Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“That may be the case, but he also is the head of this family.” She lifted those big brown eyes up to him, the effect of which was amazingly similar to a kick in the gut. “At least with you he was content to throw money at the problem. His only solution with me is to guarantee ruining my life, no matter which way I choose.”


A light breeze tugged at the loosened hair around her face, pulling the raven strands across her too-pale skin. He had the maddest desire to comb the silky strands back with his fingers and kiss her for real. Not the playful kisses he always demanded from her as payment, but a true kiss that would steal her breath and completely override the worry that turned down the edges of her cupid-bow lips.

And he knew exactly how worried she must be. After the way her bastard father had treated her mother, marriage was about as attractive to her as running naked through Mayfair.

“I would never let him ruin your life, Ellie.” The words were too charged, too honest. She glanced up sharply and he forced a smile. “Where else could I find another dreadful fencing partner to make me look so good?”

She rolled her eyes. “Very funny. You could hardly influence his choice of tea, let alone what he wants to do with me.”

Damn it all—he wished she would have a little faith in him. Yes, he was younger than her, and yes, theirs had been an unconventional relationship, but didn’t she realize he would walk through fire for her?

No, of course she didn’t, because he would never let her know such a thing. To her, he would always be the inferior, annoying little boy his mother had foisted on the family. A sparing partner, both verbally and otherwise, who provided small entertainment and great annoyance, by her own description.

No, she would see no rescue from him. So he had to do the next best thing: show her that she could save herself. Which from the look of it would be quite the undertaking. She stood there, already defeated, her brow wrinkled with worry as if she had no hope left in her life. That made him even angrier than Malcolm’s asinine pronouncement.

Where was his little fighter? Where was the girl who had taken to combat like a bird to the sky, for no other reason than to have it out with him? Dropping back into fighting position, he whipped up his blade. “En garde,” he demanded.

She stared at him in confusion, her foil still idle at her side. “Nick—”

“En garde,” he barked again, swishing his weapon through the air in warning.

Warily, she raised her foil and planted her feet. He sprang into action, lunging at full force. She yelped and stumbled backward, glaring at him.

“What was that for?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he engaged, forcing her to defend herself or be struck. She didn’t disappoint. After a few hits, she started to get angry, her cheeks gaining color and her eyes narrowing in fierce concentration. That’s when she really began to fight. The clash of metal against metal rang through the morning air, punctuated by harsh breathing and grunts of exertion. Around them, the red light of dawn grew brighter and brighter, but he had no intention of relenting, not yet.

“What… has … gotten … into you!” She ground out through clenched teeth as her foil whipped left and right, parrying his attacks.

“Shut up and fight,” he growled, punctuating the words with powerful hits. They danced back and forth, their feet moving over the rocky ground almost in unison. Sweat poured down his face and dampened his shirt, but still he didn’t let up. He wasn’t going to coddle her, damn it. He wanted her to work, to be forced to battle as if their lives depended on it.

As she retreated from his lunge, she stumbled over a rock, falling hard on her backside. “Ow! Nick, wait—!”

But he didn’t wait. Dirt flew as she scrambled away from him, abandoning her weapon. Oh no, he wasn’t about to let her give up. He kicked the foil back at her, waiting for her to pick it up. Frustration came off her in waves as she reclaimed it and struggled to her feet, sucking in gusts of air. She jerked a hand through her hair, scraping the fallen strands back from her sweaty face.

With a warrior yell, she came at him, her swings even stronger, her precision more deadly. Again and again she jabbed and slapped her blade against him, even tearing his shirt at the shoulder. This was more like it. This was a woman on fire, damn it. He met her swing for swing, making her work for every small point.

“Getting a little angry, are we?” he said, forcing the arrogant smile he knew she hated.

“Yes,” she fairly growled, advancing again and again. Finally, she was giving it all she had. She was focused, and driven—furious as a caged lioness—and every bit as glorious as a Greek goddess of war. Her cheeks were red, her eyes flashing. Her body was all that was powerful yet graceful. He’d never seen her so passionate, and he loved it.