Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

She moved in front of him swiftly, and he stopped. She raised one hand to his mouth, touching his lips. Cutting off those words, before he could speak them. His breath wafted through the knit of her gloves.

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to hear the theory. I’ve read your book. But when you spoke today… A man doesn’t get so angry about something unless it’s personal. I am not asking why someone should be chaste. I am asking why you in particular have dedicated so much of your life to the pursuit.”

He stared at her. No warm breath touched her fingers.

Slowly, she pulled her hand away, wondering if he was about to denounce her.

Instead, he shook his head. “You know, nobody has ever asked me that question before. Not even my brothers.”

“I have always been particularly impertinent.”

Mark met her eyes again. There was nothing importunate about his gaze—no ogling, no sense that he was measuring her for his bed. Still, she saw in him a fierce, possessive hunger. “Impertinence suits you,” he finally said and held out his arm for her. She took it once more, and they began walking again.

He said nothing more for a few minutes, but by the tense jump of the muscles in his arm, she could tell that he’d not forgotten her query.

“It was my mother,” he finally told her.

“I’ve heard of your mother. People talk of her sometimes.”

His tone grew warier. “What have you heard?”

“She was a generous, godly woman.” Jessica didn’t want to say much more. Men reacted strangely when you criticized their mothers—even if they’d just done it themselves.

“Ha. Surely the gossips have told you more than that.”

“She was a mill owner’s wife. I heard that when your father passed away, she grieved. And that in her grief, she became a little…strange.”

“She went mad.”

Jessica nodded in acquiescence. “It must have been difficult, to have a mother so overtaken with sadness—”

“She didn’t go mad with grief,” Mark interrupted. “She hated my father. She was always quite religious—extraordinarily so. He, in turn, scarcely cared to attend service. That alone wouldn’t have done the trick. But he was not faithful to her. She got the notion in her head that he’d forced the women who’d worked in his mill years before to whore for him in exchange for a position. And that when they complained, he brought in laborsaving machinery, so he could sack the ones who caused the unrest.”

“Oh.”

“She wasn’t entirely wrong about that,” he added. “A handful, certainly. All of them? No. But she had this notion that our entire family wealth was built on his debauchery. She began to see sin everywhere. She began to hate money, to hate every thing that reminded her of him. If she saw a woman on the streets, she instantly believed her to be a victim of my father’s profligacy. She began to sell…at first, just things. Then she started to give away the respectable competence my father had left. When my sister fell ill, she refused to pay a physician, saying it was God’s will whether she lived or died.”

The sun was setting. It hung, red and warm at the edge of the field. It painted his cheeks in orange, his hair in rust.

“She died. I scarcely remember that. I was still young at the time. But I think my mother took her death as a sign of God’s judgment. After that, she became very strange indeed. Soon, very little remained of the legacy my father had left. Very little except my brothers. Have I mentioned that my brothers look a great deal like my father? That didn’t help. I take after her more. So she beat them, and took me along with her on her errands of mercy. I met the poor, the weak, the afflicted.”

“She was mad.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But…underneath that insanity, there was a core of truth to everything she said. I’ve seen the ones who are destroyed in the wake of profligacy. The man takes his pleasure, and women and children suffer. My mother most of all. I don’t know what she would have been like if he’d been faithful. She never would have been comfortable, I don’t think, but at least she might not have tried—”

He caught himself and stared off into the distance, his shoulders pinched together. He looked miserable, so lost in memory.

“Ah,” she said softly. “Is that all, then?” She’d meant to interrupt his grim reverie, to put a soft smile on his face. Instead he looked at her, his eyes haunted.

“No,” he said softly. “It is not.” He turned from her and began to walk down the path again.

She followed.

“She nearly killed my brother, Smite. It was a…a matter of punishment and neglect. Not intentional, I don’t think. But she’d gone so far beyond rationality. She put him in the cellar and hid the key from me. Ash had been in India at that time, and we’d gotten word that he’d be coming home soon. When I managed to get Smite out, we walked the thirty miles to Bristol to wait for him.”