Unveiled (Turner, #1)

“I was ready to do so,” Smite said slowly. “I came here, convinced I’d have to wrestle him into facing the truth. But Mark has dissuaded me. No, you’ll have to tell him yourself.”


Margaret stared at him. “Why…why would you allow me to do that?”

It was Mark who finally spoke. “Because it will cause him less pain to hear it freely offered from you than to have the truth come from us.”

“You’ll tell him by tomorrow morning,” Smite said firmly. “Because according to Mark, he cares for you. And my brother deserves to have the truth from the woman he cares about.” He stared at her, his gaze as implacable as hers had been earlier. Mark, next to him, looked no less sober. Together, they formed a solid wall of grim male intention. It almost warmed her heart, to know that they cared for him this much.

Still, she put one hand on her hip. “If you don’t want him hurt,” she said to the elder Turner, “perhaps once—just once—you might let him do something for you. He hates that you take nothing from him.”

His chin rose. His nostrils flared. But if he’d heard what she said, he did not show it. Instead, he fixed his unblinking gaze on her. “Tell him. I’ll give you one day.”





CHAPTER FOURTEEN




THE HOURS BEFORE dinner dragged. Ash attempted to focus during a series of meetings with his men. The words they spoke, however, barely intruded into his consciousness. He wasn’t even sure he heard his responses to their queries. His mind was elsewhere—on his brothers.

When one of his men slid a stack of papers towards him, he simply stared at it.

“What is this?” he asked quietly.

Across the table from him, Strong grimaced. Cottry, who had handed him the papers, looked up uneasily. “An accounting of the expenses estimated for refurbishing the Lily.” Ash glanced down. The pages were mostly numbers—and numbers, unlike words, had always made sense to him. But still, there was enough text that following it would be difficult. And besides, it was the principle of the thing.

“Sir,” Strong continued, “I know you don’t like reports, but there are so many little details, all of which you must be conversant with, if you are to make an informed decision. So if you’ll just turn to page two—”

Ash shook his head.

Books had worked for his brothers. They could have simply read what Strong presented to them and been able to engage him in a discussion of endless minutiae. For them, there was no difference between actual knowledge and this written facsimile thereof. But Ash had never had the trick of learning from words. He lacked whatever magic happened behind most people’s eyes, the miracle that transmuted ink into understanding. Words were just words. He couldn’t read about agriculture and have it come to life in his mind. Until he felt the soil between his fingers, until he watched plants poke green spears through rich mulch, he would never understand farming.

He sighed and pushed the papers back across the desk. “No, Cottry.”

“But, sir—”

“No buts. No excuses. My mind simply doesn’t work on paper.” It was as close as he’d come to ever admitting the truth to anyone, besides Margaret. “It works on things—people, ships, jewels. Tangible items. I want to be able to put my hands on something, look it in the eye.”

Cottry exhaled in frustration. “Sir. Lily is a ship. She doesn’t have eyes.”

Ash stood up and beckoned the man closer. Cottry swallowed and leaned in his direction. Ash looked at him. He was an intelligent fellow. This wasn’t about Ash’s supposed refusal to read documents. No—this was something he went through with all his men at some point. They huddled in the nest like little fledglings, beaks open wide to receive what scant nourishment he might deliver.

“Cottry,” Ash said, with a weary shake of his head, “I own an entire fleet of vessels. I have holdings in four countries and warehouses in seven ports. I haven’t the time to sort through maintenance records, even if I had the inclination.” Or the ability.

Cottry swallowed.

“You’re afraid,” Ash said. It didn’t require much intelligence to make that out. He’d seen it too many times before to miss the telltale signs. “You’re afraid you’ve made a mistake, and that if it goes unchecked, something will go dreadfully wrong. And so you want me to look everything over. Well. I am not a balustrade, erected at the edge of a cliff to keep you from tumbling over. I am not your governess, tasked to keep you safe. I am your employer.”

Cottry nodded.

“I hired you,” Ash said, “because I knew you could make these decisions on your own.”

Cottry inhaled. He looked a faint plea at Ash.

“The first time’s the worst,” Ash said cheerily. “Make the decision on your own—tell me about it—and afterwards, if you need to vomit, please try to make your way to the chamberpot first.”

“Sir.” Cottry sounded strangled.

“It’s a ship, man, not a battle plan. If you are in error, I’ll only lose money. Use your best judgment.” He leaned forwards and looked the man in the eyes. “I know it’s good.”