Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

A single street lamp burned on the corner, scarcely cutting through the dark night storm. The gaslight didn’t seem to illuminate. It cast only shadows—long, dark slashes of cold dreariness.

One of those shadows moved. A form, hidden at first by an alley, started forward across the street. Jessica’s heart quickened as the form—the man—moved closer, stride by stride. She took one step into her flat, her hands going to the handle of the door.

“Jessica,” he said.

It was him. A welter of confused emotions assailed her—panic, relief, hope, fear. By contrast, Mark’s voice was flat, devoid of all feeling.

She drew back farther. “Sir Mark. What are you doing here?”

He took another step forward. She could make out his face now. His coat was sodden; underneath his hat, his pale hair was plastered to his head in strings. Rivulets of water ran down his face and dripped from the tip of his chin. His eyes burned into hers. “What do you suppose I’m doing here?”

She winced at that tone. “You must be angry.”

“Furious.”

“What are you doing, venturing out in the rain without a greatcoat? Or an umbrella? Or even a…a…”

He took another step toward her. He was close enough to touch her now; she looked up into the shadow of his face and swallowed the remainder of her sentence.

“It wasn’t raining when I left,” he said simply. He set his hand on the door, as if to forestall any chance of her escape.

Her heart beat faster. “It’s been raining since three.”

“I’ve been waiting since noon.” His words were calm, and that frightened her more than any amount of shouting. “Besides, this way I know you can’t throw me out. Turnabout is fair play.”

The intensity of his eyes called to mind that long-ago day when she’d arrived on his doorstep, wet to her underthings. She’d tried to seduce him. She’d told him she hated him. Jessica shivered and pulled her cloak around her.

“I know you are unhappy with me,” she said. “I know how much you hate attention. I knew you would despise me when I placed such intimate details of our conversation before all of London.” Her words left puffs of white in the rain. “I haven’t any defense.”

He reached out and touched her chin. “Really? Not one defense?”

She stepped away, turning her back to her open doorway. “I just did what I have always done. I did my best to survive. I won’t apologize for that, but I can’t ask you to forgive me, either.”

He took another step forward, and she instinctively retreated. The entry was small and cramped; her hands found the wall too soon. He stepped forward again, until he’d backed her against her wall. Slowly, deliberately, he set his hands on either side of her head. She was trapped. Closed in. There was no way to escape.

“Mark,” she begged. “I know you must resent me, but—”

“Resent you?” he asked. “Why, in the name of everything that I hold holy, do you think that I am angry at you?”

Her fear turned to crystal inside her. She shook her head, not knowing how to answer. Not knowing how to respond when he leaned in even closer.

He touched her cheek. His fingers were wet and cold but solid and real. He touched her gently, as if he expected her to disappear if he pushed too hard. “When you told me Weston had hired you, all I could think was that you’d been laughing at me the whole time. That you’d pretended everything. That you’d never cared. But it wasn’t a lie, was it?”

Her heart thumped. He couldn’t be excusing her. He couldn’t possibly think to forgive her. “I told you I was married.”

“But you were fourteen.” He brushed water from her forehead and then swept a thumb down her nose. “You were fourteen when you were seduced, and your father threw you out of the house.”

She couldn’t speak. She was choked by an emotion that she couldn’t name, something bigger than mere relief and more powerful than even hope.

“Since then, you’ve made your way on your own.”

She nodded.

He turned from her and shut the door. When it closed behind them, the scant light from the outside was cut off. She was left in darkness with a man she couldn’t see.

“It was true, what you said.” His voice floated out of that nothingness, close and yet so far away. “You hated me at first.”

“Yes. But it didn’t last long. It couldn’t.”

He let out a sigh at that, soft and warm. “That’s what I hoped. Jessica.” He paused, took a deep breath. “I must humbly beg your forgiveness.”

“My forgiveness?” Her breath seemed to belong to someone else; she had to fight for every lungful of air.

“I told you I would be your champion. I haven’t done very well by you.”

It would be foolish to cry at those words. In the dark, she could pretend it was just rainwater. She reached out, clumsily groping for his hand. He gripped her tight.