Unraveled (Turner #3)(45)
She bit her lip, but a tear escaped anyway. She turned away so he wouldn’t see it trace down her cheek. She willed herself not to sniff. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
Fabric rustled again, and his steps neared her. His hand fell on her shoulder. “Miranda…”
She lifted her head haughtily. “I don’t believe I’m paying you for affection, either.” She was proud that her voice didn’t waver once.
His hand fell away. “Very well, then.” He turned and left.
The click of his shoes against the floor made a cruel sound. He shut the door behind him. She could hear him descending the stairs.
He’d been quite clear as to his expectations. She’d made up the rest herself—told herself a fairy tale of affection, based on evidence that now seemed utterly scanty. Attila the Hun probably liked cats. Attila the Hun could probably laugh at a woman’s jokes, up until he’d had his turn at her.
And Turner wanted that from her again—forty-something more times. Forty more times, she’d have to welcome him inside her, pretend that nothing was wrong. She didn’t even want to look at him right now. She wanted to screw her eyes shut and avoid everything.
She’d wanted him, and he’d only wanted to slake his lust. But she couldn’t call him a liar. She had lied to herself. She’d been so eager to give herself to him that she’d invented affection out of what was merely physical passion. She’d been rapturously silly about everything about him. He just wanted her body.
She curled into a little ball on the bed. The sheets still smelled like him. And even if she rang the bell and demanded that her housekeeper change the linen, it wouldn’t alter the dreadful truth.
He’d purchased everything in this house. Including her.
“Remember this,” she said aloud into the night. The tears began to come then—not just for him, nor for her misplaced affection, but for the lonely month ahead of her.
She’d thought this would mean something. And it did: it meant a thousand pounds and cold sheets.
Chapter Twelve
“MIRANDA.”
She opened her eyes. It was not yet morning. Little crystals of salt clung to her eyelashes, the remnants of last night’s emotional outburst. She looked around her blearily, the world fuzzy and black in her first blinking awakening.
“Miranda.” The voice came again. Turner was sitting next to her on the bed. His form was a dark, warm silhouette. He must have seen her turn her head, because he took something from his pocket and set it on the bedside table next to her.
A watch.
It was early morning, and the memory of the last evening swept over her like a breath of cold air.
He’d had her. He’d hurt her. And now he wanted to do it again. Miranda clutched her rumpled chemise to her. If there could be anything less romantic than awakening to this, she didn’t know. When he’d talked in the churchyard about having her forty times, it had seemed utterly thrilling. Right now, doing it even once more would chafe.
He must have sensed that something was wrong, because he leaned over and took her hand. She sat up, groggily. Before she quite understood what was happening, he wrapped her fingers around something, holding it in place until she was awake enough to understand that it was a clay mug, warm, and filled three-quarters with a hot liquid.
She took a sip. It was warm, spiced milk. The gesture confused her. If he didn’t want her affection, why bother with such trivialities?
“Turner?” She managed to keep the quaver from the word.
“Last night ended badly.” His voice was quiet and sharp. “I didn’t say what I should have. You took me quite by surprise.”
She took another sip. It heated her.
“I told you when we entered this arrangement that I didn’t want your affection, but I don’t believe I told you what I wanted you for.”
Her eyes shut. “No need to belabor the point. You’ve made your intentions perfectly clear.”
“No. If you’d understood, you’d not have cried yourself to sleep.” He paused, cleared his throat, and she felt a stab of embarrassment that he’d understood that. It was monstrously unfair that she’d given him everything, and he’d stolen her vulnerability, too.
“Let me tell you what I want you for, so that we are not laboring under any misapprehensions.”
“Intercourse,” she said.
He set his hand over her lips. “Let me finish, before you start scrapping at me. You don’t let me frighten you. You’re not afraid to disagree with me. From the first, you made me feel warm in a world where I often feel alone. I’ve reposed confidences in you that I’ve scarcely told another soul. And if you must know why I want you near, it’s because I don’t like to think of you too far away.”
She let out a gasp. There was nothing to say to that. She simply sat up and clutched the mug to her chest, trying to make out his expression in the predawn light.
“I like you,” he said. “I like you very well. I don’t think I’ve ever been as desperate for a woman—for all of a woman, not just her body—as I am for you. And that, I suppose, is what I should have told you.”
She simply stared at him, wondering if this was a dream. If she’d invented this to comfort herself in the middle of the night. But when she pinched herself, she didn’t wake.