Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“With your permission. Of course.” He wanted this. He did. No more deception.

Magnus looked at him with his artist’s eye, seeing what was there. And what was not. “What makes you say a thing like that?”

He worked through what Magnus had said and the careful way he’d said it and he felt as sick at heart and just as defiant as he had been when he’d said the words to his father. “You won’t agree to my marrying her?”

“You’re like a brother to me. You know that.”

He pushed out of his slouch. He was…affronted. Magnus owed him this. He bloody owed Portia the life she ought to have had. “I feel the same. But that doesn’t make Portia my sister.”

All trace of Magnus’s usual good humor vanished. He leaned forward and set his cigar against the ashtray. “No one could ask for a better friend than you.”

He sat up the rest of the way. Magnus was telling him no? The insult pricked him. Dented his pride. More, though, it scared the hell out of him. “Why not?”

“Is it wise?”

“Yes, damn it, it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Magnus shook his head.

The urge to spear him with a look of blue-blooded incredulity was impossible to resist. “I’d be a better husband to her than that doughty old poet she’s going to marry so you and Eleanor can make a life together.”

Magnus’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that what she told you?”

“Not in so many words, but it’s true. If she marries me, she’ll want for nothing, you know that. I should think you’d be pushing her my way. Most brothers with unmarried sisters do.”

It was Magnus’s turn to be insulted. “I’d never. You know that.”

“Yes. I do know that. Maybe you should have.”

“You and Portia?”

“Why not? Why the bloody hell not, I should like to know?”

“If she’ll have you.” He rested a hand on Crispin’s shoulder. “If she’ll have you, you’d have my blessing.”

“If she’ll have me?” The bottom dropped from his stomach. If Magnus didn’t think Portia would marry him, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe he’d never change her mind. “Why do you think she wouldn’t if I asked her?”

“I shouldn’t say this, but I think she used to be in love with you. After you left, the joy went out of her.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I’ve watched her here, the two of you, and to be honest, whatever there was between you, one-sided as it was, it’s long dead. I don’t think you’re what she needs. Not any more.”





Chapter Thirteen





Four days later

HE DIDN’T LIKE THE SILENCE at all. In all the times he’d been at Doyle’s Grange, the house had never been this quiet, not when Portia was here. Jesus, what if he was too late? What if while he’d been giving her time, Portia had convinced that ridiculous poet to take her to Gretna Green?

Hob came into the entryway and bowed his head. He wasn’t wearing his livery. “Milord.” He straightened. “Didn’t expect to see thee here.”

Out of pure habit, he took off his hat, but rather than hand it over to Hob, he hung it from one of the pegs above the doorway that led to the servants’ quarters. “Where is everyone?”

“Gone. Or out.”

“I see. Who is out and who is gone?”

“Mr. Stewart. Mrs. Stewart. They’ve gone.”

“And Portia?”

“Out.”

“With the Stewarts?”

“With the tree.”

“Thank you. I’ll just go see her then. I’ll announce myself.”

“Milord.”

He left his hat on the peg and walked outside to the back of the house. She was sitting on the ground by the rowan tree, industriously doing something to the earth around the trunk. Her hands stilled when he had yet another five paces to cover.

“She’ll dig them up next spring, but I don’t care.” With both hands, she tamped down the dirt around the rowan sapling. “I’ve planted a hundred of them here, and next spring they’ll come up, and I’ll be the only one who knows it’s my name they’re saying.”

“The crocuses?”

She swiped a hand across her forehead and twisted a bit to look at him. There was a smear of dirt just at the part of her hair. “Yes. Why are you here?”

“Where is Mr. Stewart?”

Her hands fell to her lap. “I sent him away.”

“Did you?” He held out his hand, and she put her gloved hand in his and stood.

She glanced away, then back. “He’s a decent man, but you’re right. He doesn’t deserve a wife who will never love him.”

He pulled her close and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Don’t be unhappy. You know I can’t bear it.”

His bare hand against her warm skin, a touch so light he hardly felt it, except he did. He remembered his mouth over hers and the dizzying wonder of finding her in his embrace again. This contact plunged through his body in the same way. He continued downward, caressing along her jaw, her throat. “I’ve done nothing but think about you since I left. Every second since I arrived. Before Wordless. After Wordless.”