Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“A gift?” His brother stepped back, suddenly wary.

Mark felt a rush of affection. Only Smite would quail at the thought of a gift. “Yes, a gift,” he said. “A good one.” He knelt beside the satchel and unbuckled the heavy, oiled leather. He’d shielded it with his cloak through the worst of the rainstorm, and the satchel was dry inside. Still, a rough wetness swiped his fingers as he reached in.

“Here.” He pulled out the bundle—it was wriggling, and that made it feel twice as heavy—and held it out.

Smite simply stared at him. “Dear God,” he said finally. “What is that thing?”

“Somewhere in the furthest reaches of your voluminous memory, you will recall seeing similar creatures.”

“Yes,” Smite said, gingerly extending a finger. “Perhaps. Somewhat similar creatures. But in all my prior experience, I have generally encountered puppies that have…eyes. Not great mounds of fur, topped by a big black nose.” He parted the gray fur on its head, almost tentatively. “Good Lord. There are eyes in there after all.”

Mark thrust the bundle out; Smite took it, his face a pattern of bemusement. “What sort is it?”

It was all long fur, gray everywhere except the white of its feet and chest. “It’s the progeny of the most capable sheepdog in all of Somerset. But don’t think you need to rush out and purchase a flock. The owner tested it for herding instinct. Apparently, it failed utterly, thinking it much more interesting to turn up grass.”

“Hmm.” Smite set the animal down, where it stood on clumsy legs. “And I suppose you thought I needed a puppy to dribble on the floor? You imagined I wanted a beast that would demand to be taken on great circuits of the surrounding areas? You wanted to make me a slave to sticks thrown and sticks fetched? Have you any notion how much work a dog is?” His words were harsh, but his tone was light, and he gently caressed the little dog, who immediately sank its teeth into his cuff. Smite tried to pull his hand back, but the dog dug its claws in and growled in mock play. “Don’t tell me. This is all part of a clever plan to see my shoes chewed to bits.”

“Not in the least,” Mark informed him. “I didn’t think you needed a dog. I thought the dog needed you.”

Smite looked up, his expression momentarily stricken. He looked down at the dog. “Thank you,” he said quietly. It was the only acknowledgment Mark was likely to get from him.

Gently, his brother disentangled the dog’s teeth from his coat. “Cease that behavior, Ghost,” he admonished. “Here—you may chew on this instead.”

Mark clouted him on the shoulder. “That’s my satchel, you buffoon.”

Smite didn’t answer, and when the pup grabbed one end of the strap and pulled clumsily, a smile lit his face. “Good dog.”

It was almost an hour later—after the dog had been taken outside twice, and then fed remnants of chicken, had a ball of rags constructed and rolled on the floor, and a box found for it and lined with blankets—before Smite looked over at Mark. “In the normal course of things,” he said, “I would send you out to a hotel, where you might be comfortable. I assume that’s not a good idea tonight.”

Mark had almost forgotten it. But with those words, the past few weeks crashed in on him. He’d been certain that Jessica was the one, right up until he’d had the numbing realization that she most decidedly wasn’t. It hurt all over again.

“Probably not,” Mark said, aiming for nonchalance. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Hmm.” Smite tucked the edge of a rag into the ball. “You told me she was gorgeous and intelligent. I presume she’s virtuous, too. If she has any brains at all, I can’t imagine what the problem could be. Don’t tell me her parents don’t approve. Just get Ash to charm some sense into them.”

“Not you, too.” Mark put his head in his hands. “Why does everyone think that my dearest wish is to have some innocent little wisp of a virgin?”

“I can’t imagine,” Smite said dryly. “It couldn’t be because you wrote a book about chastity.”

Sarcasm. It flowed between them as naturally as breathing. He needed that, now—something familiar to grab on to, something besides anger and some deep, dark, cavernous want.

“It turns out George Weston hired her to seduce me. She’s actually a courtesan. Can we talk of something else?”

“You asked a courtesan to marry you?”

“Just be quiet about it already.”

Smite was silent for a while longer. “Do you care for her?” he finally asked.

“I asked her to marry me. What do you suppose?”

“That answer goes to whether you cared for her in the past. I did not ask you that question. I asked you whether you care for her now. In the present.”

“I don’t know. How could I? I was utterly misled. How could I have been so wrong about her?”

His brother leaned forward and set his hand on Mark’s shoulder.