Unveiled (Turner #1)(66)

She held on to his hand, afraid to squeeze for fear that her father would disappear before she had a chance to greet him again. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, with the rain beating against the window pane. Long enough that the servants came and went; long enough that his forehead grew hotter, that she soaked a towel in ice water, over and over, in an attempt to cool him. Long enough that the useless herbs she’d ordered steeped in the brazier and released their wild scent into the air.

Through it all, Ash stayed in the room, leaning against the entryway, watching her. He’d made no effort to come any closer. But then, he hadn’t gone away, either. No doubt he had things to do—far more important things than watching her pray for his bitterest enemy.

From behind him, Josephs pushed past him in the doorway, dripping water. He’d obviously just returned from his errand.

“Thank God, Josephs. Where is the physician?”

She saw the despair in the man’s eyes before he shook his head briefly. “He’s off in Witcombe, my lady, twelve miles distant. Attending a birth, his housekeeper says. No doubt with the storm, he’ll spend the night. No point risking his horse returning in this weather.”

Behind Josephs, Ash pushed off from the wall. “Lower Odcombe has a physician.”

“Yes, sir, but Lower Odcombe is seven miles away. And with the rain and it being night and all…” Joseph trailed off, eyeing Ash uncertainly.

But Ash wasn’t even looking at the man. He was watching Margaret.

“You care.” His words had the ring of steel. “For whatever reason.”

She had to tell him. “Ash, I—”

He cut her off with a jerk of his head. “Then I’m going.” He sketched her a little bow, and before she could do more than gaze after him in confused wonder, he slipped out the door.

The duke stayed silent as the candles flickered in darkness. His spirit seemed to withdraw into his body, and the silence grew. He seemed almost corpse-like beside her. He was pale and thin, lying in the bedclothes.

She’d wondered what she thought of her father before. Now she knew. She hated what he’d done, wished he’d not retreated into arrogant incivility in his illness. She didn’t understand who he’d become these past months. But as confusing and heartrending as the present was, she loved the man he’d once been. And she didn’t want to believe he wasn’t coming back.

THE PHYSICIAN ARRIVED a few hours later. He entered the room alone. Even though his collar was still damp from the journey, he set down his medical bag, removed his dark gloves and set to work.

Without glancing at Margaret, he came forwards. He checked her father’s eyes, prodded his wrist and his abdomen. Then he placed one end of a wooden cylinder against her father’s chest and set his ear against the other.

Margaret waited patiently until he straightened.

“He’s not in a coma,” the physician said. “That’s good. I’m Dr. Ardmore.”

Margaret felt suddenly weak. The hours of waiting washed over her, leaving only exhaustion behind.

“From Mr. Turner’s description, he’s had an apoplectic fit. The effects are varied. They might last a day. They might never be alleviated.” The man shook his head. “Nonetheless, you’ve done well to cool his head. It’s one of the first steps in treatment. You must be Miss Lowell.”

“Actually, I—”

“No matter. There are things to be done. He’ll need to be purged of the ill humor. If you’ll assist, I’ve brought a preparation of croton oil. You’ve experience, I assume, with introduction of such into the stomach. You’ll find what you need in my bag. In the meantime, I must bleed him.”

The man turned away, leaving Margaret to stare blankly at his black bag. She opened it and peered inside. A profusion of clamps and awls and saws stared back at her.

“Um.”

“The gum tube,” the doctor called impatiently from the bedside. “And mucilage—or gruel. Good God. I know you’re young, but haven’t you any training at all?”

There was no space left to dissemble. “I’m not a nurse. I’m His Grace’s daughter.”

His eyebrows drew down and he scrubbed his balding head. “How odd. I was led to believe—well.” He shook his head, too tired to engage in the requisite social niceties. “Damn.”

“I can still help,” she said. “If you tell me what to do.”

He didn’t protest. “You’ll have to, then.”

It had been the first time in a long while that she’d identified herself as Lady Anna Margaret. It was almost soothing to have the truth brushed callously to one side, to be treated instead as another set of hands—competent hands, not soft, incapable ones. It was too late at night for etiquette and formality.

He gave her more specific instructions, and after they’d fed her father the mixture, he sent her off to rest. But when she’d left the room for the dark of the gallery, rest seemed impossible. Tired as she was, she could not sleep. Not yet.

Surely if Mark knew what had happened to her father, he would grant her a reprieve. He would let her wait a little while longer to tell Ash the truth. But his brothers had been right about one thing. Whatever she was to Ash, after what he’d done for her—setting off into a storm, traveling miles and miles so that she might have a little peace—he didn’t deserve her silence. Not for one moment longer.