A recipe of love

Chapter 15

The night weighed heavily upon Margaret, the stillness of her bedchamber doing little to soothe the tempest that raged within her heart. Sleep was a fleeting phantom, slipping from her grasp each time she sought it. Her thoughts, vivid and unrelenting, were consumed by the image of Nathaniel emerging from the pond, his form strong and beautiful, glistening in the pale light of the evening.

Though she fought to chase away these musings, they persisted with a stubborn intensity. His broad shoulders, his dark hair slicked back by the water, the way his gaze, emerald and piercing, had captured hers as though he could see straight into her soul-it all left her breathless, restless.

The sheets tangled about her legs as she tossed, her heart a wild fluttering in her chest. She thought of his hands, large and calloused from his labors, yet gentle, more so than she could have ever imagined. Those hands had brushed hers in passing, but now she wondered-what would it feel like if they touched her as she longed to be touched? Her cheeks flamed, her body flushed with heat at the thought.

*It is improper,* she chastised herself. *Such thoughts do not become a lady of my station.* And yet, Lady Abigail's voice echoed in her mind, soothing her with the wisdom of experience.

"It is not shameful to feel such things, my dear Margaret," Lady Abigail had said once, her voice soft with understanding. "Desire is as natural to a woman as it is to a man. Perhaps more so, for we are often taught to deny it."

The truth of her words struck Margaret now with full force. The feelings she had fought to suppress now surged within her. She could not shake the memory of Nathaniel, nor the way her body responded to his mere presence.

His lips-how often had she dreamt of them? The way they curved into that shy, quiet smile, the way they spoke volumes even in silence. His eyes, always watchful, always seeming to see more than they revealed. *Oh, to have those lips upon mine,* she thought, her breath quickening at the mere fantasy.

Her imagination wandered deeper still, to the sensation of his arms around her, pulling her close, as if to meld their two bodies into one, erasing any space between them. It was a maddening thought-one she could no longer ignore.

Unable to endure the fire within her any longer, Margaret flung back the covers and rose from her bed, her bare feet padding softly across the floor. She donned her robe, her heart still racing as she descended the stairs toward the kitchen, seeking some respite-perhaps water, perhaps a moment to collect herself.

But as she entered the dimly lit room, she froze.

Nathaniel stood at the counter, a goblet in one hand, a piece of bread in the other. He turned at her entrance, his surprise evident, though his expression soon softened into that familiar, gentle smile that set her pulse racing.

"Margaret," he said, his voice low and warm, a balm to the tumult in her chest. "I hope I have not disturbed your rest?"

For a moment, she could only stare at him, her mind spinning. "No... no, Nathaniel," she managed at last, her voice trembling slightly. "I could not sleep. I was... thirsty." She gestured vaguely toward the water pitcher.

His smile deepened, his eyes glimmering in the candlelight. "As was I."

For a moment, silence fell between them, thick and heavy with unspoken feelings. Each sip of water seemed to crackle with tension. Margaret's eyes flicked toward him, and she could not stop her thoughts from wandering again-to the memory of him at the pond, water cascading down his chest, his body so near, so tempting.

"I... I was surprised to see you earlier," she said, breaking the silence. "At the pond... was it not terribly cold?"

He chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. "It was brisk, yes, but refreshing. More so than I expected." His gaze held hers, and this time, there was no mistaking the intensity in his eyes.