last night had been plain, her limited capacity for lying notwithstanding. There was never affectation in her grace and dignity. Those qualities raised her up on a pedestal of light, so far above the Ann Latimers and ordinary women of the world.

With this, he rose from his chair, his focus trained on the oak door separating them. As he strode, he swore silently to speak and to act ever the gentleman. It was his chance to prove to her, to himself, that he might be worthy of such a woman.

Any Henry Lennox or Mr. Bell or Thomas Everhart could possess her.

Only he could love her.

Margaret flinched as her comb snagged an obstinate curl. A torrent of rain undulated with a hiss against the windowpane, drawing her gaze away from the mirror. The brine and sand tomorrow once promised now seemed worlds away.

The evening had been quiet and uncomfortable, as though misfortune itself had thickened the air. Whenever Margaret had dared a glance at him across the table, John's stare was vacant. Her head heavy, she had excused herself after the sweet course. It had stung more than a little when she heard no footsteps following her own.

Mrs. Thornton's silence was, as always, an oppressive entity unto itself. It could have been, Margaret hoped somewhat unreasonably, an unspoken admission of wrongdoing for this morning. More likely, it was some sliver of sympathy for their plight. Either way, it mattered little to Margaret. She'd no energy at present to deal with such trivialities.

After placing the comb down with a shaking hand, she smoothed her finger over the beveled ridges on the corner of her vanity. Her reflection was wan, her eyes wistful with smears of exhaustion beneath them. She looked more a wife of twenty years than a new bride.

Was every day to be this difficult?

A resolute knock resounded from the door adjoining her chamber and John's.

The candle was already at half-wick, long after he should have joined her. In her bed.

Even more than she had that morning, she fretted now at her woeful lack of preparation. She'd once caught Edith's servants whispering of how a wife should demur to her husband. By their giggling accounts, the act sounded utterly invasive and unpleasant. Margaret gripped the chair's arm tighter, imagining herself under the sheets with John's weight oppressing her as they had described.

It brought nothing to mind like her pleasurable imaginings of the night before.

She rose to her feet, defiant of her fear and waning control. I am a clergyman's daughter, she silently declared. As John's wife, she would fulfill her duty as expected—and without ridiculous impulses overtaking her good sense.

Margaret smoothed her fingers through her hair a final time, conceding that naught could be done for it. She wrapped her dressing gown around her as she padded across the floor. For the second time today, she opened the door to confront him.

She caught the fleeting surprise in his eyes as she resisted the compulsion to avert hers.

John's hair had split in feral directions as though his fingers had razed it repeatedly. She wanted to look at it, so curiously mussed and out of place. But she found herself too distracted by an expression she'd never before seen from this reserved man.

He was so animated it was startling. His eyes sparkled with something almost like reverence, as one might behold a master's painting rather than a person. This was the first time he had seen her hair down, she realized uncomfortably.

As though entranced, he twirled his finger around one of her curls. "I wish you could wear it like this."

She drew in a sharp breath when he withdrew his hand too quickly, his finger almost tangling in a snarl she'd missed when brushing. He straightened, collecting himself.

"I trust I can come in then?"

"Yes, of course," She backed away from the door, permitting him entrance. As he moved, her eyes drifted to the candlelit skin of his chest peeking out over his neckline. There was a scant hint of dark hair there. She wondered, heat rising in her cheeks, whether it would feel soft or coarse beneath her fingers.

"I wanted to do more for Frederick," he began.

"You musn't apologize, John. You did everything you should have, and more."

He swallowed, wrenching his head away as though his eyes had not landed where they intended. A strange heat brushed upward from knee to thigh as Margaret followed his gaze downward. Her shift had fallen askance, the candlelight illuminating the outline of her arm through the fabric. Realizing that the rest of her silhouette would be just as discernible, she yanked her nightdress closer.

With a hint of remaining hesitation he reached for her, his features illuminating as his arms encircled her. Something about the way he was looking at her made everything stand still.

"I know that much has happened today, Margaret. I cannot imagine how you must feel."

Even if she wanted to deny him now, she was powerless to move. His every word vibrated through her, each syllable tightening that invisible cord between them.

"As I said this morning, I would never insist of you anything you did not wish," he said firmly. "If you wish for me to walk back through that doorway, I will understand completely."

Margaret heard a breath shudder out of her in reply, but could not feel her chest move. All she could imagine was feeling those hands that were resting timidly upon her, the span of them broad and warm, touching and exploring.

There was still no way she could voice this feeling, frightening and exhilarating at once. Yet in this moment, she saw the want and love in his eyes in equal measure. It was also, she reasoned, seldom that she did what she should.

"Stay," she said, running her tongue over her lip.

It was the only invitation he needed before his lips claimed hers in a way for which no other kiss—real or imagined—could have prepared her.