Page 35 of Much Ado About Margaret
There was a need to keep her, but Bridger only wanted what was freely given. She touched her own lips in surprise, roses gathering in her cheeks. Margaret backed out of his grasp, flattening herself against the column of stone central to the structure.
“Forgive me,” Bridger said, watching her. “I acted impulsively. It won’t happen again.”
Margaret shook her head. “Why did you grab me like that?”
“Your bonnet is most concealing, Miss Arden, you could have been our mystery woman.”
“I see,” she said, though her pulse still raced. He watched it pound against the slim pillar of her throat. “Lord, Mr. Darrow, you frightened me, and then…”
He didn’t like to hear that. It reminded him of Regina’s fear the night before, the way she had run from him. It reminded him of the monster he had been forced to become in France, the cold creature he desperately wanted to forget. A creature not unlike his father, temperamental and full of rageful pain.
“And then?” he asked, bracing.
“Do you need me to say it?” she replied. “To revisit it?”
“I wouldn’t mind it if you did.”
“You frightened me,” Margaret said slowly, almost shyly. “And then…you kissed me—my very first kiss, in fact, sir—and for now it somewhat defies description.”
He arched a brow while hers furrowed. “A writer at a loss for words?”
Margaret’s now-familiar smile returned, and he relaxed. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Clearing his throat, taking pity on her, Bridger took his walking cane and prodded the remains of the fire near Margaret’s feet. “Right. Thanks to me we veered from our purpose here. It appears you were right about the temple; we should have ventured here last night.”
She dislodged herself from the pillar and scooped up a burned scrap of parchment, studying it, then pressed her gloved fingers to her chin thoughtfully. A bit of char transferred, leaving a gray mark on her chin.
“The doctor is with Ann now,” said Margaret. There was almost nothing legible on the paper (he had already looked himself, making out only the words “greatly desire that”) and she let it drift out of her fingers and to the blackened floor. “He has fallen for our stories for now, but I don’t know how long that will last. Mrs. Richmond has taken up a post outside Ann’sroom, and without some proof of her innocence, I fear she will pressure Lane to annul the marriage.”
“Lane would never agree to that,” Bridger replied, stern. He was beginning to sense what it was like to be utterly devoted to one woman, and if Lane’s heart at all mirrored his, such a move was unthinkable.
“Maybe, maybe not, but Mrs. Richmond is a tenacious woman,” she said, a little sad. That sadness pulled him toward her, and he carefully wiped the smudge off of her chin. Her clear blue eyes pierced him, glazed with regret, perhaps, or sorrow. God, but he wanted to kiss her again. “And we all give in to family pressures we never thought we would.”
“You have no idea how right you are,” he replied. His fingertips lingered on her chin, enticed by the warmth of her skin, touchable and soft even through the leather of his glove. The impulse that rose in him was almost enough to knock the wind out of his chest; he wanted to hold her face and taste her again. Only a few hours away from her, and he had subsided into navel-gazing loneliness. He had wondered if she would come, but she had, and now they could continue the hunt together. Loneliness. He couldn’t believe how swiftly the dread retreated in her presence.
You don’t have to do this alone.
A quick, dry scratching sound made him withdraw. It would damage both of their reputations but hers in particular if they were found like that together, or if a bystander learned of their secret embrace. There were small, round holes near the floor, windows of a sort that looked out onto the gardens. The sound had come from below them but dissipated almost instantly. Bridger strode to the round wall of the temple and ducked down. Margaret joined him, pressing close, he noted with no small amount of satisfaction. It seemed her fear had dwindled.
“Look there,” said Margaret, pointing.
A figure, obscured by a long, dark cloak, but feminine in appearance, raced from the temple. She fled away from the picnic, the temple itself shielding her from the guests reclining and eating on blankets.
“She must have heard us and thought better of coming up the stairs,” Bridger replied in a whisper. “I wonder if they were to meet again.”
Margaret righted herself and hurried to the stairs.
“What are you waiting for?” she demanded, pausing there on the top step, and twisting toward him.
“Let me follow her,” Bridger replied. “You should return to the picnic.”
“Follow her?” She was aghast. “Alone?”
Bridger’s face tightened. “I…It would be safer if you remained here.”
“Sir, I have summered here almost every year of my life since I was a child. I know the paths and secret places of Pressmore as well as I know the backs of my hands.” Margaret descended the stairs, and he raced to her side. “I do hope that my sisters will forgive me for leaving them behind like this. Violet is always keen for an adventure.”
“I’m sure they will understand our reasoning,” he said, lowering his tone as they neared the bottom of the stairs. “For I feel certain this is our mystery woman.”
