Unveiled (Turner, #1)

It was grief, almost crushing. She wanted her mother back. Instead, she’d gotten…him.

He still hadn’t said a word to her. He didn’t criticize; he didn’t bellow in protest. She couldn’t make out his eyes, but she could imagine him watching her in the dark. Those eyes would be cold and calculating.

Perhaps he was trying to figure out how to best use this moment to his advantage. He’d shown her respect before. No doubt in the morning, that would disappear. She had no idea what would take its place.

Finally, he raised one finger to tap his forehead, as if miming a gentlemanly tip of the hat. And he turned and left her alone, just as he’d done on that dusty road more than a week before.

The gesture had to have been meant sarcastically.

If she knew anything about men, she knew she would eventually pay the price for her foolish, unthinking reaction. A man as ruthless as he was would find a way to use her lapse to his advantage, to turn that single instance of violence into a repeated threat which he might hold over her head. Margaret’s hands were shaking in the dirt. She felt on the verge of a fever. Still, she raised her chin and went back to her work—filling the pot with soil, patting it around the cutting, carefully continuing the work she had started.

Tonight, she had a new rose to plant. Payment could wait.



PAYMENT WAITED A SCANT fifteen minutes.

Margaret finished filling the pot with dirt and reached for the cutting. A thorn pricked her thumb as she pulled the slender branch from the water, but she had traveled beyond pain and into numbness now. She patted it into place and gently arranged the soil around the stem.

The door opened again. Soft footfalls again—his, no doubt. A little shiver went down her spine, but she straightened her back. So he wasn’t going to wait for morning to show her the ruthless side of his personality. No more benevolent, tolerant employer; no more sweet words whispered about her strength, her magnificence.

Margaret had few illusions about what would happen next. A man could put on any airs he wished when he had the desire to please. But strike a man in the middle of the chest after midnight, and all his cruelest impulses would come out. All she knew was that she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of weeping.

Now she would discover what sort of man Mr. Ash Turner really was. She could not bring herself to look up and meet his eyes. He crossed the room until he stood over her. In the night, he cast no shadows, but she could feel the darkness of him anyway, looming over her. She could feel the heat of his presence, as if he were a piece of solid iron recently removed from a blacksmith’s fire. She concentrated on the dirt in the pot, patting it unnecessarily into place. Her skin prickled under his gaze; the hint of some sweet thing tickled her nose.

The gentle clop of clay set upon wood sounded. She blinked and looked up—not to his face, but to the surface of the table. He’d placed a cup on the bench before her. She stared at it, at his fingers on the handle. Fine hairs sprouted from the back of his wrist. His fingers seemed strong and capable. Fragrant steam rose from the vessel.

Of all the ways she had imagined him taking revenge, this had not appeared on any of her lists.

Her gaze traveled up his waist, his chest. He’d changed his shirt, thank God; she wouldn’t have to stare at a splotch of dirt marring his linen. Finally she met his eyes. “What is that?”

He pushed the mug towards her. “A toddy of steamed milk, honey and nutmeg. A jigger of rum, for good measure.”

“You woke the cook for this?”

“Mrs. Lorens? God, no. I can warm a little milk on the range myself.”

His arm returned to his side. Those hands could have been overpowering. Almost frightening in their strength, as ruthless as he was. She’d never thought before how gently he used them.

She swallowed.

“It’s a remedy for sleeplessness,” he continued. “I used to make it for my brothers when I found them up and about at night.”

He spoke casually, as if the nocturnal lobbing of soil was a regular occurrence in the Turner household, one usually met with hot drinks and a comfortable discussion. She could almost see him, puttering by the cast-iron heating plates.

“And did you often find your brothers wandering about at night?”

His eyes glinted at her. “In the first few months when I was back from India? I found them living on the streets, you know. They’d almost forgotten how to sleep.”

“On the streets? A duke’s cousins? That can’t be correct.”

“Sixth cousins, twice removed. And while I am correct, it certainly was not right. Parford didn’t care.” He spat those words out.

It took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t angry at her. This wasn’t some form of complicated revenge. She couldn’t yet think what to say.