"Margaret Ann!" Her aunt sounded as if someone had pulled out the bottom of her voice, the sounds strangled and high pitched.

Of all the terrible things that could've happened today, Margaret was fairly certain this was the worst.

"Go away." John half tuned, his voice low and firm. But he didn't let go of Margaret even with Tiny running about their ankles, yapping happily. Margaret stared at John as he scowled at her aunt; he was annoyed, unconcerned, and utterly shameless, as if Victoria Shaw was the one committing a breach of etiquette. Margaret almost laughed. Impossible man. Only he would do such a thing after being caught snogging in public, and somehow it made her love him more for it. It also made her feel braver than she'd felt in a long time. Why should she be ashamed for having a snog with John or anyone else? They were both adults, they were dating, and they'd literally been dancing around each other all week. Bloody hell, she was about to ask him to marry her.

"Kindly remove your hands from my niece," her aunt was saying, her voice shaking. "Or—"

"Aunt Shaw," Margaret interrupted, her tempter spiking. "Please don't insult my boyfriend by treating him like he's done something wrong when he hasn't." She smiled at John as she gently took his hands and gave them a squeeze. "Hush, Tiny." The little dog stopped his barking and flopped down at John's feet in a panting puddle of fur. Then she stepped around John and faced her aunt. "He's understandably frustrated."

"Margaret Ann—"

"John's been more than polite to you this entire week and you've been nothing but condescending and rude."

"Rude?" Her aunt's face had turned a bright shade of red. "He had his hands," her voice almost cracked, dropping to a scandalized whisper, "under your shirt."

"I know." Margaret smiled, suddenly feeling mischievous and wicked and utterly done with this entire charade. "And my hands were in his pants. Didn't you notice?"

John snorted and Margaret barely bit back the giggle spilling past her lips, her cheeks flaming hot. She was beyond embarrassed at being caught by her aunt of all people, but she had the inexplicable urge to laugh anyway. The whole thing was absurd. Her aunt's skin had reached a new shade of mottled red and purple, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

"You…he…such behaviour…Margaret Ann!"

"Obviously this isn't the ideal place for such expressions of our affection but—"

"Affection?" her aunt hissed, the word spurring her into action. "I do not approve—"

"I know you don't," Margaret snapped. "I knew you wouldn't approve of him, and that's exactly why I asked John to come. I wanted to make you as angry as you make me." The words sounded so terrible as soon as she spoke them. But they were true.

"Angry?" Her Aunt looked surprised.

"You don't listen to me, Aunt, and you never have. I knew you'd hate John and it wasn't fair to him, but I did it anyway. And do you know, he came despite the impossible position I put him in. He's put up with you, and Edith, and every single stupid, tedious thing I asked of him without complaint." She felt John's fingers slide under the hem of her shirt, skirting over the soft skin of her lower back. He didn't say anything. He was just there. It was such a simple thing; his own way of wordlessly telling her that he didn't mind coming, and he'd do it again if she asked; that if she needed him to, he'd step in and end this for her. And that was everything.

"We can discuss this later," her aunt said. "Right now, we must—"

"No, we won't," Margaret interrupted again. "John and I are not a topic of discussion for you or anyone else. Now, if you'll excuse us—"

"The rehearsal is in an hour." Aunt Shaw raised herself to her full height. "That man will have to wait. Edith needs you."

John stiffened behind Margaret and swore under his breath. They'd both forgotten about the rehearsal. She glanced over her shoulder, his blue eyes burning, his mouth a firm, determined line. He still didn't say anything and she knew he wouldn't. But he didn't have to. She knew exactly what he was thinking, as if he'd shouted it.

Tell them all to go to hell.

"I—" she hesitated. John's fingers tightened on the hem of her leggings, and Margaret raised her chin. Her aunt was right, of course. She was the maid of honour and Edith did need her. But right now, John needed her more. "I'm sorry, Aunt Shaw, but we're not going to the rehearsal." As soon as she said it, John's entire posture softened in surprise, and she knew then he hadn't expected her to choose him. It made her want to grab his face and kiss him, to tell him she'd already chosen him, and would choose him every day if he'd only say 'yes'. She turned back to her aunt with a smile.

"Not…going?" Her aunt blinked, as if she couldn't quite understand. "But Edith…you simply must."

"Edith will understand entirely." Margaret said firmly, blushing a little. "Trust me. It's not like I won't be at the wedding. Apologize to Uncle for me."

"This is unacceptable, Margaret Ann. You will stop all this nonsense and compose yourself. This is your family and if you intend to remain in my good graces, you will attend the rehearsal, and that man can stay here. "

"His name is John." Margaret knelt, picked up Tiny, and closed the short distance between her and her aunt. "I don't care about your good graces," she said firmly and as gently as possible, and laid a hand on her arm. "I love you and I love Edith. You know I do. You're my family. But tonight, I'm just John's."

"You would choose him over your own family?"

"Yes." Margaret said, lowering her voice so only her aunt could hear her. "I want to marry him."

"So he did ask you," he aunt gasped. "Henry told me everything about it. Margaret Ann, you mustn't. You're too young."

"He hasn't asked me anything," Margaret said sharply and then dropped her voice again, flushing self-consciously. "Henry misunderstood." This was not how she wanted John to find out about her proposal but she would not lie. Not to her aunt or to herself. Not anymore. "Nothing has happened…yet."

"Yet?" Her aunt sniffed. "You could have anyone. Is that man really the man you want?"

"You're being unforgivably rude again." Margaret glanced back at John. He couldn't help hearing everything her aunt said and she flushed with shame. He didn't deserve this and she was tired of all the pointless back and forth. "John is exactly the man I want." She said it for him, and for his small cocky smile that promised her so much more once they were alone. Bloody hell. Just that smile was enough to make her skin tingle. She winked at him and turned back to face her aunt's slightly horrified expression. "He's the best man I've ever met. And the best snog too."

"Margaret Ann," her aunt spluttered. "You…you can't…you ought not…"

"I very much ought." Margaret said with a little triumphant smile, giggling at her own audacity. It felt incredible to say exactly what she thought and felt. For once. She grabbed John's hand, pulling him after her. "Good night, Aunt Shaw."

They ran the rest of the way upstairs.


"So, I'm the best you've ever had?" John growled, walking her into the suite door as soon as they reached their room. Her words downstairs were like a shot adrenaline pouring through him. He almost couldn't believe them. Margaret was laughing again, a velvety confident sound that swam like fire through his veins.

"You are a very good snog," she said, deliberately toying with his belt. "Must have been all the practice you had in high school with Jodie and Lucy Jo."

"Are you jealous?"

"I might be." She bit her lip, eyes flashing. John's grin widened; she was definitely jealous.

"Should I make it up to you?"

"Absolutely."

He didn't have to be told twice. This time he kissed her like he'd never kissed anyone else and never would; like she was the first and last woman on earth; like he could pour his very heart and soul into her. He'd never been one to do things by halves. If she wanted him, then she could have it all. She already had all of him, even if she never said 'yes'. She was it for him and she was more than enough for the rest of his miserable life.

"John."

"Maggie."

"Could we please not make love in the hallway?" They were breathing hard, her words hot against his cheek.

"Exhibitionism not your thing?"

"Not quite," she said, giggling as he sucked on the soft part of her neck, just under her jaw. "Do you have our suite key?"

"In my pocket."

She pushed him back with one hand. "Which pocket?"

"Front right." He pressed closer again, bracing his hands on either side of the door frame. "Do you want it?" he teased. She narrowed her eyes and raised her chin. "Come and get it. I dare you." Margaret held his gaze. Then her glance darted down, and John swore. Her eyes alone were almost enough to finish him. He had to get a grip on himself or this was going to be over too damn fast. She licked her lips, and glanced back up. "Go on, Maggie." He stared back at her, stubbornly enjoying each torturous second. He froze when he felt her fingers slide into his pocket and then his eyes closed. His knees threatened to give out as she slowly retrieved the room key, tantalizingly close and yet not quite close enough. "Goddamn, woman," he breathed, his grip on the door frame painful.

"A little taste of your own medicine, yeah?"

When he heard the snick of the lock, John's eyes snapped open. The small sound cut through the tension between them, like the crest of a wave when it finally breaks before crashing down in all its tumultuous glory. They'd been building towards this moment since the day he'd met her. John didn't know how they made it from the hallway to the bed, but they were there, a tangle of limbs and mouths and desire and heated breath. He had to slow this train down. He pushed himself off of her.

"Phone," he said, holding out his hand. He switch their cell phones off and threw them at the sofa. Shoes came off next, hers then his, both sets tossed haphazardly over his shoulder. Then his watch, her necklace, and his belt. These were dropped a little more carefully onto the floor, to be retrieved later. Much later.

"Shirt." Margaret said, pointing at his oxford.

John stripped off both his shirt and undershirt in one smooth movement. She half sat up, braced on her elbows, her eyes sliding over him. He grinned, bundling them up into a messy ball, and then threw it into the corner. "Like what you see, Hale?" The look on her face did funny things to his head. "I told you there were easier ways to get me to take off my shirt."

"You don't have to stop there," she said, a little breathless. "I've already seen everything you've got, remember?"

He climbed onto the bed and pressed her onto her back, "I remember you staring."

"I did not stare—"

"Can't say I blame you."

"Humble are we?"

"Tell me you didn't like it."

"You were," she paused and licked her lips, trailing her fingers down his chest, "adequate. For an American."

"Liar," he growled into her ear. "I've seen you looking when you thought I wasn't."

"I…no, you have not. I have not."

"You have." He lowered himself just enough so she could feel him through his dress pants. She blushed furiously, her breathing hitching a little. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're a bloody tease," she said, her voice thick and soft. Like honey and velvet, running over his skin.

"You love it," John said, his voice rumbling into its lowest register. He moved closer, until the front of his body brushed all along hers, still kissing her. His hands turned to fists when she trembled against him, the soft noises slipping from her mouth into his, scrambling his rational mind into a tunnel of sensation and gnawing hunger. He'd never wanted anything like he wanted her.

"Are you trying to make me beg, Mr Thornton?"

"Hell yes."

"John." Her hands slid to the hem of his pants and he sucked in a sharp breath, his arms trembling. "Please, love."

"Fuck." He shut his eyes, fists tightening painfully. Not yet. Not fucking yet. "I need to stop a minute." He almost choked on his words.

"What?" She looked startled, pulling her hands back. "Did I hurt you?"

"No." It came out between clenched teeth, and he nudged her cheek with his nose, trying to reassure her, while he tried to hold himself together. "I'm right on the edge and that's not how I want this to end."

"Would it?" she asked quietly, flushing. "End, I mean, if you—" she blushed even redder and started talking faster, "If you—well, a little sooner than—what I mean is, we've got all evening and I don't mind if we—kept going—after, I mean. If you want to that is, because I don't mind at all, but if you don't want to then that's fine too. Oh God, I'm not saying this right and—"

"Maggie," John interrupted, laying his fingers over her lips. "I mean, I only have one condom."

"Only one?" She blinked at him. He suddenly felt stupid as she started giggling, covering her face with her hands. "Bloody hell, John. What were you planning to do with only one condom?"

"Don't laugh," he grumbled, kissing her along her neck and jaw. "I'm lucky I've got the one. It's not even mine."

"You, sir, are horribly unprepared. But luckily for you, I'm not." Margaret shimmied out from underneath him and crawled over to the edge of the bed. She snatched at a white plastic bag shoved half underneath it. She dumped the contents onto the bed, blushing an even brighter red. "I think this ought to keep us busy for a bit," she said, avoiding his eyes. John glanced at her purchases and then back at her, reality sinking into his stomach like a molten ball of lead. She'd planned for this. It wasn't a hormonal, rushed decision for her, made in the heat of a moment, or to prove a point to her family. This was real. This was really happening.

John is exactly the man I want.

"Maggie." He couldn't make his voice work the way he wanted it to. Margaret pulled him down on top of her, curling against him again, every part of her soft and delicate and perfect. She shivered and sighed, running her hands lightly through his hair. Then she kissed him, slow and determined, her tongue sliding into his mouth, taking exactly what she wanted; him. She wanted him. Not just his body, or his money, or his time, but just him. He suddenly felt wrong; gangly, awkward, and too rough. Not enough for her. She knew he wasn't enough; she had to know, but she still wanted him. "Maggie, I—"

"John." She kissed him again, sweet and soft, fierce and fiery, until he was drowning. "If you don't takes these off," she murmured, tugging at his pants. "I might just change my mind and go to the bloody wedding rehearsal after all."

"Over my dead body." His hands slid up her arms and pinned them over her head. She smiled at him, her eyes bright and full of a heady look that made him dizzy. John stared at her a moment, "Why didn't you go?"

"It's just a rehearsal," she said, rolling her eyes and her hips. "It's not like I don't know what to do at a wedding. I've been in three already. Besides, I'd much rather do this." She shifted underneath him, brushing him very deliberately with her breasts, until his eyes closed, almost against his will. "Don't you?"

He swallowed hard, trying to make his mouth and his brain work together.

"John?"

"Are you sure?"

"Shall I beg you again?" she whispered against his cheek.

"Fuck, yes."


Making love to John Thornton was as difficult and maddening as it was beautiful and awkward. Margaret tried to bury her nerves, tried not to betray her own glaring lack of experience, and enjoy herself. Of course it didn't matter in the end. John was patient and achingly gentle for such a large, gruff man. His burning attention focused on each new part of her as he slowly undressed her. She enjoyed his obvious fascination, as if he'd never seen anything quite like her before. He took his time, savouring the exploration of skin and sensation, first with his hands—firm and calloused and deliciously rough—then with his mouth. God, his mouth was bloody perfect, the rough stubble on his cheeks and chin scratching a sensitive path over every inch of her skin. Every time she gasped or flinched or made any kind of noise, he paused.

"John," she was almost panting. He was so bloody intense and methodical; it was driving her mad. "Please, just—"

"Tell me, Maggie."

He wanted her to explain everything; what she liked and what she didn't like, what felt good and where. It was bloody difficult putting everything into words, and she spent part of that first time giggling in embarrassment when he tugged on her hair, or kissed that one spot on her neck, or anywhere on her breasts; then hiding against his shoulder in unnecessary shame when he licked her ear and she pulled away, or when he gripped her thigh so hard she yelped in pain; then groaning in frustration and impatience when he'd explored literally everywhere else, but where she wanted—needed—him. She'd seen his unrelenting focus before, but she'd never expected to be on the receiving end. Not like this. It was incredible and it was insanity. And if he didn't bloody get on with it, Margaret was certain she just might die.

"No," she breathed. "No more talking." She slid her hands into his hair and pulled, forcing him to look at her. "I don't need perfect, love. I just need you. Please."

His whole expression shifted then; the curiosity and exploration disappeared, replaced with a possessive determination that crawled deliciously over her skin and into her bones.

"Yes, ma'am." God, he could say that again and again, in that perfect growling southern drawl.

The first pain took them both by surprise. She'd heard there might be some discomfort, of course, and read that for some women it could be quite intense, but the reality of John pushing into her was something entirely different. Nothing could've prepared her for that exquisite and terrifying moment. She tried to relax, but it still stung, and she bit his lip with a small sharp inhale. His eyes widened and he stopped, disbelief etched across his face. She clutched at his shoulder with one hand, and covered her eyes with the other.

"Maggie?" It was so low and tender, she couldn't stop the tears the spilled under her fingers. Oh God. He knew.

"Go on, please," she said quickly, trying to stop her tears. She didn't want him to know it was her first, didn't want him to judge her against all the other girls he must've had before. "It's alright."

"I didn't know."

"Well, now you bloody do." She almost choked, turning her face away, now hiding behind both her hands. She was ruining everything. "Please don't laugh at me."

"Hey." His hand moved from her hip and pulled her hand away from her face. "Look at me." She shook her head, still crying. This was supposed to be easy and effortless and perfect. She just wanted to be enough for him, but how could she be? "Maggie." John said, his voice was a mixture of gravel and sand, rough and soft at the same time. Then he was kissing her cheeks, tracing over the tracks left by her tears. "Look at me, woman." When she finally opened her eyes, she wanted to hide away again. He'd never looked more serious or more kind. It almost hurt. He cupped her cheek, his thumb running over her skin. "I love you."

"John," she started to shake her head. "Don't just say that because—"

"No." His grip tightened on her face, just enough to stop her rambling and force her to pay attention. "I love you."

"You," she gasped. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest, still crying. "You can't say it yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I was going to say it first."

"Maggie." Then he did laugh, a low grumbling chuckle that she felt run through her whole body. "It's not a competition."

"But I love you too, and—" Her words caught in her throat as John tangled his fist in her hair and gently pulled her head back, his eyes hard and heated.

"So tell me."

"I," Margaret swallowed, almost biting his lip again as he eased himself deeper inside her, the pain melting in a breaking rushing warmth that ran through her. Oh God, oh God, oh God. This was nothing like she'd planned, but everything about it was perfectly right. She laid her hand on his cheek. "I love you, John Thornton."

"Yeah?"

She would never forget the look on his face just then; he smiled, bright and wide, and invincible. Like all he wanted, or needed, in the world were those three words from her, and nothing else. It was like pulling off a mask he wore for the rest of the world, until she saw the real man underneath all the sarcasm and prickles and gruff temper. This was a version of John that no one ever saw. He was giving this part of himself to her, right now, and no one else. And that made her feel more than enough.

"Maggie." He closed his eyes tight, his forehead pressed against hers, his whole body tense and trembling. He was holding himself back for her, trying so hard for her. Just for her. She caught her breath as his grip on her hair tightened. "I'm not going to last long."

"It's alright." It didn't matter. The pain didn't matter, the pace didn't matter; none of it. They had the rest of their lives to perfect this mad messy dance between them. This was only the first step. She grabbed his face and kissed him deeper, wrapping her legs around his hips. "Go on, love."

Perhaps it lasted half a minute or half an hour. When John collapsed against her, spent and breathing hard, she cried again, and held onto to him as tightly as possible. In the end, despite the terrible clumsiness and imperfect execution, it was perfect because it was them. And that was enough.


"Holy fuck." John shifted onto his back and rubbed his eyes with one hand, the other still tangled in Margaret's hair. He was pretty damn sure his girlfriend had just broken him; mind, body, and soul. He'd imagined this before—more times than he cared to admit—but the reality of making love to Margaret Hale was so much more than he could've guessed. Everything about her was so damn perfect. Whatever happened next, he was ruined in the best way possible.

"John?" Margaret sounded hesitant. She turned onto her side, her fingers nervously shifting through the hair on his chest. They were both still breathing hard. "Are you…alright?" He couldn't form actual words, so he rolled back over and buried his face in the perfect space between her breasts, a groaning grunt working its way between his lips onto her sweat dusted skin. She gasped a little. "John, what are you doing?" He nuzzled closer, his head still tangled in a fuzzy blank nothingness. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this relaxed. His whole body felt right, weightless, and warm. It was pure heaven. "That tickles," she giggled, poking him in the shoulder. "What's wrong with you, love?" All he could manage was a half garbled reply, which wasn't really words at all. She laughed again, her fingers now running through his hair as another unintelligible sound ground out of him. This woman just might kill him and he would gladly let her. Each touch was like a drug, muddying his thoughts, numbing his senses. "I hope that means you enjoyed yourself, yeah?"

"Fuck, Maggie."

There. That was a sentence. Sort of.

"John Thornton." She was still laughing softly. "Is that really all you can say?"

"Give me a goddamn minute, woman," he grumbled, folding his arms tighter around her. His words felt heavy and slurred, as if he'd had too much to drink.

"Must you swear?"

"I just had the best sex of my life." He shifted over her, pinning her underneath him, already half hard again. He shook himself, blinking. "Try and stop me."

"The best?" She sounded skeptical, blushing a pleasant pink. He grunted, now thoroughly engrossed in re-exploring the soft skin of her neck and jaw. "Liar," she breathed, curling herself up against him. She trailed a hand down his cheek and neck. Her breathing hitched when he dropped his head, kissing the soft skin on top of her breasts. "Surely," she broke off gasping a little. "Surely not the very best."

"You are." He tore his eyes away from the aching perfection of her body and kissed her, slow and deep. He slid a hand between her legs, and she shivered. "The fucking best."

"You're swearing again."

"Your fault, not mine."

"So rude."

"Only to you," he ground out, kissing her again, gently exploring with his fingers. She shook her head, groaning against his mouth and he paused to look at her. "Only you, Maggie."

"Yeah?" She looked like she might cry again.

"No, don't cry." John shifted onto his side and pulled her against him, brushing her hair from her face. "Maggie, please don't."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, I—I just need to tell you something, and I—"

"Do you want to stop?"

"Absolutely not," she shook her head firmly, and wiped her eyes, smiling. She sat up and straddled him, easing onto him with a shuddering sigh. "You didn't hurt me. They're good tears, love."

"Are you sure?"

"I promise."

"Maggie," he sat up, one arm curling around her shoulder, the other hand fisted tight in the blankets. "You're still crying."

"No, it's not that, John. I just—I'm happy. " She hid her face against his shoulder, her soft arms curling around him. "You make me so bloody happy."

Her words were like a shot of electricity, flooding his body with warmth and something else he couldn't describe. Something inside him broke loose and he brushed her tangled mess of curls out of her face. Then he cupped her cheek with one hand. "Marry me."

Margaret let out a little horrified gasp. Shit. God damn him and his stupid mouth. He hadn't planned to ask now, but then again, he never really had a plan at all. Watson would beat his ass later, but John couldn't take it back now. Margaret sat back, staring at him, open mouthed. John could have kicked himself. In the balls. Hard. There was so much more he could've said, and should've said, and wanted to say. But—

"Why did you ask me that?" she demanded. She looked—annoyed. "Bloody hell, John. We're having sex and you pick now to pop the question? That's not romantic or sane or—" she let out a frustrated noise. "Couldn't you just wait and propose like a normal bloke, on one knee or something? By the beach or after a romantic dinner or—"

"Maggie—"

"How on earth am I supposed to answer that with you hilt deep? What if I said no?"

"You could answer now—"

"—And here I was, planning to ask you and now you've ruined it. Do you know how hard it is to hold something like that in until the right moment? I was being bloody patient and you just open your big mouth and—"

"Wait," John interrupted. "You were going to ask me?"

"Oh God." Margaret paled, and covered her face with her hands, groaning. She rolled off of him. "Bloody hell."

"Maggie." John pulled gently at her hands.

"I've ruined it all, haven't I?"

"You wanted to ask me to marry you?" John stared at her. He felt like his brain had broken again, his mouth refusing to put words together. He almost couldn't believe this woman. And that he'd been dumb enough or lucky enough to find her. "Shit."

"Mine would've been so much better than you just tossing a proposal at me mid-coitus—"

"Maggie, stop." John laid his hand over her mouth, gently cutting off the stream of words pouring out of her. He brushed his thumb gently over her skin. "Ask me now."

"But," she blushed, plucking at the sheets nervously. "I had a plan. Sort of."

"Fuck your plan." He gave her a crooked grin and rolled over on top of her. "Ask me."

"You're being rude again."

"I'll show you rude." This time, when he slid into her, he wasn't gentle. He grinned as her annoyed expression melted, her eyes fluttering closed. She wrapped her legs around him, and pulled him deeper, her hands buried in his hair. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head, smiling like a damn idiot. "You like that?"

"John—"

"All you have to do is ask me to marry you."

"Really?" Her eyes opened and she raised her eyebrows, tilting her hips until he was almost shaking with the effort of keeping still. Their breath came quick and rough, an odd battle of wills, the tension building. Just when he thought he couldn't stand it another second, she smiled, running her fingers over his lips. "Impossible man." Then she kissed him, deep and hungry and silky smooth. John groaned and Margaret laughed again. And fuck if he didn't feel it everywhere. "Please, John."

"Please what?"

"Marry me."


The only thing better than shagging John Thornton was the delicious shower afterwards. Margaret sat under the hot steaming stream, sore and tired and happier than she'd ever been. She closed her eyes, hugged her legs tight against her chest, and rested her chin on her knees. The rushing roaring sound of the water drowned out her beating heart and calmed her tangled nerves. But all she could think about was fiery blue eyes, muscles, and skin, and her name grumbled in a deep baritone. Even the memory was enough to make her skin warm and her stomach burn. They'd made love three times, and somehow it wasn't nearly enough.

When the shower door opened, she blinked and glanced up at John. She'd left him sleeping in their half destroyed hotel bed. It had been strangely hard to tear herself away from the messy nest of arms and legs, blankets and pillows. He ducked under the water, wetting his face and hair. She watched him, shy and fascinated as he moved, an odd sort of possessiveness unfolding in her chest. John didn't say anything, but he was watching her too, with a curious intensity, a ghost of a smile shining in his blue eyes. She'd seen him look at her like that before, but she hadn't understood what it meant until this moment. He loved her. He didn't even need to say it.

But he had.

She smiled shyly when he sat down next to her and pulled her back against his chest, draping his long arms around her body in a gesture of simple intimacy that warmed her more than the hot water. Then he rested his chin on her shoulder and they sat. For how long, Margaret didn't know or care. The delicate silence between them was perfect and all their own and almost better than when he was inside her, and she couldn't tell where she ended and he began.

Margaret shivered and huddled closer. John held her tighter, covering as much of her body as he could with his own. She felt hidden and safe and seen. She closed her eyes and tried to soak that feeling into her soul. Had she ever felt like this before? She couldn't remember.

"Cold?"

"No," she turned a little and kissed his chest. "Happy." Then she sighed and sat up straighter, so she could see him better. She brushed at his hair, wet and sticking out at funny angles. "I have to go soon."

"Go where?"

"The wedding is tomorrow and I promised Edith I'd stay the night in her suite." She tried not to smile when his face fell a little. "I have to, love. I promised." She poked him in his side, where she'd discovered he was quite ticklish. "Don't be cross."

"I want you here."

"It's just one night," she said.

He frowned. Margaret didn't know such a grumpy look could be so gentle or endearing, but this one was. "I really hate your family."

"That's rude," she scolded, secretly please. It was so odd to see his prickliness come out like this, and not be the recipient. She rather liked it. "You can share, John Thornton." He made a face, rolling his eyes. Margaret smiled, pulled his face to hers, and kissed him, soft and lingering until he grumbled in contentment. She was pretty sure she could spend the rest of her life learning all the different ways to kiss this man. She let out a little yelp of delight as he turned her and lifted her onto his lap. "Are you trying to tempt me into staying?"

"Is it working?"

"John," Margaret bit her lip as he pulled their bodies together. "They're going to be your family too, yeah?" It came out more shy and hesitant than she intended. He hadn't actually answered her question before, and although the sex right after was very likely an enthusiastic yes, she couldn't help the tiniest doubt that snagged in her stomach.

"Is that a yes?" he teased. His nose brushed along her shoulder and into the curve of her neck.

"A yes to what?"

"I asked you to marry me first. You never said yes."

"Well, neither did you." She shuddered as his tongue and teeth joining his lips, moving up her neck to her jaw, his hands finding her breasts. Margaret's eyes closed and she tried to think. She couldn't. When John was inside her, everything faded until nothing else really mattered.

"Say yes, Maggie."

Margaret sucked in a breath as he moved them easily into a languid rhythm. She grabbed his shoulders and leaned her forehead against his. "Make me."


Margaret slipped into the Bridal Suite almost an hour later, still lost in a strange happy haze. Every bit of her was sore and smelled like John. He'd made certain of that.

"Migs?"

Margaret smiled at her cousin, who was watching her like a cat watches a mouse. Margaret flopped onto the bed next to Edith, like they used to when they were children, and sighed. This was the last night she and Edith would have together, and it almost made her sad. As planned, James had been banished from the suite, and was staying with Henry. Poor James. Margaret giggled, remembering John's own grumbling annoyance at the prospect of sleeping alone.

"Well?" Edith turned on her side, unable to wait any longer. "Did you ask him?"

"He asked first," Margaret rolled her eyes, smiling wide as Edith squealed.

"He didn't!"

"Of course did, impossible man. It's a very John thing to do."

"And?"

Margaret blushed. "And I said yes."