Somewhere in the World

Chapter 13

 

Lovell, Massachusetts

October—December 1860

Strong arms clasped her and swept her from the rough floor. Her head was cradled against a chest, and she heard a heightened heartbeat as she was carried from one room to another. Her head hurt so that she dare not open her eyes, but she drew comfort from the warmth and strength of the man carrying her. Moments later, she was lowered with as much care as if she were an egg. She felt bereft of his warmth, but soon felt his hands chafing her own, trying to bring some spark of warmth to hers. She heard a deep murmur, so soft and full of emotion that it sent a thrill throughout her.

 

“Margaret.” He spoke only her name, but she delighted to hear its soft cadence on his lips. A pillow was placed beneath her head, and she heard a deep voice murmur, “Margaret, Margaret—do you not know what you are to me?” His words sent desire through her; she longed to raise her hand and caress his cheek, to open her heavy eyes and see the expression of love and longing that was imprinted in his voice. Instead, she turned her head within his large palm and kissed his hand. Her heartbeat accelerated as she felt soft lips brush against the bruise on her temple, and the pain seemed to cease, as if he had taken it all upon himself.

 

She moaned, wanting his touch to continue, to never end. The lips touched her brow, her eyelid, the lobe of her ear—what ecstasy! She felt as if she were falling, but knew no fear—she knew his arms would catch and cradle her, protecting her from any harm. Finally, his lips came to rest upon hers, a light touch, then deeper, more persistent. Her lips parted in a small gasp of wonder, and he took advantage, delving deeper. Heat washed through her as his arms bound her to him and he lifted her—

“Miss Margaret, wake up!”

She awoke with a start. Dixon leaned over her, an expression of concern on her face. “You cried out in your sleep! Are you hurting?”

Margaret placed a hand to her brow and pushed the hair from her face. “Just a bit, Dixon,” she replied in a thin voice. “What time is it?”

“It is just after nine o’clock.” Dixon stood with her hands folded together. “You were so tired and ill when you arrived home from Doherty’s, your mother and father wanted you to sleep. I have kept back some supper for you, if you have an appetite.”

Nine o’clock, Margaret thought dully. She had slept for six hours, only to awaken to a disturbing dream. Dr. Donaldson had been kind enough to escort her home, where her frightened parents awaited her, having been alerted by Mr. Thornton of the nightmarish events at the draper’s shop. She had slumped in the entryway to the house, nauseous and close to tears as her father had quickly explained that Mr. Thornton had been kind enough to bring Isaac to their home, where the bounty hunters would not think to search for him, should they still lurk about town. “But, Margaret, Mr. Thornton specifically said he would escort you home. Why is he not with you?”

“I did not wish to wait.” It had required all of her reserve to speak with something approaching calmness. “I longed to be home, Papa.” With these words, the tears she had struggled to conceal had coursed down her cheeks, and Maria Thornton had elbowed her husband aside and taken matters into her own hands.