Free MM03 - Saturday Mornings by Peggy Webb

resisted the temptation to run his hands down the length of that soft, inviting expanse of skin.
    Think of her as your sister, he told himself. The admonition helped, but not much.
    He guided the dress downward, over her flat stomach, down her slender legs, until it pooled like wine at her feet. Underneath, she was wearing a peach-colored silk slip. No lace, no fancy trimmings, just a simple garment that hugged her body in all the right places.
    She had an elegant body, the kind that went with long legs and an Audrey Hepburn neck. Another time he'd have lingered over it; he'd have appreciated it with his hands and his lips as well as his eyes.
    Tonight he merely took note.
    “Are you all right, sweetheart?”
    There was no reply. A shudder passed through Margaret Leigh, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
    “Are you cold?”
    She shook her head, but he wasn't sure whether what he had said had registered with her. He thought of picking her up and tucking her into bed as she was, but he knew enough about women's lingerie to know that sleeping in a bra would be uncomfortable.
    “I'm going to take off your slip now, Margaret Leigh.”
    She looked at her dress on the floor with the same curious detachment she might have given a passing bug. It didn't seem to have any connection with her.
    Andrew felt another shiver run through her when he put his hands on her shoulders. Her skin was warm to his touch. It wasn't the cold that made her shiver, he decided. It was fear.
    “What are you afraid of, Margaret Leigh? I'm not going to hurt you.”
    She lifted wounded violet eyes to his, but still she said nothing. He had seen that look on the face of mothers with sick children, and on widows. Without another word, he circled his arms around her and held her close. It was a warm and friendly embrace, a hug of affirmation, a touch of compassion.
    She stood stiffly in his arms, and then she leaned her cheek against his bare shoulder. He cupped the back of her head, sinking his fingers into the heavy silk of her hair.
    “Do you want to tell me about it, sweetheart?”
    “No.”
    He could barely hear her, even in the silence of the room.
    “That's all right. I’ll be here all night, just across the hall. If you need me, all you have to do is give a yell. I'm well trained. I’ll come running.”
    She made a quiet sound, like the whisper of wind through willows. Then she gave a small nod.
    Everything about her was fragile, her cheek against his chest, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow, her emotions. He didn't know what would happen if he finished undressing her. And now was not the time to find out.
    Comfort would have to take a backseat to common sense. And common sense told him to get her into bed, settled and warm, as quickly as possible.
    “I'm going to put you to bed now, Margaret Leigh.”
    She nodded again, a small motion that caused her silky hair to brush against his cheek. He held onto her with one hand and reached for the nightshirt with the other.
    “Lift your arms.” She did as she was told. He slid the shirt over her head, working her hands and arms through the armholes. Her arms stayed stiffly in the air until he caught her wrists and lowered them to her sides.
    “There. That should keep you warm and comfortable.”
    He kept up a steady, reassuring stream of chatter as he picked her up. She was limp and lifeless, without resistance, almost without a will.
    “This bed has an old feather mattress. I used to love these things when I was a kid. Still do.”
    He braced one knee on the bed, and the bed-springs squeaked. Margaret Leigh clung to him, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He started to lower her to the bed, then he noticed the bedcovers weren't turned back. He didn't want to disturb her by putting her down again. Balancing her with one free arm and his knee, he managed the covers with his free hand.
    It was awkward, but it worked. He lowered her gently to the sheets. She sank into the feather