Unveiled (Turner #1)(70)
The magic had dissipated. She needed to return to her father’s side. If he’d worsened in the night, she’d have heard the commotion. But he was gravely ill—and she was his daughter.
Ash hadn’t given her a gift last night. She’d stolen one from him.
She’d gone to his bed without telling him her true name, her birth. And that had been a betrayal in and of itself. It was that wrongness that made the warmth enfolding her feel so inadequate. No matter how much of his heat she took in, she had still lied, and when he found out the truth, he was going to despise her for it. He slept still, looking innocent, young in a way she’d never seen him look before.
It was a look of absolute trust, and she was about to shatter that.
She gently moved his arm and pulled out from under the covers. She shrugged into her discarded shift, wishing that she had a wrapper—or better yet, a fresh change of clothing. She hadn’t expected to sleep with him. Anyone who caught a glimpse of her in the hall would know what had happened. If she’d thought this through, she would have made sure to bring a change of clothing. A comb.
If she had thought this through, she would never have done it.
Out the window, she saw the last gray mists of the summer morning clinging to the wet grass below. The storm had passed; in another half hour, the sun would scour the fog away, and there would be no place for her to hide.
Behind her, Ash stirred and made a sleepy noise deep in his throat. That sound caught at her, and she stared at his sleeping form. I have to tell him.
As if she’d spoken those words aloud, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked several times and then his vision fixed on her. A warm smile crept over his face.
“Margaret.” He held out a hand. “What are you doing all the way over there? Come back to bed.”
“I have to tell you something.” She took a deep breath. Her heart pounded so loudly she could almost hear it in her ears, a relentless, rhythmic canter… But no. She glanced out the window again. That wasn’t her heart pounding. Those were hoofbeats. A man was approaching on horseback. His form cut through the mist like a dark rock in water. And she froze on the inhale. She knew that man. She knew that horse.
She was barely ready to tell Ash. She couldn’t face this—not now, not here.
She whirled around. “I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here now.” She scrambled across the room.
Ash leaped from bed with a grace that belied the sleep-rumpled look of his hair. His arms found her, wrapping around her, supporting her.
“What is it?” he asked. The concern in his voice fed her panic. Her world was collapsing. Her little rebellion had reached its natural conclusion. The troops had arrived, and if she were caught in his arms, Margaret’s little bit of defiance would take on a cast that rather resembled treason.
“Let me go.”
Ash kept his hands on her shoulders. “You’re upset. You’re trembling. You must know I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She looked into his eyes—so sincere, so clear—and felt a twinge of shame, twining with regret. “Oh, Ash. You can’t stop it. It’s already happened.”
She could no longer see the horseman; she could only imagine the door below swinging open for him in silent greeting, as it had done for so many years.
“Tell me,” Ash insisted. “Just tell me. If I can steal a dukedom, I can do anything.”
“Please. Get me something to wear. And quickly.”
He gave her a measured look and then pulled his own robe off the chest of drawers and set it around her shoulders. The warmth enveloped her once again, and with it, his scent, a complex mix of bergamot and bay rum. As she hugged it around her, he donned a pair of trousers. She could hear footfalls ascending the stairs now. If she was quick, she could make it up the servants’ stairs before he arrived. He wouldn’t need to know. She turned the handle.
Ash turned his head to the side, no doubt hearing those same footsteps. He set his hand against the door, open one scant inch. Margaret pulled, but he held it in place.
“Someone arrived. Someone who was granted unquestioned entrance.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s Richard Dalrymple, isn’t it?” His voice darkened. “Or Edmund. I can guess what he did to you. Don’t let him worry you. He can’t hurt you. I won’t let him.”
She wrenched the door back another inch, and got her foot through before he caught her wrist. “You don’t understand. I have to leave. I have to leave now.”
“I’ll protect you.”
“You can’t protect me from this.” Margaret wrenched the door open.
He set his hands on her waist. “We can face this together.”
But there was no together. There could be no together. Because at that moment, Richard came up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He froze at the sight before him. Margaret knew precisely how this tableau must appear to him. Ash was bare to the waist, his hands on Margaret. They were framed in the doorway, with an obviously rumpled bed behind them. It was only a moment that Richard stood there, his mouth open. And then he charged forwards almost blindly.
“Richard!” Margaret shouted. “You mustn’t—”
“You fiend!” Richard screamed as he barreled into Ash. The two men slammed into the doorway at an awkward angle. Before Ash could react, Richard beat his fists into Ash’s chest again and again. Those ineffectual slaps punctuated the morning.