Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“Then,” he said thoughtfully, “it’s already raining.”


She burst out laughing. “You,” she said, “are very bad.”

“I’ll own as much.” He stared at the tor a while longer and then shook his head. “Guinevere,” he said pensively, “should have held out for Lancelot.”

“Pardon me?”

“She married too soon, you see. It wasn’t Arthur she wanted—she just didn’t know it yet. He seemed like an acceptable fellow—King of all Britain, big army, bigger sword—and so she said to herself, ‘Well, I suppose a king will do.’ She should have waited for Lancelot.”

“But then who would Arthur have had?”

She waited for some acerbic remark from him—something like, a wife who was not an adulteress.

But he scratched his chin pensively, looking off into the mist-filled valley before them. “The Lady of the Lake,” he finally said. “That’s who I would have picked, had I been him.”

“The Lady of the Lake? She’s not even human.”

“Mrs. Farleigh, imagine that you are a man, and a king, and you must choose a wife. On the one hand, you can have a beautiful woman—a very nice one, too—who will respect and fear the power that you wield. One the other, there’s a woman who is a bit frightening, but she has already given you an ancient sword and a scabbard. She’s made you stronger, more powerful. Deep down, you respect the power she wields, and fear it exceeds your own. Whom do you choose?”

“Any man would choose the first—the beautiful woman who fears you. What man wants a woman who overpowers him?”

“A man who is sufficiently strong in his own right need not be jealous of power in others.” He glanced at her. “I know ugly men who insist on ugly wives, believing that they will not stray.” He shrugged. “For myself, I’ve always wanted a beautiful woman.”

She let out a little laugh. “Because you are so beautiful yourself?”

“Because I intend to win her affections to me, mind and soul.” And then, as if in an afterthought, he added: “And body. I definitely look forward to winning her body.”

“Is that why you haven’t married, then?” she asked. “Because no woman is good enough for the great Sir Mark? You have confessed to the sin of pride. Is this just more of it?”

“Not quite.”

“Not quite.” She smiled at him and walked a few paces away before turning, her skirts whirling around her ankles. “I don’t understand you. You want. You desire. You lust. You also believe in chastity. But this is no impossible dilemma, Sir Mark. Find an acceptable girl, marry her and assuage your lusts to your heart’s content.”

“Oh, I’ve thought it over, often enough.” He shrugged again and looked away. “In excruciating detail, sometimes. A quick marriage would serve, I suppose, for a few months. Maybe a few years. But marriage is for a lifetime, and male chastity means there must be fidelity afterward, as well.”

“For a man of your temperament, faithfulness should not prove a problem.”

He shrugged. “No? Imagine that I chose a girl who was simply acceptable—someone who would simply do. And then imagine that two years later, I met someone who was everything I wanted—clever, kind and beautiful. The sort of woman who has the integrity to make a better man of me. The kind of woman who might laugh at my pride while still loving me.”

He turned and looked at her.

“Imagine,” he said, “I met her, and I was tied to someone who would just do. I want a wife I can love, Mrs. Farleigh. One who I want to be faithful to because there is simply nobody else for me, not because it is the right thing to do. I don’t want to resent my fidelity. Or my wife. And so…I wait.”

“What are you trying to do to me?” she asked, stepping back from the intensity of his gaze.

Her foot slipped on a rock—enough to unbalance her, just a little. He reached for her. She knewit didn’t mean anything, knew that he meant only to steady her arm—and yet still she flinched from his outstretched hand. It threw her entirely off balance. She went sprawling, her palms smacking painfully into rock.

“Did you hurt yourself?”

She examined her gloves—easier than looking up. Tiny bits of gravel had ripped through the fabric, abrading the flesh beneath. Her ankle stung, but only a little. “Just my pride.”

He started to extend a hand toward her to help her up and then grimaced and pulled it back. Instead he crouched down beside her, so that his head was level with hers.

“Look here,” he said quietly, “I’m not trying to do anything to you. I wish you’d understand that.”

“But—”

“But nothing. I don’t want to take you. I don’t want to possess you. Right now, I just want to see whether you’ve injured yourself.”