Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

She lifted her face at that. A faint line of crystal tears had collected in the corner of her eyes. “Today,” she said quietly, “I stopped running from my past. Maybe I can stop fleeing husbands and ducks, as well.”


He crossed to her side of the coach. He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle, as if it were her first kiss and he wanted to savor it. And maybe it was something new, because for the first time, she relaxed against him in truth. His hands framed her face, and she kissed him as if he were a future she finally wanted to hold to. She kissed him as if she planned to keep him.

“I love you,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Now, about that special license. Maybe we should use it after all.”

He kissed her on one cheek. Again on the other. And then he pulled away and looked into her eyes. “No, Jessica,” he said gravely. “I think the time for the special license has passed.”

Those eyes widened, and her hands clutched his elbows.

“I’ve been thinking about family,” he told her. “And I’ve decided the special license was a mistake. There’s something more important.”

MARK DIDN’T THINK he would need any introduction to Alton Carlisle, vicar of Watford, a small town outside of London. Still, he’d come prepared. When he stood on the steps of the vicarage, he handed over the letter of introduction to the woman who was brought to the door, along with his card.

The maid must have passed the card on to Mrs. Carlisle, because she arrived scant seconds later. She ushered him in, her hands fluttering. “Mr. Carlisle is out in the garden,” she said, her voice breathy. “I’ll go fetch him. At once.”

She swept him into a side parlor, lit by morning brilliance. The embroidery was fading, but it felt homey.

“Please be seated.”

But instead of leaving immediately, she opened another door. “Ellen!” she called. “You’re needed. We’ve a very important guest. Do come keep him company.”

Mark heard a murmur in reply but couldn’t make out any words. Mrs. Carlisle’s back was turned, and so Mark could not see her expression. But the young lady who walked into the room had her chin set in a rebellious line. She cast one glance at Mark—and then quickly looked away. Mark could guess what her mother had communicated with waggled eyebrows.

Look, here’s a splendid catch! Be polite to him.

They were still trying to throw fourteen-year-old girls at him. Ellen Carlisle, however, seemed to have no interest in being thrown. He was, she supposed, pretty. She had too much of Jessica in her not to be. But her long dark hair was still in childish braids. And she folded her arms over her chest, as if daring Mark to flirt with her.

Oh, yes. This was definitely Jessica’s sister.

“Do you always appear on so little notice?” she demanded, once her mother was safely out of ear-shot.

Mark shrugged. “Think of me as John the Baptist. I am of no interest in myself. I come merely to prepare the way.”

This got him an exasperated stare. “I’m to think of you as John the Baptist, am I? Your confidence is simply stunning. And here I am, entirely without silver trays.”

Good. He liked her already. Mark took his watch from his pocket and set it on the table. “How sweet. Don’t worry. You’ll adore me in…oh, six minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please don’t tell my father that. It will only raise his hopes, and he shall use it as an excuse to utterly ruin my life.” She scowled. “As usual.”

“Don’t worry,” Mark said. “I’ve as little interest in marrying you as you do me.”

She let out a little huff at that, her eyes cutting toward him. Mark almost wanted to laugh at that petulant conceit. Of course she didn’t want to marry him—but she had hoped he was interested, so that she might have the fun of turning him down.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mark growled. “You’re a very pretty girl, I’m sure, but you’re too young for me, and besides, I’m in love with your sister.”

Miss Ellen’s eyes widened. “Charlotte? But she’s married.”

“Not Charlotte. Jessica.”

The color washed from her face. All that haughty indifference fell away. “Jessica?” Each syllable wavered, as if she spoke an impossibility. Her hands fell to her sides, and then she darted across the room, kneeling before him and grabbing for his hand. “You know of Jessica? I’m not to speak of her, not to say her name, never again. But—is she well? How do you know her? Can I see her? I shall do anything you ask, if you just—”

“Ellen!” The sharp tenor sounded like a whip crack from across the room. “What do you mean by such forward behavior? Sir Mark—I’m dreadfully sorry for my daughter’s conduct.”

Mark realized how the scene must look. Ellen Carlisle was on her knees before him, her eyes glittering with tears. Ellen glanced once at her father and bit her lip.