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And then he took a step towards her.
It happened so fast that Margaret wasn’t even sure where the impulse came from. But before the thought had a chance to form in her head, she acted. “Go away,” she hissed fiercely. “Get out. Get out now.” As she spoke, she pulled her hand back, swiftly, and hurled one of the clods of dirt she was holding directly at him. It flew through the air—suddenly everything seemed so slow—she wished she could grab back that violent, raging impulse, but it was already too late.
The clod smacked into his chest with a sick sound, like an axe splitting a pumpkin. In the light of the moon spilling through the glass, she could see clumps of dirt clinging to the luminous white of his shirt. His mouth opened slightly, in shocked betrayal. She felt just as stunned as he looked.
Oh, no. She hadn’t really thrown it. She couldn’t have done.
But she had. Ever so slowly, he raised one hand to brush particles from his eyes.
She was panting, her fist clenched around the other clod of dirt. The rage had slipped from her grasp, leaving her with only the cold certainty of what she had just done.
It wasn’t his fault that her father had been a bigamist. It wasn’t his fault her mother had been ill. It wasn’t even his fault, really, that she was a bastard and her mother—her kind, gentle, graceful mother—had been made an adulteress. It wasn’t his fault that she was so dreadfully alone, that her future seemed so dreary. It wasn’t his fault.
It just felt as if it was.
He stood stock-still, as if she had turned him to stone when she struck him with that bit of soil.
What had she come to? How must this appear to him? She was wandering about the house—at night—in her shift and stockings, wielding a trowel and trying to find, hidden in this pot of dirt, a woman who had been buried in the churchyard months ago. He must suppose she teetered on the very brink of madness.
Not so far off, that. Deep inside her, for the first time in months, a knot dissolved and a well of emotion breached her rigid walls. It hit her with all the force of floodwaters, and it was only her determination not to cry in front of this man that kept her from being submerged by the power of the riptide. With that undercurrent of hot anger gone from her, she could understand what the feeling was that pressed against her chest.
It was grief, almost crushing. She wanted her mother back. Instead, she’d gotten…him.
He still hadn’t said a word to her. He didn’t criticize; he didn’t bellow in protest. She couldn’t make out his eyes, but she could imagine him watching her in the dark. Those eyes would be cold and calculating.
Perhaps he was trying to figure out how to best use this moment to his advantage. He’d shown her respect before. No doubt in the morning, that would disappear. She had no idea what would take its place.
Finally, he raised one finger to tap his forehead, as if miming a gentlemanly tip of the hat. And he turned and left her alone, just as he’d done on that dusty road more than a week before.
The gesture had to have been meant sarcastically.
If she knew anything about men, she knew she would eventually pay the price for her foolish, unthinking reaction. A man as ruthless as he was would find a way to use her lapse to his advantage, to turn that single instance of violence into a repeated threat which he might hold over her head. Margaret’s hands were shaking in the dirt. She felt on the verge of a fever. Still, she raised her chin and went back to her work—filling the pot with soil, patting it around the cutting, carefully continuing the work she had started.
Tonight, she had a new rose to plant. Payment could wait.
PAYMENT WAITED A SCANT fifteen minutes.
Margaret finished filling the pot with dirt and reached for the cutting. A thorn pricked her thumb as she pulled the slender branch from the water, but she had traveled beyond pain and into numbness now. She patted it into place and gently arranged the soil around the stem.
The door opened again. Soft footfalls again—his, no doubt. A little shiver went down her spine, but she straightened her back. So he wasn’t going to wait for morning to show her the ruthless side of his personality. No more benevolent, tolerant employer; no more sweet words whispered about her strength, her magnificence.
Margaret had few illusions about what would happen next. A man could put on any airs he wished when he had the desire to please. But strike a man in the middle of the chest after midnight, and all his cruelest impulses would come out. All she knew was that she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of weeping.
Now she would discover what sort of man Mr. Ash Turner really was. She could not bring herself to look up and meet his eyes. He crossed the room until he stood over her. In the night, he cast no shadows, but she could feel the darkness of him anyway, looming over her. She could feel the heat of his presence, as if he were a piece of solid iron recently removed from a blacksmith’s fire. She concentrated on the dirt in the pot, patting it unnecessarily into place. Her skin prickled under his gaze; the hint of some sweet thing tickled her nose.
The gentle clop of clay set upon wood sounded. She blinked and looked up—not to his face, but to the surface of the table. He’d placed a cup on the bench before her. She stared at it, at his fingers on the handle. Fine hairs sprouted from the back of his wrist. His fingers seemed strong and capable. Fragrant steam rose from the vessel.
Of all the ways she had imagined him taking revenge, this had not appeared on any of her lists.
Her gaze traveled up his waist, his chest. He’d changed his shirt, thank God; she wouldn’t have to stare at a splotch of dirt marring his linen. Finally she met his eyes. “What is that?”
He pushed the mug towards her. “A toddy of steamed milk, honey and nutmeg. A jigger of rum, for good measure.”
“You woke the cook for this?”
“Mrs. Lorens? God, no. I can warm a little milk on the range myself.”
His arm returned to his side. Those hands could have been overpowering. Almost frightening in their strength, as ruthless as he was. She’d never thought before how gently he used them.
She swallowed.
“It’s a remedy for sleeplessness,” he continued. “I used to make it for my brothers when I found them up and about at night.”
He spoke casually, as if the nocturnal lobbing of soil was a regular occurrence in the Turner household, one usually met with hot drinks and a comfortable discussion. She could almost see him, puttering by the cast-iron heating plates.
“And did you often find your brothers wandering about at night?”
His eyes glinted at her. “In the first few months when I was back from India? I found them living on the streets, you know. They’d almost forgotten how to sleep.”
“On the streets? A duke’s cousins? That can’t be correct.”
“Sixth cousins, twice removed. And while I am correct, it certainly was not right. Parford didn’t care.” He spat those words out.
It took her a moment to realize that he wasn’t angry at her. This wasn’t some form of complicated revenge. She couldn’t yet think what to say.
He shook his head. “Speaking of whom, I’ll have someone look in on the duke in the early morning. Sleep late. You’ll need it.”
She looked up at him, but he was already turning away, as if dukes’ heirs had nothing better to do than to deliver hot drinks to their dependents and tell them to sleep past the morning bells.
“Mr. Turner. You do realize I’m a servant, don’t you?”
He cast a tolerant glance over his shoulder. “I was one, too. Before I made my fortune. If I lost it all, I’d be one again. This notion of class that we English hold to—it’s an interesting delusion. You don’t have to be a servant, Miss Lowell, just because you were born as one.”
She shook her head blankly.
“I crossed three oceans in a cramped hammock hung in the bilge, utterly besieged by rats. And yet here I am now. What does that tell you?”
“That you were quite, quite lucky?”
>
He smiled again, this time with a little shake of his head that indicated he knew what she’d not said. She couldn’t have missed that aura of confidence he radiated. The air around him was simply more invigorating. Mr. Turner wasn’t lucky. He was strong—so strong that he had no need to be jealous of power in others.
