Unveiled (Turner, #1)

In the pale moonlight, he could barely make out her clothing. She wore nothing but her shift. The fabric was thick, the darkness thicker. She might have been swathed in a thousand petticoats, for all the erotic detail he could make out in the dark of night. But his imagination didn’t need light to see her. The sound of fabric whispering against skin fired his fantasies. He could envision the length of her limbs as she walked towards him, could almost feel the rounding of her hips, fitting against his palms.

He stood up. She stopped, three feet distant, her eyes dropping to his bare chest and then widening.

“Ash. There’s something I have to tell you. It won’t wait for morning.”

“The duke,” Ash said. “He’s—”

“He’ll survive,” she said shortly.

“My brother.” A stab of pain. “He left this evening, and in the storm—”

“The storm broke hours after he left. I’m sure he found cover. It’s not about anyone else. Or—that is—not directly.”

He took a step towards her. He could see her shift ripple in the night air, forming itself briefly to her breasts before dropping away again. The palms of his hands burned. He wanted to lay them against her. Another step. She was close enough that he could make out the faint smattering of freckles across her nose. In the dark, they almost blended into the color of her skin. She was close enough for him to touch and so he reached out, winding a strand of her hair about his finger, feeling the silk of it brush over him. A tiny prelude for what was certainly to come.

Her chin rose, and she tossed her head, sliding that curl from his grasp. “Ash, listen before you touch me.”

“I can listen and touch at the same time.” He set his hand on her hip, drawing her close. Her body fit against his, curved and soft where he was hard and flat. He ducked his head and breathed in her scent—that faint hint of roses. And she relaxed against him, laying her hands against his naked chest in a gesture of possession. His skin tingled where her palms touched him. He tipped her chin up—not to kiss, not yet, but to steal her breath from her lips, to draw the vital stuff of her exhalation into his own lungs. To feel the simple luxury of her presence.

She pushed away. “Ash. This is insane, the two of us. You don’t know who my family is.”

“I know enough.” He exhaled, wanting to breathe away her uncertainty. “Do you suppose I would learn you the way a scholar learns a book? That you are nothing to me but a collection of suppositions, to be stored in my memory and written down for verification? No, Margaret. I know you.”

He let his hand slip to her waist, to the curve of her hip, slim and smooth, and he drew her back to him. He was half-naked already, but she made no protest. The feel of her body against his was as invigorating as slipping into a hot bath. His blood took up an insistent pounding in his ears. Lower down, he felt a persistent ache, sharp and sweet, a keen wanting.

“I know you the way I’ve learned everything.” His lips brushed her collarbone. “I know your taste. I know your scent. I know the shape of you in my hands. I know the flash of your eyes when you’re angry, and the melody of your laughter. Don’t tell me I don’t know you. You’re a woman.” His voice dropped. “And you’re mine.”

She swallowed. “But I—”

He cut her off, pressing his lips to hers. Her hands clamped around his arms. He kissed her as if he could excise her doubts, as if he could sweep them away with tongue and teeth. If only he kissed her thoroughly enough…

She pulled away. “You don’t even know my full name.”

Before she could speak, he caught her face in his hands. “As it happens, I’ve never told you my real first name. Do you think that a little thing like an appellation matters between us? You are not some creature to be placed in a little box and labeled for a museum. I don’t fret, just because I haven’t acquired the proper label for you.”

“But my mother—”

“My mother was insane. That doesn’t change who I am.”

“But—”

He looked at her. “Margaret, did you come here in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a scrap of fabric, hoping that I would cast you aside because I didn’t know you? Truly?”

She paused, her lips pressing together. Her eyes seemed to glisten in the moonlight. And then she looked up at him, her gaze heated. “No,” she said. She took a deep breath and then nodded. “I suppose…I suppose I came here hoping for you. For all of you. But, Ash—”

“No more excuses.” His lips found hers. She was his, all his. And if she thought that he might shrink from anything she might tell him, nothing remained but to convince her that he would never leave. He leaned forwards, pulling her into his embrace. He could smell her skin against him, could taste her against his lips. He flicked out his tongue, to brush against her neck.