Unveiled (Turner, #1)

“Don’t mind me,” Richard said as he circled her husband. “I’m just trying to determine how to bring you to your knees without causing permanent damage. I shouldn’t wish to upset my sister.”


“That’s for damned certain.” Ash’s remark stirred the unspoken tension that had hung in the air since Richard’s visit—the too-polite conversations, the glances her brother cast her way. There was still a great deal left unresolved. If this went badly, it might take years before he visited again.

Margaret had a great deal of hope for the coming years—that Edmund might come around; that her own family, a mere two strong at this moment, might take root and grow.

Beside her, Mark stirred. “Don’t worry about that,” he called out. “This is how Ash makes friends—by beating you into a pulp, or getting beaten in turn.”

Ash didn’t take his eyes from Richard. “True,” he said shortly.

Circling opposite Ash, Richard seemed pale and thin. He lacked Ash’s sense of vitality, his sense of grace. Margaret wondered briefly how terrible a mistake she’d made. She didn’t want this visit to end with a hasty ride to the physician. She reached for Mark’s hand and gripped it tightly.

“So simple?” Richard asked. “Fight with you, and we’re friends? Never seemed to work before.”

Ash smiled faintly. “That’s because it will only work when you win.”

Richard’s jaw set, and he brought his fists up. Not high enough—Margaret could see that—but at least a little higher.

Ash gave him a light tap on the shoulder with his fist. “If you’re going to be my brother,” he said, “you’ll have to learn how not to embarrass yourself in a fight.”

Be gentle, love. Margaret’s hands gripped the table. They had no way of changing what had been done. All she could hope was that there was room for forgiveness in the future, room for both her families to find some semblance of peace. But if this went badly…

Richard just laughed at Ash’s pronouncement. “If you’re going to be my brother, you’ll have to learn how to handle the shame of defeat.”

“Fine words.” Ash punched him on the shoulder again, this time slightly harder. “They’d mean so much more if you could block my blows.”

“Blocking’s not my strategy,” Richard admitted, ducking another one of Ash’s fists.

Richard swiveled around to avoid another blow.

Ash turned to him once more. “Apparently, neither is hitting. You’d best conjure something up, and quickly.”

Richard feinted to his left, and seemed to contemplate this for a moment. And then he shrugged—shrugged, in the middle of a fight!—and said, “Very well.”

Before Ash could do more than narrow his eyes—before he could properly turn—Richard stepped in close and swept his foot out from underneath him. Neatly. Properly. Cleanly. And Ash went down.

She and Mark let out a joint exhale of relief.

Thank God. Their strategy had worked. Richard blinked, even more surprised than Ash must be at this turn of events. He stared at Ash on the ground before him, as if he didn’t quite understand what he’d done.

Ash sat up gingerly. “Damn,” he said. And then he looked over at Mark and Margaret, sitting next to one another. Margaret tried to school her expression into some semblance of angelic innocence. Mark did it so well—but she could not keep that naughty smile from creeping over her face.

Ash stood and then held out his arm to Richard. Slowly, her brother took that outstretched arm, clasped it tightly. And in that moment, a dark shadow in Margaret’s life flooded with light.

After they released each other’s hands, Ash looked over at her once more. But instead of shaking his head—she had set him up for this, after all—he walked towards her, smiling. And he didn’t stop until he’d folded his arms around her and pulled her to his chest—in front of both his brother and hers.

His mouth found her ear, and he gave her a gentle nibble that sent pleasure sparking through her. “Next time,” he whispered, “tell me ahead of time what you’ve taught him to do, so I know how to bait him into doing it.”

Margaret froze in his arms. “You knew?” she whispered back. “But—”

“Of course I knew.”

“But you let him—”

“I made you happy, didn’t I?” he responded smoothly. “Surely, by now, you must realize I’d do anything to make you smile.”

His arms were around her, powerful and strong. He loved her. He cared for her. And no matter what happened, he was dedicated to her. Margaret swallowed. She was the luckiest woman in the world.

“If you meet me upstairs in fifteen minutes,” she murmured, “we’ll see who makes who smile.”

His hold on her tightened, fierce and needful. “Well, my dearest love,” he finally answered, “that sounds like a challenge. I’ll have to take you up on it.”