Unveiled (Turner, #1)

Margaret felt suddenly weak. The hours of waiting washed over her, leaving only exhaustion behind.

“From Mr. Turner’s description, he’s had an apoplectic fit. The effects are varied. They might last a day. They might never be alleviated.” The man shook his head. “Nonetheless, you’ve done well to cool his head. It’s one of the first steps in treatment. You must be Miss Lowell.”

“Actually, I—”

“No matter. There are things to be done. He’ll need to be purged of the ill humor. If you’ll assist, I’ve brought a preparation of croton oil. You’ve experience, I assume, with introduction of such into the stomach. You’ll find what you need in my bag. In the meantime, I must bleed him.”

The man turned away, leaving Margaret to stare blankly at his black bag. She opened it and peered inside. A profusion of clamps and awls and saws stared back at her.

“Um.”

“The gum tube,” the doctor called impatiently from the bedside. “And mucilage—or gruel. Good God. I know you’re young, but haven’t you any training at all?”

There was no space left to dissemble. “I’m not a nurse. I’m His Grace’s daughter.”

His eyebrows drew down and he scrubbed his balding head. “How odd. I was led to believe—well.” He shook his head, too tired to engage in the requisite social niceties. “Damn.”

“I can still help,” she said. “If you tell me what to do.”

He didn’t protest. “You’ll have to, then.”

It had been the first time in a long while that she’d identified herself as Lady Anna Margaret. It was almost soothing to have the truth brushed callously to one side, to be treated instead as another set of hands—competent hands, not soft, incapable ones. It was too late at night for etiquette and formality.

He gave her more specific instructions, and after they’d fed her father the mixture, he sent her off to rest. But when she’d left the room for the dark of the gallery, rest seemed impossible. Tired as she was, she could not sleep. Not yet.

Surely if Mark knew what had happened to her father, he would grant her a reprieve. He would let her wait a little while longer to tell Ash the truth. But his brothers had been right about one thing. Whatever she was to Ash, after what he’d done for her—setting off into a storm, traveling miles and miles so that she might have a little peace—he didn’t deserve her silence. Not for one moment longer.

She had one last task for the evening, and at this point, she was too weary to dread it any longer.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN




THE NIGHT WAS VERY DARK. Ash should have been in bed, but instead, he was awake in his chambers, staring at the embers of a fire. He’d shucked off his wet clothes, and wore nothing but a loose pair of trousers.

If, two months ago, someone had told Ash he would have spent hours in the frigid rain, fetching a physician to save Parford’s measly hide…

He’d have believed it, but only because kindness made a revenge of its own. But he had only to remember the bleak expression in Margaret’s eyes when she had looked at him to understand why he had gone. Not as proof that he was the better man; not as some stilted vengeance wrought upon a long-ago foe. He’d gone so he could vanquish the darkness from her eyes.

There had been something about her that evening—something harsh and strong. She’d assumed command perfectly, without even faltering at the notion of issuing orders to Mrs. Benedict. She’d even ordered about Ash himself. She’d been as strong and as capable as a queen.

That was the woman he wanted. He wanted that fierce loyalty for his own. He wanted to possess the commanding set of her brow, to smooth the worry from her face. He also wanted her relieved of her weary burdens, but that would come soon. He could taste that future, sweet on his tongue.

He almost wished he’d retained that master key. He’d wished, weeks ago, that he hadn’t made Mrs. Benedict that promise. He certainly wished that his damned courier would arrive from London, with the requisite paperwork in hand. He was tired of holding back.

As if that wish had somehow been granted by a blessedly benevolent world, he heard the lock scrape behind him. He sat up straight in his chair, his breath catching in his throat. There was only one person who had a key to this room besides Ash himself. She fumbled with the lock—no doubt it was dark—and then swung the door open. He’d dreamed of this for so many nights, but he’d never believed it would actually happen. Margaret padded into his room.