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through the compound, obtaining the items Mariah wanted to borrow and returning to the kitchen. |
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Instead, he found he wanted to hurry back to her company. |
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When he returned, she was still sitting where he had left her, on the bench by the worktable. She stared, apparently unseeing, toward a dark wall. In the flickering candlelight, he saw a small tear at the corner of her eye. As he watched, it rolled slowly down her face. |
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He stopped breathing for an instant, then made himself exhale in a snort of disgust. He didn't care, he told himself. He had no interest in finding out what made this pretty, spoiled woman unhappy. Decisively, onto the table before her, he placed the pen, the bottle of ink he kept mixed for his own use and the blank piece of paper he had torn from the inn's ledger journal. "Here, Miss Walker," he said sternly. |
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"Thank you, Mr. Thorn." Her voice sounded distant. Moist. Lost. |
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Taking no time to think, he suddenly found himself moving as though someone else had control of his body. Bending to kneel beside her, he said, "Miss WalkerMariahtell me what bothers you. Please." He touched her hand as it lay on her lap. It was warm and very soft. A lady's hand. |
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"You wouldn't believe it. I don't even believe it." She stood abruptly, pulling away. "Thanks again, Mr. Thorn." She moved as though to scoop up the items he had placed on the table. "Have a good night." Her voice was thick, as though she were swallowing cotton, and as she turned away he could see that she was hiding yet more tears. |
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Before he could consider what he was doing, he had taken Mariah Walker into his arms. |
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"Hey." Her voice was still uneven, but she pushed against his chest. Good. Perhaps he was making her angry enough to forget her sorrow. |
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She was much stronger than she appeared. Her thinness was deceptive. |
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Very deceptive, he learned, as he found he did not wish to let her go. Instead, he pulled her tightly to him. Her breasts |
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