Unveiled (Turner, #1)

Ash’s jaw set. “You don’t think I would actually do him harm.”


Margaret put her hands on her hips. “No. Of course not. But if you imagine I’ll let anyone say you did, you’ve gone mad. And so not another step. If you don’t come into the room, I can attest that you didn’t come within ten yards.”

“What difference could your testimony make? You and I—” he glanced urgently at the other servants in the room “—we’re friends.” His voice was low. “The Dalrymples will never believe you, not when they learn the truth of our relationship.”

“They’ll believe me.” Her jaw set. “Trust me. They’ll believe. Stay there, Ash.” Her father stopped babbling, his voice trailing off into nothing. The duke didn’t move—which frightened her even more than his nonsense words had done. She reached for his wrist again, and was gratified when she still found a steady pulse. The fingers of his hand contracted.

And then: “Anna?” he said. His voice was quiet. “Anna, where are you?”

“I’m here.” Margaret took his hand and held it. There was nothing else for her to do, nothing but to offer this scant comfort.

From his vantage point against the wall, Ash spoke. “Why is he calling you Anna?”

Tell him. Tell him now. But this wasn’t the time for it, not now, not when all of her strength needed to be concentrated on her father.

“He thinks I’m his daughter.” Margaret held her father’s hand in hers. “Or, perhaps his wife.”

“Anna,” her father said. “Don’t leave me.”

Perhaps this was what she’d waited for, all these weeks. Margaret bowed her head and sank into the chair beside the bed. Somewhere, somewhere inside this demanding stranger who had taken her father’s place, there was someone who still remembered her. Someone who still took comfort from her presence. The man he’d once been hadn’t disappeared entirely.

She held on to his hand, afraid to squeeze for fear that her father would disappear before she had a chance to greet him again. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, with the rain beating against the window pane. Long enough that the servants came and went; long enough that his forehead grew hotter, that she soaked a towel in ice water, over and over, in an attempt to cool him. Long enough that the useless herbs she’d ordered steeped in the brazier and released their wild scent into the air.

Through it all, Ash stayed in the room, leaning against the entryway, watching her. He’d made no effort to come any closer. But then, he hadn’t gone away, either. No doubt he had things to do—far more important things than watching her pray for his bitterest enemy.

From behind him, Josephs pushed past him in the doorway, dripping water. He’d obviously just returned from his errand.

“Thank God, Josephs. Where is the physician?”

She saw the despair in the man’s eyes before he shook his head briefly. “He’s off in Witcombe, my lady, twelve miles distant. Attending a birth, his housekeeper says. No doubt with the storm, he’ll spend the night. No point risking his horse returning in this weather.”

Behind Josephs, Ash pushed off from the wall. “Lower Odcombe has a physician.”

“Yes, sir, but Lower Odcombe is seven miles away. And with the rain and it being night and all…” Joseph trailed off, eyeing Ash uncertainly.

But Ash wasn’t even looking at the man. He was watching Margaret.

“You care.” His words had the ring of steel. “For whatever reason.”

She had to tell him. “Ash, I—”

He cut her off with a jerk of his head. “Then I’m going.” He sketched her a little bow, and before she could do more than gaze after him in confused wonder, he slipped out the door.

The duke stayed silent as the candles flickered in darkness. His spirit seemed to withdraw into his body, and the silence grew. He seemed almost corpse-like beside her. He was pale and thin, lying in the bedclothes.

She’d wondered what she thought of her father before. Now she knew. She hated what he’d done, wished he’d not retreated into arrogant incivility in his illness. She didn’t understand who he’d become these past months. But as confusing and heartrending as the present was, she loved the man he’d once been. And she didn’t want to believe he wasn’t coming back.



THE PHYSICIAN ARRIVED a few hours later. He entered the room alone. Even though his collar was still damp from the journey, he set down his medical bag, removed his dark gloves and set to work.

Without glancing at Margaret, he came forwards. He checked her father’s eyes, prodded his wrist and his abdomen. Then he placed one end of a wooden cylinder against her father’s chest and set his ear against the other.

Margaret waited patiently until he straightened.

“He’s not in a coma,” the physician said. “That’s good. I’m Dr. Ardmore.”