Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

Mark didn’t have to wait long for Weston to stand. The puzzled ridge of his eyebrows faded to anger as Mark smiled at him. With an outraged cry, he ran forward once more. Mark had no intention of grappling with the man. He sidestepped again and grabbed his arm. Weston did have sheer power. He was fast, and his arms were locked in position with all his strength. So when Mark swung him in a circle, he had no way to stop before he crashed into the tree behind them. He hit it face-first, barely able to raise his hands to protect his nose.

Shouts rose up behind them.

Mark wasn’t even breathing hard.

Weston turned, unsteady on his feet. He lifted one hand to his mouth and spat out a tooth. For a second, he simply stared at it in disbelief. Then he raised his head.

“You goddamned dirty bastard,” he breathed, starting forward once more. He was more wary this time, keeping his distance. Still, the next time he darted forward, Mark stepped behind him and slammed his elbow against the back of the man’s neck. As Weston fell, Mark caught his arm and yanked at an awkward angle. He could almost feel the pop as the man’s shoulder jerked out of its socket.

To his credit, Weston didn’t scream, even though his face scrunched up. “Pax,” he whispered. “Pax. Truly. I had no idea.” He backed away, leaning against the tree.

Mark strode forward.

“Truly, Sir Mark.” Weston spoke so quietly, Mark could barely hear him. “I give up. I surrender.”

Mark could dimly recall the last time he’d lost his temper this badly. At the time, he’d been at Eton and surrounded by bullies. He’d beaten the lot of them, and when they’d begged for mercy, he’d still not stopped. For years, he’d felt guilty every time he thought of his actions. He’d feared his anger, his passion, as proof that he, too, could fall prey to his mother’s excesses.

But now, seeing Weston cower before him, he realized one last thing. After he’d beaten those boys, they’d never set on anyone else again. He’d been ashamed for no reason. There was a place for righteous anger. And sometimes the only way to balance the worst kinds of wrongs was to meet them head-on. He didn’t stuff the tide of his anger behind a glass wall. Instead, he stalked forward.

“You misunderstand,” he said, his voice low. “I know what you did to Jessica Farleigh.”

“What I did? Hired her to seduce you. That bitch—she took my money, and—”

Mark grabbed the man by his hair and twisted. Weston hissed in pain. “I’m talking about the tea,” Mark said.

“Ouch!” Weston tried to pull away and winced instead. “Good Christ almighty, is she still going on about that? I saved her the pain of having to make the decision herself.”

“You stole the decision from her. You nearly killed her.”

“It was an accident.”

Mark let his anger take hold of him. He gripped Weston’s hair, then slammed the back of the man’s head against the tree trunk.

“Ow!” Weston groaned. “You can be commissioner. Just…just don’t hurt me anymore.”

There was a time for mercy. This wasn’t it.

“You’re pathetic,” Mark informed the man and slammed his head against the tree one last time. Weston’s knees crumpled underneath him. Around them, the crowd gasped. Mark let go of his hair, and Weston fell the rest of the way to the ground. For a long moment, Mark stared at the still body at his feet. He couldn’t hear anything except the rushing in his ears, could barely feel the cool breeze of afternoon insinuating itself around them. Finally, he knelt and found the man’s pulse. It was strong and steady.

He wasn’t going mad. He’d not lost control of his temper. He’d used it, and he was glad.

“Someone fetch a physician,” he said over his shoulder. “He’ll do very well, but he’s going to have a monstrous headache when he awakes.”

He pushed to his feet and walked away. Behind him, he heard the murmurs of the crowd.

“That was Sir Mark,” someone was saying.

“Weston must have truly deserved it,” another responded, “for Sir Mark to hit him that way. He’s a gentle, kind-spoken soul, Sir Mark is.”

“What did he do, then?”

“Something awful,” a third person responded. “Besides, I saw him. He attacked Sir Mark for no reason—he can’t be a steady character, can he?”

So easily was a reputation ruined. There was a peculiar sense of justice in that. Mark shook out his hand, which was just now beginning to sting, and headed for his next destination.

“GUESS WHAT I have?”

Mark stood in Jessica’s doorway that evening. He’d donned a wide, worn hat—one that shielded his face from view. Still, this close, even in the gathering shadows, she could see the bruise forming on his cheekbone.

She stepped aside, and he came in, shutting the door behind him.

“You forget,” she said grimly. “It’s already in the paper.” She held up the offending item, letting the headline show.

Sir Mark: Fights Weston, Obtains Special License.

“Be thankful,” Jessica said. “Parret made no untoward speculation about the object of your license, and he could have.”

Mark took off his hat and gave Jessica an unapologetic grin. “Well. So much for the surprise, then.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little premature to be purchasing a special license?”