He hated himself. What a selfish, prideful little idiot he was! He had thought to call himself a man, but a man’s honour was in the keeping of his own, not dissipation in idle pleasures. And what had he done with this week’s wages? Lost!
How was he to confess this to his mother? She, who had so diligently taught him to work, to budget, to save—she, who had such faith in him! How was he to tell her he had intended to throw over his integrity for a few moments of boyish lust? He could not!
He looked around, at last recognising where nearly two hours of his aimless and frenetic strides had carried him. The Milton graveyard, on the farthest western outskirt of the city. There was no surer place to seek his solitude, to castigate himself without the trouble of witnesses. Well… if he could not confess the truth to his mother, he would take his anger out on his other parent. His steps coming in a frenzied rush, he descended upon that fresh stone—the one he and his mother had so painstakingly saved to purchase.
“You!” he snarled to the silent stone as he marched towards it. “You are to blame! For Mother’s grief, for Fanny’s illness, for the days I spend in the draper’s shop—all of it! It was your selfishness which brought this shame to us!”
His fists beat upon that stone until his flesh was torn, then he slashed at the unyielding granite with a contemptuous and satisfyingly irreverent kick. Violent sobs racked him then, and he collapsed. He remained there, gasping through his inarticulate cries of fury, for many long moments.
Conviction was slow to dawn, but faithfully, it did so. He clenched his eyes against his own disgrace. How was he any better than his father? He had nearly succumbed to his own temporal desires, had he not? He had harmed his family by squandering his hard-earned pay. What were they even to eat for this next week? Burying his face in his grime-covered palms, he raged in anguish, his youthful body shaking in the throes of his disgust with himself.
After a few moments, an inspiration pricked him. It could all be forgotten. He need not return to his mother empty-handed! Furiously, he dug in his other pocket for the watch she had given him. His father’s… as if he wanted anything belonging to that man! Snatching it up, he laughed in relief. He could sell it, fetch a handsome price, and perhaps even buy his mother that new dress she so badly needed!
As he wrung the chain, shaking the watch as if it were his own father’s miserable neck, his eyes caught the time. Half-past three, on the nose.
It was wrong, of course. It was, in fact, much later now, as he had already worked his full shift at the draper’s shop before his shameful errand. He shook the watch again, wondering why it had stopped with its hands in that precise position. What sadistic turn of events would cause it to pause at the exact moment when that gunshot rang out last year—and on this day, of all days?
His eyes flooded with emotion, but not a single tear did he shed. He was the only man left to his family, and a man did not do such a thing. He drew a long breath and restored the watch to its proper place in his pocket. A man did not weep, and a man did not lie. He rose, dusting the grass from his clothing, and made his long, sorrowful journey back to that little shack they called home.
He found his mother sitting in silence, her back to the door. She did not turn her face to him as he entered. He braced his lanky frame, not daring to allow himself to delay his confession even a moment, lest he forever lose the courage to do so. “Mother,” rasped he, his voice hesitant and broken. “I have disgraced you!”
Hannah Thornton sat immovably. Her reply was faint, spoken in a shaken tone. “You could never disgrace me, John. You are my son.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. “You do not know what I have done!”
She turned to him at last, her ebony gaze tipping up to him. “I saw, John. I was on the street. I saw you go in, and I saw you leave.”
He groaned and sank to the floor behind her, his face in his hands. “I have no right to even speak to you,” he mumbled between his fingers. “What must you think of your son?”
“I think my son is a man.”
“I am a fool! A selfish braggart who wished to please himself, to the detriment of his family!”
“A boy would not have come to such a conclusion.”
He shuddered in another vexatious sob. “I have acted the coward this day! I thought to hide for a time from my own cares, and I have only increased your burden.”
Hannah stood and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder as he hid his face from her. “John,” she commanded his attention. Regretfully, he looked up. “It is not evidence of manhood to display your prowess before the world. A man’s nobility is his own, independent of circumstances or prevailing opinions. Others may slink in shame and then try to cover their degradation, but that is not a path you need follow. You are free to choose a better way, but no other can determine your course for you.”
He blinked, still uncomfortable holding her gaze. “Mother,” he whispered, “I would have you know nothing happened.”
“I know, John.” She turned the flimsy chair round to him, then rested herself at his side and took his blood-streaked hand in hers. She squeezed it, looking down as if gathering her thoughts.
“One day, my son, some other woman will catch your eye. She will be fine and strong, and worthy of you, my John. Do not give your strength, your dignity, or your affections to one less deserving, for you would rob the woman you love of what ought rightfully to be hers.”
His breath caught, his head sagged… and his blessed mother stroked his hair until his face leaned against her knee, as she had used to do when he was a child. She placed so much faith in him, but these glorious hopes of hers seemed so distant just now!
“Mother, I cannot at present see beyond our debts. What woman would ever have me?”
She caressed his roughened cheek with a tender hand. “A very fortunate one, John.”
He stared at the hearth—dark as always, for coal was too costly—and his vision lost focus. “I went to Father’s grave today,” he murmured, as though the two subjects were somehow linked together.
His mother’s hand stilled. “Oh?” she replied, a tremor in her voice.
“I think I understand something. What I want—what I expect… and what Father did not see.”
She seemed to hold her breath. “And what is that?”
His jaw clenched. “Honour. I wish to be a man of honour, Mother, for my dignity is dearer to me than any other possession. And I shall begin by honouring the man who set me on this course. I shall no longer despise him. If not for him, I would not face my present difficulties, and I choose to be strengthened rather than broken. I will care for you and Fanny in every way, and I will look back with respect for the opportunity I have been granted.”
Hannah released a tight breath. “Then, my John, you are indeed a man now.”
He had been waiting for her.
Margaret smoothed her gown and stepped into her bedroom, her hair loosed, and her body flushed with innocent anticipation. John had been there some while already, seated by the fire in a simple dressing robe. He rose, walking towards her with his face awash in wonder, as if in a trance.
“Margaret, my own Margaret,” he murmured dreamily, taking her into his arms. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against him, secure and welcome at last. His chest rose in a long, steadying breath as he began to lovingly stroke the hidden contours of her body.
She slid her hands over his shoulders, down the fine muscles of his form. Her fingers caught and stiffened when they encountered his warm, bare flesh as his robe slipped under her touch. A tremor quaked through her—a final hesitation in this last moment before she gave him everything. He felt her pause and drew back, a question darkening his brow.
She allowed her gaze to wander his frame, so tall and powerful. Black, unfamiliar hairs curled where his clothing had pulled away… his shape, all the chiselled contours of his body were foreign to her experience. What was it, precisely, that he desired of her, and how could she begin to hold hi
m?—he who was as a giant to her in both body and spirit? Again, came the sense that she barely knew him, could not understand his feelings, and some inner part of her shrank.
His fingers traced her chin, and he leaned close to brush a kiss over her forehead. “Love, are you as frightened as I?”
She shivered in a nervous acknowledgment, then her eyes grew wide and she looked to his face. “You?”
“I have… spent many years alone,” he confessed. “Until you… it was impossible. I could not be so vulnerable with any other as with you—you, whom I worship above anything else under heaven, and you terrify me, my love. I can no longer conceal my darkest secrets, not from you. What will you think of me when you discover my frailties, my doubts, my inadequacies?”
“I will think… that you must understand something of my own insecurities, and that we are more alike than I had ever imagined. I will think perhaps… perhaps I have nothing to fear in you.”
He smiled, those blue eyes kindling once more. “Will you come to me then, my Margaret?”
A thrill rose, heat building in her core as one of his hands dropped again to her waist and the other caressed the back of her neck. Her throat caught before she could speak, so she nodded faintly into his hand, blinking uncontrollably. “S-slowly?” she whispered.
He kissed the lobe of her ear, his breath hot on her bare skin. “If it takes the rest of my life.”
Fire coursed through her flesh—prickling and searing. Her stomach fluttered wildly, and an ache welled up within her. More. She wanted… no, she needed more. All of him, this man who captivated her, and she would never be content until she had discovered his last secret, unveiled each passion and aroused every buried thirst so she might be the one to quench it.
It was as if his lips and his hands explored all her most intimate places. Every nerve snapped at his touch, his fervid, barely restrained caresses begetting violent quakes throughout her body. His kisses unravelled something deep within—an urgency and a boldness she had never experienced. If he did not satisfy this primal, desperate craving he had awakened, she would shatter!
“John,” she panted, her teeth bared against his throat as she clutched his shoulders, “hold me!”
He cupped her face in trembling hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, and trailed light kisses over her brows as his own tremors steadied. When he drew back, she looked up and answered the question she found in his eyes with breathless pleading. That moment of doubt was already a thing of distant memory, and her only wish to plunge fully into this rising swell of desire.
Her fingernails sank into the tender flesh at the back of his neck. Oh, how she loved the sense of him, the way his touch both ignited and soothed her! He bent to drop more kisses over her bared shoulders, and she shivered when the ghostly white cotton of her shift lifted, grazing over tender skin. She never felt, never saw, but she heard the filmy layers of his robe whisper to the ground. She pressed into him, trusting him to shield her and thrilling to the heat of his skin against hers.
Strong arms caught her up, and she left the cold floor for the soft warmth of her bed and him. She reached for him; his shadow fell over her, and there was nothing but his gentle hands, his finely muscled weight, and his deep loving voice in her ears. New sensations tingled and enflamed, piercing her core as they discovered the heavenly sanctuary made for lovers.
She tensed; a flash of pain, overcome by worshipful awe as they united in one flesh. His eyes, so eloquently declaring his astonished exhilaration, flashed brilliantly and then closed, engulfed in a wonder he could not express. She clasped him to herself, yearning for the same as he, and sobbed for joy as he cried out to her with a tender desperation she had never heard. They trembled together—a last, bated breath, and then a sheet of blinding ecstasy wrung his name from her lips before they fell as one in sated completion.
~
John, deliriously weary, cradled his arm beneath Margaret’s body and pressed a reverent kiss to her neck, then pillowed his cheek on her soft shoulder. It was a long while before the heady rapture faded, so they lay, still shivering and astounded at the intimate miracle they had shared. Slowly, he came to himself, as her light fingers began drowsily to toy with his hair.
He rolled his head up and met her euphoric smile with one of his own. “Are you well?”
Her breast, on which his chin now rested, rose and fell in lethargic bliss. “Perfectly, John.” Her fingers traced from his hair, up the back of his ear, and smoothed the lines of concern furrowing his brow.
He raised himself to kiss her, then resumed his comfortable posture gazing into her face. He sighed luxuriantly, and as fatigue began to take him, he nestled his cheek once more to her soft warmth. An entirely new vista awaited him there—rich, gentle curves and secret treasures he had never dared imagine. Perhaps, though, it was not right for him to stare so, when it left her vulnerable to any passing draught. Reluctantly, he tucked a corner of the rumpled sheets up over her prickled flesh and felt a minuscule drop under his chin as she relaxed still more.
“Better?” he mumbled into the one bit of bare skin he had claimed for himself.
“Mmmm.” Her fingers found his hair once more, and his neck tingled with the pleasure of her touch.
In return, he slipped his hand beneath the sheet to trace out that curious little dimple in her stomach which testified to her mortality. But for that, he would have imagined himself to be dreaming, or perhaps even passed on to whatever eternal reward he might have merited.
A low chuckle rumbled in his throat at that thought. No, this could not be heaven, for he had earned no such paradise! It was all the work of her generous, gracious affection… and perhaps, more than her fair measure of loneliness.
“Why are you laughing?” she wondered, sounding far more alert than he felt.
He rocked upright again. “I was musing on my good fortune.” His finger continued its lazy circles about her navel, and he dropped his eyes suggestively in that direction before smiling again at her.
“I thought you did not believe in fortune or luck—had no use at all for it.”
“It never had much use for me, I will say that—until now.”
Her eyes creased at the corners in gentle amusement. There was, however, that hint of sorrow behind them which he, of all people, could not fail to recognise.
His cheer faded instantly. “Oh, Margaret, forgive me! I did not mean—”
She hushed him with a finger to his lips and a slight shake of her head. “Please, John, not now. Let me think only of pleasant things tonight.”
“Am I to be counted among these pleasant things?”
Her smile widened, and that flicker of sadness vanished. “The most pleasant of all.”
He propped up on his elbow. “Margaret, you never told me why, and I was so eager to call you my own that I never dared to ask.”
She straightened her neck to look at him more directly. “Why what, John?”
“What changed your mind about me? The things you told me this afternoon—am I justified in believing your feelings had altered before… well, some while ago?”
“I believe you had scarcely left me that first day—you remember—when I learned to think differently of you. Perhaps I realised then what I had refused to confess to myself—that I worked so hard to dislike you because there was some quality about you that I could not at all dislike.”
“And you wished to? Too far beneath you, am I not?”
She hid her face in his chest in humiliated conviction. “John, I… oh, please, I was so wrong! I was proud and foolish, to have looked down on you as I did—but you did irritate me so! Why could you not simply have been what I expected you to be?”
“And what did you expect, love?”
“That you would prove safely and entirely disagreeable. How very contrary of you to make me love you! I tried to make you out as one I could ignore, but you simply would not permit me to do so.”
“Fancy that! The most glorious woman I
have ever known, and I should not wish for her to ignore me? Indeed, I was a recalcitrant beast.”
“You have ruined my view of all men, I shall have you know,” she informed him tartly. “It was most unfair, for now I am utterly incapable of admiring an ordinary gentleman.”
“First you confess to wishing you did not love me, now you would call me—what was it—not ordinary? You may as well say I am peculiar! I wonder, love, to which of my attributes you object. Perhaps you find me too tall, or my voice too deep. My height I might ameliorate by a stooped posture, but I cannot alter the other.”
“If you insist on teasing me, I shall refuse to pay you the compliments you so obviously wish to hear.”
He adopted a perfectly sober expression, but his composed innocence was betrayed by the tormenting finger that continued to threaten her bare stomach and ticklish ribs. She arched a brow and he surrendered with a laugh. “I shall behave, love, but pray, be generous.”
She captured his face between her hands. “The truth—the unvarnished, bothersome truth—is that I have grown to admire you excessively, perhaps to the point of absurdity. You did not make it easy, but there it is. I expect I was no better, so I must now beg your forgiveness for being so blind and stubborn at the beginning. Please, may we not put it behind us?”
“If it troubles you, I shall tease you no more about the past. I am most ardently content with our present understanding.”
She raised a hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing over the creases near his eyes and her fingers threading into the hair along his jaw. “You pardon me too easily.”
“Oh, I shall seek payment,” he rasped, turning into her softness to spread tempting endearments over her skin. She trembled in shy laughter, squirming just a little when his attentions tickled. He smiled and made good use of the stubble at his chin until her hands slid over his face, compelling him to stop. She pulled him up to her smiling mouth, and he found something else to kiss.
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