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Being alone with her on the trip to Fort Pitt and the trading post had nearly undone him. In the pirogue, he had been taunted every moment by her nearness. He had felt her behind him as surely as if she stroked him with those poor, overworked hands. |
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Then, in the town, to have seen her flirting again with that Francis Kerr had been nearly more that he could bear. |
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His peace of mind had been damaged further upon entering the bastion of the fort, although Ainsley had been right; Thorn had needed to do so to cast from his shoulders some of the weight of the years and events of the past. He appreciated his friend's open support. He wished, however, that Ainsley had not flaunted his presence so before the men. |
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But his guilt would never be purged. Maitland had reminded him all too clearly that no one else would forgive him his sins, so why should he? He had spurned Mariah's kindness to him as they had headed back, for he could not do otherwise. |
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Now, he stood at the bar, quietly pouring ale into a glass pitcher. Mariah remained seated beside Ambrose. |
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"So my friend Thorn finally has a woman." Ambrose's voice was low enough that he could have thought Thorn unable to hear. He was wrong. |
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"Hardly." She glanced toward Thorn, looking embarrassed. Uncomfortable. |
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Obviously, she did not have the same disquieting thoughts about him that he did about her. An unwanted sorrow washed through him. |
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Yet she had made that strange comment at the pirogue about two people caring about one another. Might she have meant that she could, after all, have feelings for him? |
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And what if she did? It made no matter. It was impossible. |
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"Do not let my speculations bother you, kind maiden," Ambrose continued in a whisper. His voice grew louder. "I am the one who caused this inn to be here. Did Thorn tell you so?" |
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Thorn rejoined them as Ambrose drew conspiratorially close to Mariah. He saw her wrinkle her nose. Ambrose, his |
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