Margaret was absorbing what she had just said. It was absolutely the truth. If she had married Crispin at the age of seventeen and gone off with him to the wars, perhaps she would have adapted to the life she would have been forced to live, but she did not think so.

She was a home maker.

She had always been happy making a home for her sisters and Stephen. The only thing missing had been someone to share the heart of the home with her.

She had always thought he was Crispin.

But Crispin, she knew now, could never have filled that role.

And she would not have been entirely happy. /… someone to share the heart of the home with her/.

She rested her forehead on her knees and tightened her arms about her legs.

Would she ever find that someone? Had she found him? If she had not, she never would, would she? She was married.

After a few moments his hand came to rest warmly against the back of her neck. "Maggie," he asked softly, "what is it?" "Nothing," she said, but her voice was thin and high pitched, and before she could clear her throat and say something in a more normal tone, he had unclasped her hands and drawn her down to lie on her side on the grass. He lay close to her, one arm beneath her head.

He dried her eyes with his handkerchief.

She had not realized that she was crying.

She felt very foolish. For so many years she had guarded her emotions.

Now her control seemed to be slipping. "What is it?" he murmured again. /I have been so lonely/, she almost blurted aloud. /So very, very lonely. I am so lonely/.

It was all very well to be cheerful and practical, to make plans for a workable marriage and a home that would be comfortable and welcoming and not unhappy.

But it was impossible to fool the heart all the time. /I am so lonely/.

It was abject. It was selfish. It was despicable.

It was not like her. "Nothing," she said again. "Maggie," he said, "I wish there had been time to court you as you deserved to be courted. Time to win your love. Time to fall in love.

Time to do everything properly. I wish there had. But since there was not – " She set two fingers across his lips. "There never would have been time," she said. "If we had not both been desperate for different reasons when we collided, we would not have stopped for anything more than a hasty, embarrassed apology. The only time is /now/. Now is the only time there ever is." "Then I will court you now," he said, and his eyes were very deep, very dark. "I will make you fall in love with me. And I will fall in love with you." "Oh," she said, "you need not make such promises just because I have been shedding tears, Duncan. I do not even know why I have been doing so." "You are lonely," he said just as if she had spoken her thoughts out loud, "and have been for a long while. So am I – and have been for a long while. It is foolish to be lonely when we have each other." "I am not lonely," she protested. "Liar," he said, and kissed her.

She kissed him back with a sudden, desperate ardor. She had everything.

If she were to write a list, it would be a long one indeed, and it would include almost every imaginable dream any woman could possibly want or need to make her happy. Except something at the core of her being.

Something for which she searched blindly in the kiss and knew she would not find there.

Could one make a conscious decision to fall in love? Could two people? "I do love you, you know," she said, drawing back from him. "Yes," he said, "I /do/ know. But it is what you do in life, Maggie. It is what you have always done. You have always selflessly loved others and given of yourself for them. It is not enough." She looked at him, stricken. "But you have been a giver too," she said. "You gave up everything in order to shelter Mrs. Turner from harm – your family, your friends, your home, your good name. You are no stranger to love. That is what love does when it must." "It is not enough," he said again. "We have to fall in love, Maggie, and falling in love is different from simply loving. It calls for the willingness to receive as well as to give, and you and I are probably better at giving." She stared back at him. Was he right? "Opening ourselves to love is to make ourselves vulnerable," he said. "We might get hurt – again. We might lose the little of ourselves that we have left or that we have pieced back together. But unless we can open ourselves to receive as well as to give, we can never be truly happy.

Shall we take the risk? Or shall we decide to be content with contentment? I think we can learn to be content with each other." She still could not find words.

He tipped his head back and shut his eyes. The arm beneath her head was tense. She guessed that he had spoken from impulse, that he had not known what he was going to say until he said it.

He had already made himself vulnerable.

He was afraid to love. No, not that. He was afraid to /be loved/.

Was she? Oh, surely not. But she thought of how she had always hidden her emotions even from her own family – /especially/ from them – so that she would always appear strong and dependable. Of how she had cultivated a cheerful placidity during the years when the absence of Crispin had been a constant pain gnawing at her heart. Of how she had hidden from them her intense grief when she heard of his marriage, though they had guessed at it. Of how she had planned to make this marriage work in the same way as she had made her family life work – by being placidly cheerful, or cheerfully placid.

She did love him. She would not be able to live a lifetime with him if she did not. But could she let him love her? What if the love he had to offer turned out to be not strong enough or deep enough or devoted enough or passionate enough? What if he could never be heart of her heart?

It would be better to guard her heart instead. /Or not/. "How is it to be done?" she asked him. "How are we to do it?" But before he could answer they both became aware of the clopping of horses' hooves and the crunching of wheels over gravel in the distance on the other side of the house.

It was the reason they had not gone far from the house all day, Margaret realized, though neither of them had put it into words. They had wanted to be within earshot of any approaching carriage.

He tensed again, listening. So did she. But they had not mistaken. "A carriage," he said. "Yes." They scrambled to their feet and half ran up the steep bank to the terrace and around the west side of the house, Duncan slightly ahead of her.

A heavy traveling carriage had just drawn up before the portico, and the coachman was opening the door and reaching inside even before he set down the steps. Someone was shrieking in a high treble voice, and the coachman swung him out and set him down on the ground – a slight little boy with a mop of blond curls, Margaret saw as she stopped running and walked forward more slowly.

The child must have seen Duncan at the side of the house. He came running as soon as his feet touched firm earth, still shrieking, his arms stretched out to the sides. "Papa!" he cried as he came. "Papa!" He did not have far to run. Duncan had not slackened his pace. He bent down and swung the child into his arms, spun him in a circle, and held him tight. The boy's arms were wrapped about his neck.

Margaret stopped some distance away. "Papa," the child was saying over and over again into the side of his neck.

Duncan turned his head and kissed him. "I thought we would /never/ get here," the boy said in his high, piping voice. "I was a trial to Mrs. Harris – she told me so. Mr. Harris slept most of the way. He was /snoring/. I thought you would not be here. Mrs.

Harris said you might not be. She said we might race you home. I thought maybe you would never come and I would never see you again and I would not have a papa. But you /are/ here. And now Mrs. Harris will tell you all the bad things I have been doing, and you will frown and tell me that I have been unkind, and I will be sad. Don't be cross, Papa. Please don't." And he lifted his head, spread his little hands over Duncan's cheeks, and kissed him on the lips. "I won't ever be bad again," he said, all wide, innocent eyes and wheedling tone, "now that I am home and now that I am with you again." "I daresay," Duncan said, "you have been driving poor Mrs. Harris to distraction with all your prattling, have you, imp?" "Yes, I have," the child admitted, and patted Duncan's cheeks before wriggling to be set down. His eyes alit upon Margaret. "Who are you?" "Not a very polite question, Tobe," Duncan said, taking his hand. "I would have told you if you had waited a moment. This is Lady Sheringford, my new wife. Your new mama." "No," the child said, shrinking against Duncan's side, trying to hide behind one of his legs. "/Not/ my mama. I don't /want/ a mama. We don't need her, Papa. Send her away. Now." Margaret made a slight hand gesture when Duncan would have spoken, his brows knitting together. "Of course I am not your mama, Toby," she said. "I am your papa's wife, that is all. You fell out of a tree a little while ago and bumped your forehead, did you not? Your papa told me. Do you still have the mark there?" He leaned against Duncan's leg and circled one finger about his forehead. "I think it's gone," he said. "But it was the size of an egg. /Two/ eggs." "I wish I could have seen it," she said. "My brother fell off a horse once when he was about your age or a little older, but the lump on his head was certainly no bigger than one egg. He used to get cuts and bruises all over too – and scabs." "I have a scab on /my/ knee," Toby said. "Do you want to see?" "I am sure – " Duncan began. "Oh, yes, please," Margaret said, stepping closer. "How did you get it?" "I was /trying/ to catch Mrs. Lennox's cat," he said, bending to pull up his breeches and roll down his stocking to expose one knee. "She /never/ lets him out, and when he does escape, he will not let anyone pet him because he is not used to people. I had my hands on him, and then she stuck out her broom and I tripped over it." "Nasty," Margaret said, and bent closer to look at the dried scab that covered his kneecap. "Did you bleed?" "All over my breeches," he said, "and they were not even /old/ ones.