Unveiled (Turner, #1)

And now she could see it. She stepped forwards without thinking, her breath hissing out. “Oh, no.” Her thumb found his jaw; it was harsh with a day’s worth of stubble. And the skin beneath those coarse, rasping hairs was discolored. She lightly ran her fingers over that bruise. “Did I do that?”


She raised her eyes to his and only then realized how close she stood to him. Inches away. She was up on her tiptoes, caressing his face. She could smell his subtle musk—masculine and earthy, with a tang of bergamot. She could feel the heat of him against her fingertips. She should step away. Her breath was burning in her lungs, her lips tingling under his appraisal. Her whole body was coming to life, this close to his. Her breasts tightened, her thighs tensed and that bud between her legs warmed.

“Yes, Margaret.” He drew out the syllables, converting her name from a mere appellation into a verbal caress. “You did.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t intend—”

“Oh, no apology needed. I’ve found it a most useful decoration. Would you know, it has actually driven one particularly lovely woman to touch my cheek?”

Her hand stopped on his chin, where she’d been tracing an unconscious circle. “You’re putting a good face on it. But—”

“None of that, now. It’s as I told you—this is how men make friends. If you know what drives a man to anger, you know him.”

She shook her head. She still hadn’t moved her fingers from his skin. She wasn’t sure she wanted to. “That can’t be rational.” Even less rational was the fact that she was still staring into his eyes.

“We are speaking of men, are we not? Most of us are base creatures, little more than bundles of animal instinct. Friendship is one of our least rational responses.”

As close as he was, he’d made no move to touch her. Another man who’d shown half of Ash’s interest would have closed his arms about her by now and assaulted her lips. But despite the husk in his voice, he didn’t strain towards her.

Her fingers still rested against his skin.

“Friends?” Margaret said. “Is that how you think of me?” She pulled her hand away, and lowered herself down from the tips of her toes.

He followed her down that inch and a half, canting his head over hers. A light sparkled in his eyes. “I spoke only by way of analogy. When I think of you, I want nothing so pale as friendship. I want more. I want decidedly more.”

He was going to kiss her. She could feel it in the greedy hunger of her lips, tilting up to his. She could feel it in the clamorous beat of her heart, yearning for that completion.

“I lied to you that first evening we spoke.” His breath felt like little brushes of butterfly wings against her lips, sweet and tremulous.

“Oh?”

His voice had gone deep, so deep it seemed to reverberate in her bones. His finger reached up to trace her mouth. “I do want to take that kiss.”

Her heart stopped. Her lips parted. She felt a flush rise through her—and still he didn’t press his lips to hers. Instead, he exhaled and she drank in his scent, sweet and warm.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“But—” he said, and it seemed an unfair word, that but “—I want you to give me one more.”

It would have been easy to shut her eyes and let him kiss her. To have the choice taken from her in one heated, passive moment, with nothing for her to do but comply. But he was asking for more than her artless submission. Not deference, not docility, but…defiance.

“I want you to choose me,” he said, “well and truly choose me of your own accord. I don’t want you to wait at the crossroads in the hopes that I will force the choice upon you.”

What he wanted was more perilous than a kiss, more fraught with danger even than letting him slide his hands down her aching body.

“And why must I be the one deciding?”

“Because I decided upon you more than a week ago.”

At those words, she drew back. He didn’t look as if he were joking. In fact, he seemed almost solemn in that declaration. Still, his words jarred her back to reality. They weren’t sweethearts, exchanging promises. They were not lord and lady, agreeing to court. He believed she was a servant, and Ash Turner was a wealthy, handsome duke’s heir.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t tell me falsehoods. You’ve treated me like this since—”

“Since the first time I laid eyes on you?” His words came out on a growl. “There’s not much to me but animal instinct. Don’t look to me for a logical discourse on your charms. I like the set of your chin. I like the way your eyes beckon me to follow you down dark, forested paths. I like that I can’t bend you to my will—that you’ll send me to the devil if you think I’m in the wrong.” She wanted to be wrong, wanted to believe that he proposed more than a simple joining of bodies. But one didn’t decide such a thing the instant one clapped eyes on another person.

“You know almost nothing about me.” Not even her name.

“I don’t need to line up a collection of facts to understand how magnificent you are. I’m not wrong. I’m never wrong. Not about this.”