When Margaret stepped into the kitchen the next morning, she stopped short, her heart doing an indecorous little stutter. John stood at the coffeemaker in nothing but his jeans and his hat, lost in thought, going through the familiar motions of making coffee. She should've known he would be up with the sun. He always was. She paused in the doorway, folded her arms, and watched him. He was the most relaxed she'd seen him since he'd stumbled upon her in his bedroom, and it was a refreshing change. He was humming a low tuneless song, his deep voice almost a growl. She shivered.

Margaret stopped outside the bathroom, almost frozen to the spot. She took a slow breath and leaned her head closer. John was singing, a low growling tune. She pressed her lips together, holding back a laugh. She'd never heard him sing before. The lower notes scratched and scraped over her skin in a new delicious way. It was one more surprising thing added to a growing list of surprises.

John finished pouring his coffee, stirred a meager scoop of sugar into his cup, clanging the spoon against the sides, and then stuck the spoon in his mouth.

She chuckled softly. "Good morning," she said, smiling.

He glanced over, the spoon still in his mouth, and looked so much like Jack, Margaret covered her laughter with her hand. Then his eyes dropped, traveling slowly over her, and her laughter melted into a heated flush. Her wrapper must have fallen open. She hadn't expected anyone else to be awake and was still in her nightgown.

When they were first married, the physical intensity of their attraction frightened her. She'd never felt such a strong impulse to be near another person and she didn't know what to make of it. How could someone who made her so angry and frustrated also make her feel so out of control of herself? She'd tried so hard to shove it away into the dark corners of her mind, and completely ignore it. No matter how hard she tried, she never could keep it buried away for long. John's eyes found hers again and Margaret's heart quickened, her stomach lurching. For all the things that had changed between them, she knew at least one thing hadn't changed at all. She took a slow breath, dropped her folded arms and stared back, almost daring him to look again.

She didn't quite know why she did it—maybe it was simply hormonal madness or maybe it was the way John was looking at her in her nightgown—but something made her want to try, just for today. He was still her husband, after all.

Maybe he would ignore her, or worse, push her away again, but her curiosity and a familiar warm ache in her belly made her oddly brave. She straightened her shoulders and stepped into the kitchen, joining John at the counter near the coffee machine, letting her own gaze travel over the familiar lines of skin, hair, and muscle.

"Is there enough for me?" He nodded. Her arm brushed his as she stood on tiptoe, reaching for a mug. Too high. "Could you?" She nodded at the cups just out of reach. Their arms were just barely touching, and she shivered, gooseflesh rippling down her body. He didn't step away and he didn't say anything. His gaze never shifted from hers as he pulled down a mug and set it in front of her. Then he picked up the coffee pot, shifting fractionally closer, and poured her a cup. "Sugar too, please?" She watched as he slowly pulled the spoon out of his mouth and used it to add sugar to her coffee, giving it a quick stir. "Thank you," she breathed and picked up her cup. The comfortable nutty scent added to the heated flush of her cheeks. What was she even doing?

"You don't drink coffee." It was a low rumble that sent tiny shivers running across her skin.

"I do now."

"Since when?"

"Since Jack was born."

He nodded, his eyes quickly flicking over her again. She felt a tiny thread of triumph, and allowed herself a small smile. He might still be angry with her, but he wasn't entirely indifferent. They stood in silence for a moment, drinking their coffee. She peered over her cup, enjoying another look, her attention catching on the faded scar on his left shoulder.

She couldn't stop herself from staring, even when he was dressed. She knew his shoulder would never be the same again and it was her fault. The guilt twisted around her in suffocating waves whenever she saw his face flicker with pain.

"Stop. Staring." He growled.

"I can help—"

"No." He yanked on his shirt, flinching with the pain. "I don't need you fussing me to death."

"But—"

"Leave it alone."

"Does it ever hurt?" She asked, her voice suddenly soft. "Your shoulder?"

He glanced at it, and shrugged. "Not much." He took another slow sip, studying her over his cup. "Only when it storms."

"Good morning, my dears."

Margaret gasped, almost spilling her coffee down her nightgown as Mr Bell marched into the kitchen in a red silk bathrobe, large circular spectacles perched on his nose. He paused and examined them with a wicked smile.

"My, my, that is a lovely nightie, Margaret." Mr Bell said, eyeing her over his glasses. "Doesn't leave much for the imagination, does it, my dear?"

"I—" Embarrassment flooded through her, her face flaming as she ducked her head, trying to cover herself with her arms, but it was terribly awkward with a cup of hot coffee in one hand, and Mr Bell raking his eyes all over her.

"You're an embodiment of Aphrodite, a goddess among mere mortals."

"S-Sorry," she fumbled about for something to say. Why hadn't she packed her flannels or at least thrown on a jumper before trotting down to the kitchen? "I'll just—I—" Her words caught in her throat when John stepped in front of her, blocking her entirely from Adam Bell's view. Her whole body flushed, but whether it was John's warm proximity or sheer relief, she didn't quite know.

"Oh, don't mind me, Thornton. I'm quite enjoying myself, the same as you. I swear on your mother's grave not to touch."

John didn't reply. He set aside his coffee, folded his arms, and just stood there. Margaret could almost imagine the stormy hard look on his face. For once she was grateful for his glowering demeanor.

"By the way, I need your help with the last of the summer haying," Mr Bell continued as if he hadn't been ogling Margaret's breasts a moment before. "Jack's too. I've been educating him on all the workings of a horse farm. He's been quite delighted with the prospect, you know. He's a clever lad, when he pays attention."

As Mr Bell talked, Margaret found herself staring at the larger scar on John's back.

"John? John!" Margaret scrambled off of him, hands clutching at his shirt. He was shaking all over, his skin pale, almost grey. There was blood everywhere. "Oh God, somebody help me, please," her voice broke.

She vaguely noted the arrival of two police officers. One stepped aside with his radio and the other knelt at John's side.

"Gunshot wound." The man announced to his partner, "Head laceration, possible concussion. He's in shock."

"M-Mag—gie?" His breathing was too fast, coming in short shallow bursts.

"You're alright," Margaret gently eased his hat off, blood pouring from the back of his head. Her stomach lurched at the sharp metal smell and she yanked at her scarf. "It's alright," she pillowed the flimsy purple material underneath his head. "Oh God," she brushed her hand over his face. "You're alright, John. I promise. You'll be fine."

He let out a terrible sound as the officer pressed hard on his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" She demanded.

"He's losing too much blood," the officer said. "Talk to him. Keep him awake."

"Look at me, John, look at me," Margaret clutched John's face. It was cold and slick with sweat, "Don't you dare die."

"T-trying—not to—"

She nodded, her throat thick and uncooperative. "Help is coming, love."

"You—are you—hurt?" He let out another strangled cry as the officer pressed harder.

"Stop it!" She pushed at the man, tears blurring her vision. "You're hurting him. Please stop!"

"Maggie," John choked out, his eyes starting to close. "Don't—cry—"

"John," her voice was panicked and sharp. "Look at me. I have something to show you," she stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, ignoring the tears dropping on his face. His eyes opened. "I went to the doctor today," She dug the strip of photos from her scan out of her purse. "We did a scan." His eyes locked on the blurry black and white images. "Do you see there?" She pointed, leaving a bloody smudge, "That's your baby, John." Another pained sound slipped through his lips, but he kept his focus on her. "We're fine. So you have to be fine too, yeah?" She took his hand and held it against her cheek, "Please don't die," she choked on the words. "Don't leave us."

Sometimes—not often, but sometimes—she would dream about that day, waking in a cold sweat, heart racing. He could've died, and if he had, it would've been for her, and for Jack. She sucked in a sharp breath, reached up, and gently laid her hand on his scar. John immediately stiffened underneath her touch, his shoulder twitching, fumbling over his reply.

"Are you alright, Thornton?"

It was so much more than obligation that made John put himself between her and a bullet. It was love; a love she hadn't understood. Margaret pulled her hand back and pressed it against her mouth, blinking away the sharp sting of tears. How had she missed it? She slipped hurriedly past John and Mr Bell, escaping the kitchen. She soon found herself in the large picture gallery and leaned heavily against the wall, staring at John's portrait. Slow tears spilled down her cheeks but she didn't bother to brush them away. For all his flaws and faults, he'd loved her. And how had she repaid his love?

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "God, John, I'm so sorry."

"Thornton, did you hear me?"

John snapped his head around, following Margaret's hasty retreat. His shoulder hadn't really bothered him too much for over ten years, but her hand on his skin had hurt, a sharp aching longing that had nothing to do with the old injury. His gut twisted over and he held back the sudden raging impulse to follow her, to beg her to touch him again. He frowned. Maybe baling hay was a good idea.

"What time are the balers setting up?"

"Half-seven in the north pasture. I'll make sure Rodrigo knows—"

"Don't bother," John interrupted. He rolled his shoulder and grabbed his coffee, finishing the drink in two large swallows. "We'll find it."

"Excellent. In that case, I'd best ready myself for the morning," Mr Bell sprang to his feet, abandoning his crossword puzzle. "Someone has to look after dear Margaret while her men are busy."

"Like hell you will," the words ground out of John before he could stop them.

The old man turned, a wicked smile in his eyes, "Jealousy looks rather good on you, Thornton." He winked and began to walk away. "By the way, we've made reservations for supper at a lovely little place tonight. Do make certain you're presentable by half-six. I'm expecting a guest."

John stood in the kitchen, his hands curling into fists, uncertain what he should do next. Part of him wanted to plant a fist in the old bastard's face, while another part wanted nothing more than to find Margaret and—

"You look ready to kill something," Fanny yawned and brushed past him towards the coffee pot. "What's happened now?"

He shook his head, a jaw in his muscle twitching, "I got roped into baling hale."

"Why?"

"Because I need to do something other than sit on my ass."

"You could talk to your wife," Fanny said into her mug. "She's the pretty one, remember?"

John shifted, ignoring her comment, "Where's Jack?"

"Asleep."

"Where?"

"Your old room. If you're baling hay, take Dave and Matt with you. It'll keep them out of my hair."

He nodded and turned to go. Then he stopped and turned back, "Don't leave her alone with Bell."

"Who, Margaret?" Fanny raised her eyebrows. "He's a harmless old flirt."

"Harmless, my ass," he growled. "He's fucking around with us, and I don't like it."

"What's gotten into you?" Fanny asked. A large smile spread across her face. "John Thornton are you jealous—"

"Never mind," he said, cutting her off. "Forget I said anything." He rolled his eyes as she started giggling. "Shut up, Fan."

"You can't be jealous of something you don't want, John-John," she called after him.

John watched her from across the crowded ballroom, a new dark feeling settling in his gut. His sister said Margaret's date was some shit-head lawyer from London. Henry Lennox. John finished his whiskey, not really tasting it. He knew what jealousy felt like, but he'd never once experienced it where a woman was concerned. If he'd had any doubts about what he wanted before tonight—which he sure as hell didn't; especially not after his mother's Christmas Party—he knew now. He wanted Margaret and he'd be damned if he let anyone stop him.

He shook himself, knocked hard on Jack's door, and pushed it open. His son was draped half on, half off the bed, and he cursed when John threw the discarded pillow at his head. "Rise and shine, kid."

"Piss off."

"Get up," John gathered Jack's clothes and dumped them on top of him. "You've got ten minutes."

"For what?" Jack groaned, pulling a pillow over his head. "God, what time is it?"

"We're baling hay. If you want to eat, you best get dressed."

"Why would I want to bale hay?" Jack sat up, throwing his pillow back at John.

"Because I'm an idiot." John growled. Jack raised his eyebrows, looking comically disheveled. "Don't ask."

"Will I hate you tomorrow?"

"Probably. You'll be sore as shit."

Jack groaned and started pulling on his jeans, "I might already hate you."

"Get in line," John muttered. "The kitchen in five minutes."

He made quick work of pissing off his older nephews, dragging them out of bed, and then headed back downstairs to his own room. He yanked on an undershirt and the oldest button-down he'd packed. It would probably get ruined, but there was no helping that. He hadn't planned on baling hay but if he didn't, he knew he'd have to find Margaret. When he found her, he knew he'd have to ask her what the hell happened between them. And he wasn't sure he was ready for that yet. Not after this morning. He jammed his feet into his boots, the long laces tangling in his hurry.

He jerked harder at the laces, clumsy in his frustration and impatience.

"Don't," Margaret pushed his hand away from the knotted laces. "Let me."

He swallowed an angry retort, and sat back, almost collapsing against the chair. Sweat gathered on his face and neck. His shoulder hurt like hell and he was flat exhausted from a week in the hospital, running on almost no sleep, bad food, and heavy painkillers. He didn't think he could face her pity and sarcasm right now. Not like this.

"You need rest." Her touch was surprisingly gentle, and her voice soft. She knelt, her hair falling over her face as she patiently unpicked the snarled knot of his boot laces. "It's been a long week."

John was too tired to stop himself. He reached up with his good hand, sliding his fingers through her hair, combing it over and over. He loved her hair and her skin and her smell. She was like heaven and all he wanted was to stay right here. Margaret finished and looked up, leaning into his hand.

"Better?"

He nodded. He wished she would always look at him like that; like she wanted him and only him; like he was enough for her. His shoulder throbbed, thick hot pain crawling down his arm, his fingers tingling and numb, but John ignored it. For her, for that look, he'd do it all again. He'd do anything.

He shook his head, the skin on his back rippling with the memory of her touch. He finished tying his laces and stood. At first, every day he spent without her seemed worse than the one before, but as time passed, eventually he learned to live with the gnawing emptiness until it became part of him, fading into normalcy, like his ruined shoulder. Now, every moment raked him raw, reminding him of what he'd lost. But how the hell could he fix this? Still, she was here, and so was he. And there was no way in hell he'd let her go again. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Dad," Jack's voice echoed outside his door, "are you coming, like?"

"I'm coming," he growled.

"So this is where you've been hiding?"

Margaret started a little, folding her arms around herself. "Mr Bell, excuse me."

"No, no, no," he waved her away and sat down next to her. "Forgive my intrusion."

"I—this is your house—"

"Your son adores this room." He sighed and crossed one checkered trouser leg over the other, "Probably because it's one of the few rooms I avoid. This and the library, you know." He sniffed and hooked his folded hands over his knee and leaned in conspiratorially. "The library is generally Thornton's sanctuary and I'm happy to leave him to it. God, all that dust."

"Mr Bell," Margaret blushed and pulled her wrapper tighter over her nightgown. "I ought to," she hesitated, uncomfortable when he turned his sharp eyes to the exposed upper portion of her legs. "Please stop."

"Yes, you really should stop," he raised his eyes and smiled. "The poor man can't take much more. Especially not with you so suggestively attired."

"That's enough," she snapped and stood, face hard as flint. "Do you treat all your guests with equal rudeness? Or just the women?"

"She has pluck after all," his grin widened and he lightly clapped his hands. "Bravo, Ms Hale."

"It's Thornton, thank you." She raised her chin. "I'm not sure what you're playing at, but—"

"And I am not sure what you're playing at, Mrs Thornton."

"I—I'm not playing at anything."

"Aren't you?" He examined his fingernails. "It seems to me you're playing a very arduous game of cat-and-mouse with your poor besotted husband."

"That's none of your business."

"This is my house. You're my guests. I think it's very much my business." He looked up, his face suddenly soft, almost pitying. "Lightning can and does strike twice, my dear goddess. Most people think it can't, but that's a load of rot. You caught him once, and I dare say you could do so a second time," he paused.

"But?" She hadn't meant to ask. It simply slipped out, a desperate, anguished whisper.

"But, I doubt he'll survive a second broken heart." She frowned, and almost braced herself for his next words. "You're as miserably in love with John Thornton, as he is with you. It's why you're both so unhappy, and have been ever since you left him."

There were nights she often couldn't sleep. She told Edith it was too hot in London during the summer. She told Aunt Shaw pregnancy made it impossible to sleep comfortably. She told herself it was because she needed time to adjust to the new environment. But none of it was true.

She lay curled in a ball on one side of her huge bed, the space next to her empty. She reached over in the dark, wishing, willing him to be there, with his soft hair, skin hot to the touch, hard muscles underneath. At home, he would shift, rolling towards her, half asleep, pulling her closer, until she was safe, his gentle even breathing warm on her hair.

"John?" Her hand hunted in the dark. But the other side of the bed was always empty. "I want to go home."

Margaret's face flushed hot and she lowered her eyes. She didn't like this meddlesome man, with his sharp words and quick wit. But his words reached deep down to that raw terrified part of her, giving shape to what she'd always known was true. Tears filled her eyes. She'd not been home in so long she'd forgotten what it was like.

"Falling in love is easy. It's the staying in love that's difficult."

She shivered, and finally looked up, "Why do you care?"

"I don't care," he stood and brushed the wrinkles from his trousers. "I simply made a very foolish promise many years ago to a woman. This is my one chance to honour that promise." He smiled and checked his watch. "We ought to hurry."

"We?"

"I have a meeting with my lawyer in Blanding and you have a husband to catch. Which shouldn't be too hard." He glanced over her again. "Not with the way he was looking at you."

"W-what way?" She blushed even as she asked.

"Like a man who's not had a decent shag in sixteen years."

Margaret stared after him, annoyed and incredulous, but also oddly pleased. He turned at the door, threw her another appreciative look, and winked. Cheeky blighter.

"Need a break, kid?" John asked.

He grabbed a water bottle and tossed it at Jack. He caught it easily, sucked down his water in one long go, and wiped his mouth. Dave and Matt collapsed into the shade under the trailer, moaning about the heat. John threw water bottles at them and leaned against the cab of the truck, squinting up at the sun. It was burning long past noon, the humidity swimming around them. The rasping rattle of insects added a familiar edge to the backbreaking work, beating John's swirling thoughts back into order. He'd been pleased to discover that once Jack decided to work, he worked with a fervor that rivaled John. An unspoken competition sprang up between father and son, and they were currently at an impasse.

"I wouldn't mind a sandwich, like," Jack yanked off his hat and swiped at his face with the hem of his T-shirt. "I'm clamming."

John chuckled, "Tap out and I'll get you that sandwich."

"Not a chance, old man."

"Smart ass," John rolled his bad shoulder, grabbed another bale, and tossed it onto the trailer.

"You're fault, not mine," Jack shot back, his bale following close behind John's.

"I'm done," Matt said and Dave nodded in silent agreement.

"Me too," Watson gasped, pausing. "It's too damn hot."

Rodrigo and the other farm hands laughed, chattering in a garble of Spanish and English. John grinned and tossed another bale onto the trailer, turning at the sound of an engine.

"Is that your truck, Dad?" Jack squinted.

The black vehicle pulled into the field a moment later, Margaret behind the wheel, Mr Bell and Fanny jammed next to her in the cab. Mr Bell helped Margaret out of the tuck with a little bow, his hand lingering on her lower back until she lightly pushed it away. An odd look of understanding passed between them, and John gripped his next bale of hay a little tighter.

"The women insisted it was far too hot for anyone to keep tossing around heavy bundles of hay, so here we are," Mr. Bell looked about the field. "Very well done. I should have the Thornton men come for haying every year. The Watsons too."

"Fat chance," Fanny shook her head and began handing out cold wet hand towels. "There's lunch waiting at the house and I promised the little guys we could go swimming."

Matt and Dave whooped and jumped up.

"And on that note, I've an appointment to keep." Mr Bell nodded and waved down another car that had followed them. "Excuse me."

John scrubbed his face, watching as Jack and Matt showed Margaret the two trailers piled high with bales of hay, explaining the process as if they'd been farm hands their entire life. She yelped when Jack tossed a handful of hay into her face when she wasn't looking.

"You git," she gave him a little shove and brushed at her blouse. "You got some down my shirt."

Jack only laughed, and started to unscrew the lid of his water bottle, "I'll help you with that, Mam. A little water ought to fix you up, like."

"Don't you dare," she backed away from him.

Jack tossed a wicked glance at John, raising his eyebrows. "I think Mam needs some water, Dad."

Margaret yelped when he slid his arms around her from behind.

"John," she squirmed. "God, you're soaked with sweat. It's not funny,"

"Yes it is," He chuckled, and pulled her closer, running his hands over the soft curve of her belly.

"You're such a bloody tease. Please go shower,"

"Come with me," he murmured in her ear. "Come on."

"Wha—no," Margaret let out a yelp as he scooped her up. "Put me down."

"Come on, Maggie. Play hookie with me."

John threw his rag down and scooped up a fresh water bottle. He held Margaret's gaze as she backed away, and opened the bottle with a flick of his wrist.

"John Seamus Thornton, you wouldn't dare."

Jack moved closer on her right, his grin widening, "Wouldn't we though?"

"Traitor," Margaret looked from Jack back to John. "Don't—" Her last word turned into a squeal as they both pounced. John snaked an arm around her waist and dumped his water over her head.

"You," Margaret pushed John's hat off. She'd grabbed Jack's water and tossed it in his face. He sputtered, laughing. "Both of you," she squirmed, and managed to snatch a handful of hay, "are the absolute worst." She threw it in John's face. He shifted, reached down, and grabbed a handful of hay, stuffing it down the front of her shirt, as she struggled, laughing and cursing.

"That's enough, you three." A sharp snap on John' back made him jump but he didn't let go. Fanny rolled her eyes at Watson, Matt and Dave snickering. She brandished the wet towel she'd smacked him with. "Quit flirting and come get some lunch."

Margaret hadn't moved, John's arm still wrapped around her waist, her body pressed close against him, his jeans getting a little tighter. Shit.

"Boys, get in the truck," Watson shot John a look. "I'm driving."

"I can drive," Jack jumped forward. "Dad promised."

Margaret started to protest, stepping away from John, but she stopped when he tightened his grip on her waist.

"Let him." John said softly, his hand trembling ever so slightly. She hesitated only a moment then nodded. She dug the keys from her pocket and handed them to him. "You break it, you buy it, kid," John tossed Jack the keys.

His son grinned as Watson and Fanny climbed next to him in the cab. Then he saluted John and started the engine. Dave and Matt scrambled into the bed of the truck and Margaret started to climb in next to them.

"Wait." John laid a hand on her arm. He was keenly aware that everyone was watching them while pretending not to, but he didn't give a damn. "Walk with me." She hesitated. "Please."

She nodded and hopped down. John raised the tailgate and stepped back. The wheels squealed, throwing out grass and hay as Jack took off far too fast. The truck bumped forward, rocking as it hit the uneven ground.

"Oh God," she said, suppressing a smile. "I hope he doesn't actually break it."

"He won't."

They stood for a moment, until the sound of the engine faded into the background of wind and insects and heat.

"So," Margaret shifted, swiping at the hay sticking to her shirt. "It's a bit hot for a walk."

"Probably." John dusted off his front, and he started walking, making sure to set an easy pace down towards the brook where the trees would provide shade and privacy. They reached it in a few minutes, and he began to pick his way along the bank, towards a small clearing where his nephews liked to camp.

"This is nice," she said softly. "And quite."

"It is," he glanced down at her. "You're a mess."

"So are you," She picked a clump of hay from under her shirt and shook it off. "We both are."

"I know," he stopped and pulled off his hat, letting out a sharp breath. "What did I do?"

She frowned, scratching absently at her shirt. "John,"

"I keep trying to figure out what I did to fuck this up, and I," he paused, the words heavy and bitter. "What did I do?"

"It's more like what you didn't do." He frowned as he stared at her. "Why did you let me go? You didn't even try to—"

"You told me to leave you alone," he growled. "So I did."

"Until this week, I hadn't spoken to you since," she looked away. "Since leaving. I never said I didn't—"

"Your goddamn lawyer said plenty."

"What?" She turned back, eyes dark and angry, "What lawyer? Is this about the—the papers—"

"I got your message loud and clear and for once I tried to listen."

"John,"

He shook himself and started walking, his breath sharp and shallow. "Now you're telling me that was wrong too."

"Wait,"

He turned on her, "What else do you want me to do?"

"I want to talk—"

"What was the actual problem?"

"The problem," she shrugged, and picked more hay from her shirt. "It's not just one thing, John. It was everything. We fought about everything and it felt like everything was wrong."

He stepped back, almost sick to his stomach. Everything. Him.

"I was nineteen, pregnant, and married to a man I barely knew. All I could see was how impossibly hard everything was and I—I was scared."

"Of me?"

"No, not exactly. Not like that," she scratched under her blouse again. She let out a frustrated huff. "I need your shirt, please."

"My shirt?"

"You just dumped hay and water down my blouse and it itches." She held out her hand, her eyes suddenly full of the same warm heat he'd seen that morning. "Your shirt please."

He regarded her with a slow frown, then took a resigned breath. He didn't know what the hell they were doing, but he'd play along. For now. He unbuttoned his shirt, shook it once, and held it out. "It probably smells," he warned.

"At least it won't itch," She glanced at him, blushing a little, "Turn around."

"John," Margaret clutched the towel tighter around herself. "I didn't know you were—turn around."

"Why?" He smiled. His wife was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, no matter what she wore. "I prefer you naked."

She flinched, backing away as he stepped closer, "Don't tease." Her voice was hard and cold. "Go away."

"I wasn't teasing," He snapped. He hated when she made him feel like a lecherous animal about to pounce on a piece of meat. She was so much more than that. She was his wife and all he ever wanted was for her to be happy. But she never was. "Fuck this," he growled. He stalked from the room and slammed the door behind him.

"No." He folded his arms. She was still his wife and he was done playing games.

"Fine."

Margaret's heart fluttered nervously in her chest. Before she could change her mind, she grabbed the hem of her blouse and slowly stripped it off, tossing it on the ground. She raised her chin and held his gaze, shoving away the mass of nerves churning in her stomach. They stood there for a moment, locked in a maddening unspoken challenge. She took a sharp breath when John stepped closer, his hand drifting forward. Her skin prickled in anticipation. His fingers were soft and gentle as he pulled a strand of hay from where it was plastered to her chest, just above her breasts. He'd always been so gentle with her, even when he was angry. His fingers lingered and she shivered, pressing closer, not wanting him to stop. She reached up and caught his wrist, just before he pulled away.

"John." She wondered if he could feel how fast her heart was beating. Surely he knew now, didn't he? Surely he knew what he did to her.

"Let go."

"You first," she breathed.

He glanced down at their hands, almost surprised to see his own hand now gripping hers. When he looked up, she flinched at the terrible expression on his face.

"Are you alright?"

"No," he tugged his hand free and turned, leaning heavily against a nearby tree. "I'm not."

She blinked, quickly brushing herself off and pulled his shirt over her head. It fell almost to her knees, smelling so strongly of him, she felt the odd familiar wave of heated desire tug between her legs.

"Maggie," Her hands fumbled while rolling up his shirt sleeves, the deep growling sound of his voice making the simple task impossible. "What are we doing?"

"We're," she swallowed and tried to tie his shirt tails at her waist. "We're trying."

"No, we're not," his voice was hard. Her eyes snapped up. He'd pushed himself away from the tree and was marching back the way they'd come.

"John," she trotted to catch up, grabbing his arm. "Please, wait."

"What?" he snapped. He kept walking, his long legs forcing her to almost run to keep up.

"Slow down, please." She kept hold of him, her grasp tightening. He stopped. "Do you hate me?" He swallowed and looked away. The silence stretched out more and more until she thought it would strangle her. "God, this is exactly what I meant," she pulled away. "You want to know what you did? You didn't talk to me." She pushed past him, knowing he would follow. She found the side path that wound towards the front of the house and followed it. "I never knew what was going on in your head and I—I felt all alone, trying to figure out what the bloody hell we were doing. And when we did talk, you barked at me or laughed at me or stared at me when I just needed you."

"I talk," John snapped. He grabbed her elbow and turned her so they were face to face, his voice dropping low. "You just never listened."

"I'm listening now."

"Are you?"

"I'm bloody right here, John," she was almost yelling. They were walking again. She wondered if they would ever be able to talk without arguing, but she wasn't about to give up now. This was her marriage and her husband. "I know what I did was wrong, but I'm here, and I'm trying. Do you care at all? Did you ever care, or is this nothing to you?"

He'd stopped following so she turned around again and gasped. The look on his face made her step back. She'd never seen him look more stunned, liked she'd hit him—hard. She knew she'd hurt him by leaving, but for once his hard mask of stoic indifference had slipped. He looked beaten, almost broken.

"If you think I don't care," he said quietly, "then why the hell did you marry me?"

"I don't," She said quickly. She pressed a hand to her stomach, the sudden terrible truth making her feel sick. "I'm sorry."

"Maggie," he pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. "I have to know why."

"I was afraid—of you." She flinched when he turned away, but she followed him. "Wait, let me finish," she grabbed his hand again. She had to say this now, or she never would. They'd reached the long drive around the front of the house and John stopped under a shady sycamore. "Something about you, your sarcasm, your stubborn teasing, and that stupid smile made me want things I never imagined. I felt like I'd lost myself, lost control of everything, and that frightened me. You took me shooting with you and I went. You flirted with me, and I flirted back. You kissed me, and made love to me and—and married me, and I wanted all of it." John turned around, his expression tired and cautious and yet— She tightened her grip and stepped closer. "I trusted you, John, and I've never trusted anyone, not even my father. You were different. There was always a piece of me that no one could touch," she smiled a little, blinking away tears, "except you. You saw all of me, when no one else could, and I was afraid. So I ran away."

"Maggie," John said, his voice gruff. He raised his other hand, brushing his fingers along her cheek. "I—"

The sharp sound of a car horn made them both jump. A black Cadillac pulled up and Mr Bell stepped out of the back of the car, smiling. "There you are, Thornton, Margaret. We were just talking about you."

"Mr Bell, please go away," Margaret said through gritted teeth.

"You can imagine my surprise and utter delight when my lawyer informed me of your intimate connection," Mr Bell continued, as if he hadn't heard her. "Of course, I had to bring him along for supper, you know."

Margaret's stomach twisted in sick disbelief when Henry Lennox appeared from the other side of the car, briefcase in hand, a small satisfied smile on his face.

"Bloody hell."