Unveiled (Turner #1)(29)
Ash pulled his weight against his brother’s hand, and Mark braced himself. As he scrambled to his feet, he whispered. “Did you really believe that claptrap about my not being young any longer? For a genius, you can be terribly idiotic sometimes.”
And with one swift movement, he pushed his brother off balance, grappled his legs out from underneath him and, after a gratifying scuffle, succeeded in pinning Mark to the floor. For a second, they met eyes.
Mark smiled at him. And victory was complete.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN MARGARET LEFT her father’s sickroom that evening, Ash Turner was waiting for her. He leaned against the wall, his bulk a muscled shadow clad in brown wool. She had known this moment was coming, ever since she’d left him that written apology on his desk. He was going to find her, talk to her. He might do substantially more.
But he didn’t move to do anything. Instead, he nodded at her. “Good evening, Miss Lowell.”
It was impossible for her to ignore the deep rumble of his voice, impossible not to feel the palms of her hands prickle with awareness. He had treated her with kindness. True, he hadn’t given her the prim and proper respect to which she’d become accustomed. But he’d given her something solid and quite a bit more reliable.
She swallowed. Her toes curled in her slippers. But then, she had decided this morning what she had to do.
“Good evening.” She wasn’t finished, but she felt her throat closing about the last syllable. Before she could choke on the words, she started again. “Good evening. Ash.”
He didn’t smile at that, but his eyes lit. A little defiance, he had called that. But it was a bigger defiance than he could imagine, to flout her family and to address him with such familiarity.
He’d earned it. Twice over.
He straightened. As he did so, the light from the oil-lamp behind him caught his features. With his head held high, the points of his collar no longer cast his chin in shadow.
And now she could see it. She stepped forwards without thinking, her breath hissing out. “Oh, no.” Her thumb found his jaw; it was harsh with a day’s worth of stubble. And the skin beneath those coarse, rasping hairs was discolored. She lightly ran her fingers over that bruise. “Did I do that?”
She raised her eyes to his and only then realized how close she stood to him. Inches away. She was up on her tiptoes, caressing his face. She could smell his subtle musk—masculine and earthy, with a tang of bergamot. She could feel the heat of him against her fingertips. She should step away. Her breath was burning in her lungs, her lips tingling under his appraisal. Her whole body was coming to life, this close to his. Her br**sts tightened, her thighs tensed and that bud between her legs warmed.
“Yes, Margaret.” He drew out the syllables, converting her name from a mere appellation into a verbal caress. “You did.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t intend—”
“Oh, no apology needed. I’ve found it a most useful decoration. Would you know, it has actually driven one particularly lovely woman to touch my cheek?”
Her hand stopped on his chin, where she’d been tracing an unconscious circle. “You’re putting a good face on it. But—”
“None of that, now. It’s as I told you—this is how men make friends. If you know what drives a man to anger, you know him.”
She shook her head. She still hadn’t moved her fingers from his skin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. “That can’t be rational.” Even less rational was the fact that she was still staring into his eyes.
“We are speaking of men, are we not? Most of us are base creatures, little more than bundles of animal instinct. Friendship is one of our least rational responses.”
As close as he was, he’d made no move to touch her. Another man who’d shown half of Ash’s interest would have closed his arms about her by now and assaulted her lips. But despite the husk in his voice, he didn’t strain towards her.
Her fingers still rested against his skin.
“Friends?” Margaret said. “Is that how you think of me?” She pulled her hand away, and lowered herself down from the tips of her toes.
He followed her down that inch and a half, canting his head over hers. A light sparkled in his eyes. “I spoke only by way of analogy. When I think of you, I want nothing so pale as friendship. I want more. I want decidedly more.”
He was going to kiss her. She could feel it in the greedy hunger of her lips, tilting up to his. She could feel it in the clamorous beat of her heart, yearning for that completion.
“I lied to you that first evening we spoke.” His breath felt like little brushes of butterfly wings against her lips, sweet and tremulous.
“Oh?”
His voice had gone deep, so deep it seemed to reverberate in her bones. His finger reached up to trace her mouth. “I do want to take that kiss.”
Her heart stopped. Her lips parted. She felt a flush rise through her—and still he didn’t press his lips to hers. Instead, he exhaled and she drank in his scent, sweet and warm.
“Oh,” she breathed.
“But—” he said, and it seemed an unfair word, that but “—I want you to give me one more.”
It would have been easy to shut her eyes and let him kiss her. To have the choice taken from her in one heated, passive moment, with nothing for her to do but comply. But he was asking for more than her artless submission. Not deference, not docility, but…defiance.