Unveiled (Turner #1)(67)

She had one last task for the evening, and at this point, she was too weary to dread it any longer.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE NIGHT WAS VERY DARK. Ash should have been in bed, but instead, he was awake in his chambers, staring at the embers of a fire. He’d shucked off his wet clothes, and wore nothing but a loose pair of trousers.

If, two months ago, someone had told Ash he would have spent hours in the frigid rain, fetching a physician to save Parford’s measly hide…

He’d have believed it, but only because kindness made a revenge of its own. But he had only to remember the bleak expression in Margaret’s eyes when she had looked at him to understand why he had gone. Not as proof that he was the better man; not as some stilted vengeance wrought upon a long-ago foe. He’d gone so he could vanquish the darkness from her eyes.

There had been something about her that evening—something harsh and strong. She’d assumed command perfectly, without even faltering at the notion of issuing orders to Mrs. Benedict. She’d even ordered about Ash himself. She’d been as strong and as capable as a queen.

That was the woman he wanted. He wanted that fierce loyalty for his own. He wanted to possess the commanding set of her brow, to smooth the worry from her face. He also wanted her relieved of her weary burdens, but that would come soon. He could taste that future, sweet on his tongue.

He almost wished he’d retained that master key. He’d wished, weeks ago, that he hadn’t made Mrs. Benedict that promise. He certainly wished that his damned courier would arrive from London, with the requisite paperwork in hand. He was tired of holding back.

As if that wish had somehow been granted by a blessedly benevolent world, he heard the lock scrape behind him. He sat up straight in his chair, his breath catching in his throat. There was only one person who had a key to this room besides Ash himself. She fumbled with the lock—no doubt it was dark—and then swung the door open. He’d dreamed of this for so many nights, but he’d never believed it would actually happen. Margaret padded into his room.

In the pale moonlight, he could barely make out her clothing. She wore nothing but her shift. The fabric was thick, the darkness thicker. She might have been swathed in a thousand petticoats, for all the erotic detail he could make out in the dark of night. But his imagination didn’t need light to see her. The sound of fabric whispering against skin fired his fantasies. He could envision the length of her limbs as she walked towards him, could almost feel the rounding of her hips, fitting against his palms.

He stood up. She stopped, three feet distant, her eyes dropping to his bare chest and then widening.

“Ash. There’s something I have to tell you. It won’t wait for morning.”

“The duke,” Ash said. “He’s—”

“He’ll survive,” she said shortly.

“My brother.” A stab of pain. “He left this evening, and in the storm—”

“The storm broke hours after he left. I’m sure he found cover. It’s not about anyone else. Or—that is—not directly.”

He took a step towards her. He could see her shift ripple in the night air, forming itself briefly to her br**sts before dropping away again. The palms of his hands burned. He wanted to lay them against her. Another step. She was close enough that he could make out the faint smattering of freckles across her nose. In the dark, they almost blended into the color of her skin. She was close enough for him to touch and so he reached out, winding a strand of her hair about his finger, feeling the silk of it brush over him. A tiny prelude for what was certainly to come.

Her chin rose, and she tossed her head, sliding that curl from his grasp. “Ash, listen before you touch me.”

“I can listen and touch at the same time.” He set his hand on her hip, drawing her close. Her body fit against his, curved and soft where he was hard and flat. He ducked his head and breathed in her scent—that faint hint of roses. And she relaxed against him, laying her hands against his naked chest in a gesture of possession. His skin tingled where her palms touched him. He tipped her chin up—not to kiss, not yet, but to steal her breath from her lips, to draw the vital stuff of her exhalation into his own lungs. To feel the simple luxury of her presence.

She pushed away. “Ash. This is insane, the two of us. You don’t know who my family is.”

“I know enough.” He exhaled, wanting to breathe away her uncertainty. “Do you suppose I would learn you the way a scholar learns a book? That you are nothing to me but a collection of suppositions, to be stored in my memory and written down for verification? No, Margaret. I know you.”

He let his hand slip to her waist, to the curve of her hip, slim and smooth, and he drew her back to him. He was half-naked already, but she made no protest. The feel of her body against his was as invigorating as slipping into a hot bath. His blood took up an insistent pounding in his ears. Lower down, he felt a persistent ache, sharp and sweet, a keen wanting.

“I know you the way I’ve learned everything.” His lips brushed her collarbone. “I know your taste. I know your scent. I know the shape of you in my hands. I know the flash of your eyes when you’re angry, and the melody of your laughter. Don’t tell me I don’t know you. You’re a woman.” His voice dropped. “And you’re mine.”

She swallowed. “But I—”