Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“You’re going tomorrow, are you not?”


He shut his eyes. He hadn’t been back to Shepton Mallet since he and Mark had escaped, all those years ago. It had been decades, now, and still he felt that cold chill creep over him.

“Tomorrow,” he said more to himself than to her, “it can’t be helped. What can’t be helped must be tolerated.”

He didn’t know whether seeing Miranda in his childhood home would make the place bearable, or if it would taint his memories of her forever.

“That hardly sounds auspicious,” she said. “And you’re doing it for me. I might almost think that you tolerated me, too.” She was looking directly in his eyes as she spoke.

“Would you know,” he finally said, “I’ve hit the end of my sentimentality quota for the day.”

“How can that be? That’s the first remotely sentimental thing I’ve said tonight.”

“Yes, but…” But he’d been wallowing in sentiment all evening. “I’ve spent the last minutes memorizing you,” he finally said. He didn’t think that memory could capture the bright color of her hair, though, or the intelligent light in her eyes. Memory would never quite capture the luminous look she’d given him on the carriage ride home after the opera. Even a memory as clear as his couldn’t call back the precise feel of her seated next to him, or the texture of her fingers against his. And he never could recall scents once they’d gone.

He folded his arms and set aside the inevitability of the future. There was only the present. In the present, Miranda was here. Solid. Touchable. He held her close, breathing her in. She smelled like mint tea—sweet and cool. Calming.

He wouldn’t be able to hold the feel of her in his memory after she’d gone. Still, he could try.



SMITE HADN’T THOUGHT THROUGH what would happen when he arrived on his brother’s doorstep after a lengthy journey. His brother must have seen him arrive from the upstairs window, because instead of waiting for him to be announced like a rational human being, Mark crashed through the door, his face utterly white. He grabbed hold of Smite’s arms before he’d had a chance to properly step down from the phaeton.

“Oh, God,” Mark said in urgent tones. “It’s Ash, isn’t it?”

“What about Ash?”

Mark shook him. “What’s wrong with Ash? Why are you here?”

Smite stared at his brother in confusion. His brother’s fingers gripped his arms all the more tightly. His blond hair seemed wild on the top of his head. His bare hands were stained in ink.

In fact, he’d smeared ink on Smite’s cuff.

It was easier to concentrate on his younger brother than to pay attention to his surroundings. Behind him, he could see the entryway of his childhood home. The door was clean and new, painted a bright blue in color. Mark had replaced the older front windows with clear, smooth glass, so that the entry shone with sunlight. It wasn’t the same house, he told himself.

But beneath the fading scent of the lavender that had been planted by the front entry, the house smelled the same. There was something about that peculiar combination of wood and stone that brought to mind old memories—as if the unquiet ghost of his mother still lingered.

“What the devil are you talking about?” he finally asked. “Nothing’s wrong with Ash. He was the picture of health, last I saw him.”

Mark let out a deep breath. He let go of Smite, but only long enough to punch his shoulder. “What were you thinking, scaring me like that? You never come here. Why else would you come, except to bear—oh.”

His gaze shifted behind Smite, landing on Robbie, who had climbed out of the hired phaeton.

“Oh,” he repeated, more stupidly this time. “I’d best get Jessica.”

Smite reached out and grabbed Mark’s cuff. “Wait.”

Miranda followed Robbie out of the conveyance. She adjusted the dark brown fabric of her traveling gown, and then glanced at Mark.

“You’ll never understand this,” Smite said his voice low, pitched for Mark’s ears only. “And you’ll never see the two of us together again. I want to introduce you.”

Mark gave Smite a long, measuring look, and then walked forward to greet his guests.

“Robbie Barnstable,” Smite said. “This is Sir Mark Turner.”

Robbie looked up at Mark. “He didn’t say you were a sir.”

“Just call me Mark. I was knighted a handful of years past. I keep hoping everyone will forget it, but alas.”

Smite drew a deep breath. “And Miss Miranda Darling. This is my brother. Mark, this is…” He paused, not knowing how to go forward. He didn’t think Mark would be shocked if he introduced her as his mistress. Still…

Mark solved the dilemma of his introduction by taking Miranda’s hand and shaking it. “I’m delighted to meet you,” he said.