Unveiled (20 page)

 

T
HE 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.”

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.

T
HE 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.

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.

She let out a shaky exhale, and then her hands rose to clasp his shoulders in agreement.

“I know you,” he whispered against her. “Sweet as summer, and every bit as welcome.” He kissed her again and felt her body relax into his. This, they had done before. It should have been familiar. And yet the knowledge of what could yet come kept Ash on edge. It made even this simple embrace mysterious, and her kiss new all over again. He ran his finger, gently, down the smocked front of her shift. He could feel the fine needlework against his fingertips. Idly, he wondered if she had done that herself—those precise stitches.

It didn't matter. Beneath those stitches lay the naked curve of her—her breast lay full in his hand, the taut nipple brushing against his palm. She shivered at that hint of a touch. And he could hold back no longer.

He leaned down and took that tip in his mouth. He tasted her through the fabric of her garment. He swirled his tongue around that tight bud. Her hands clutched him tighter. He heard himself growl in his throat, a happy sound of possession. It seemed a pale echo of the resonant thrum of his blood, pumping through him in insistent want.

“Ash,” she was panting,
“Ash.”
He could feel her breath against his scalp, her hands brushing down his bare back to find the waist of his loose trousers.

Oh, God. She fumbled with buttons—he couldn't breathe—and then she pushed the fabric down. Her fingers brushed his bare hips. He felt the low scrape of her nails against his thighs. He drew breath in as her exploration continued. That first delicate touch of her fingers against his groin, the sensitive flesh of his member, nearly unmanned him. She drew breath in, and then her hands clasped around him, touching him, warming the hard length of him.

She was the one to lift her head. To raise one hand and push him towards the bed.

And as much as he wanted to sink inside her, he'd not intended to take matters quite that far. “I promised Mrs. Benedict I wouldn't debauch you.”

“I made a promise, too.” Her voice shook. “But if this is how you must know me—then I want you to understand. Before I tell you. If you can't debauch me, let
me
debauch
you.
”

Something was terribly wrong with that logic, something that would occur to him, if he gave it but a moment's thought. Good thing Ash wasn't a philosopher.

He needed no further encouragement; no sooner did he feel her hand on his chest, urging him backward,
than he scooped her up and whirled her around in his arms, turning her about until they were both dizzy, and there was nothing to do but let her fall crazily on the feather tick of the mattress. She laughed up at him, her limbs splayed out, her breath wild. The moon caught the curve of her bare ankle.

Before he could move forwards, she pushed herself to sit up and reached for the hem of her shift. His erection pulsed insistently in response. His lungs burned. In one slow, deliberate motion, she peeled off that scrap of linen, revealing hips, high and curved; the dark triangle between her legs; navel, up past smooth ribs, to the perfect swell of her breast and the dark rose of her nipples. His mouth dried.

She crooked her finger at him and he drifted forwards to kneel on the floor in front of her.

“Ash, what are you doing?”

He grinned at her wickedly. “Making sure you aren't bored.” He hooked his hands under her knees and pulled her forwards, settling between her legs. Then he leaned to kiss her calves, up her inner thighs. The folds of her sex parted under his exploration. He kissed her
there,
the inner center of her.

“Ash?”

He took the ripple of her muscles as encouragement. Another kiss, this time with tongue, exploring the folds of her sex.

She was wet for him; he could taste her desire, sweet and reminiscent of some fine, complicated wine. He took her with his mouth, tasting her.

“This is what I want to know about you,” he whispered.

He tasted her there, and her hands squeezed his arms;
there,
and her hips thrust towards him. He circled
his tongue, found the nub at the center of her pleasure, and she let out a helpless mewl.

“This is what I need. To understand the map of your body. To explore your every last secret.”

Biblically, the word for making love was to
know.
It had always seemed a hopelessly effete euphemism to Ash until now. Her taste on his lips was knowledge. He took her harder, pushing her, coaxing her with his tongue. The curve of her body around his, the tension in her muscles, the grip of her fingers—they were all knowledge, deeper and harder than anything he had ever understood before. Her body stiffened. He felt heat well up around her, felt the strength of her release against his lips.

And he
knew
her.

“Oh, God,” she said, her voice indistinct above him. “Oh, Ash. Ash. Ash.” Her hands clutched his shoulders, hard. He felt as if he were on a boat, rocked by an enormous swell of the ocean. He felt a little dazed. He could hear her breath, hard and thready.

He pushed himself up and leaned over her.

“Ash,” she said, looking into his eyes, “you are a magnificent creature.”

His blood rang in his ears. She sounded languid, satisfied, and he felt a fierce sense of possessive pride. “You should enjoy this,” he growled out, “this and many others like it. I'm not done.”

He spread her knees wider. He felt, rather than heard, her exhale as he placed the head of his penis against her opening. Hot. Liquid. Everything real and desirable. His hands shook where they clenched the coverlet, with the effort of his restraint. He could almost taste her surprised gasp as he rubbed the head in her juices. Her body welcomed his; he could feel it from head to
toe, from the way her breasts brushed against his chest to the small thrust of her hips. That tiny movement was enough to slip the very tip of him inside her.

God, it felt good when her flesh closed about him—better than anything he'd ever known. Fantastic. Excruciating.

He pulled back only to push forwards, farther. More. Better. She was tight around him, but not too tight. She opened her eyes and watched him, as if she were memorizing this moment. As if he might imprint on her bones.

And then she said the most ridiculous thing. “Don't forget me, Ash. Not ever.” Her voice was a whisper against his skin.

He shut his eyes, letting the pure pleasure of their joining wash over him. “As if I could. You know I can't. You know I won't. You know me.”

She didn't answer, not in words. But she drew him down.

He pushed all the way in, until he felt her pelvis against his, her legs coming to wrap around his. It was all he could do to hold back, to refrain from pounding the rising tide of want into her. She pulsed around him, quietly, rhythmically. He might have spent himself then.

He gritted his teeth and didn't.

Instead, he began to stroke into her—slowly, gently, at first; then, as she met him, harder, faster, until he couldn't tell where his pleasure left off and hers began. Until she gasped again, and he felt her clench about him, squeezing his cock as she came.