Unclaimed (Turner #2)(59)
She reached for him. But this time he flinched from her. Her hand dangled uselessly in midair, and she let out a covert breath. “Mark. Be well.”
He gave her a jerk of a nod. And as if he hadn’t bid her farewell for life, he turned and grabbed his hat and gloves from the table. Without one backward glance, he stumbled through her doorway, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the coming evening.
He’d escaped her, and if it left her in an impossible situation…well, better her than him.
It was only when he was gone past all point of calling him back that she realized she was still holding his ring.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE RAIN RAN DOWN Mark’s face in slick tracks. He clutched his cloak to him, readjusted the lumpy satchel that lay warm against his side and knocked on the door.
The streets of Bristol had fallen into darkness; an oil lamp on the corner had not yet been lit by the lamplighter and only a sliver of the moon peeked out from behind a breath of ragged cloud. The satchel shifted against his ribs and then subsided before the door opened.
“Mark.”
Of course Smite answered his own door. His older brother stood in the entry, barring his path. He stared for a few seconds before he turned. “Come in. Come in.” He cast another glance at Mark’s wet form. “I wasn’t expecting you in this weather. Come to think of it, I wasn’t expecting you at all.”
Twenty-four hours ago, Mark had been so full of hope for his future. Now, he’d landed on his brother’s doorstep. He hadn’t been able to think of anywhere else to go. On the ride here—half on horseback, half by steam train—Mark had imagined himself telling the entire story to his brother a thousand times. Sometimes he’d raged; mostly, he’d been confused. But he couldn’t imagine saying a word now. It was too humiliating, for one.
Mark handed off his wet things and then set the leather satchel he’d brought from Shepton Mallet on the wooden floor.
“Can I put that away for you?”
The bag wasn’t twitching, which was a good sign.
“Never mind,” his brother said. “You look like you need a drink. Never tell me she said no.”
Why, oh, why had Mark committed his foolish, burbling hopes to a letter? And why had he sent it before he’d had a reply from her?
“Can we…can we not talk about that?”
It must have been obvious from his face that something was wrong, because instead of teasing him, his brother shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
Anyone else would have heard that airy dismissal as unkind or uncaring. But Mark had come here because he knew his brother would understand without Mark’s having to say a single word on the subject. That was the way it was between them.
He had been to Smite’s home before. Any other man in his brother’s financial position would have set himself up in high style—a home crowded with servants eager to do his bidding. Smite, of course, eschewed all of that. He’d been branded by their mother in a way that Mark scarcely comprehended and could never explain to anyone else. Smite was too proud to admit to the difficulties under which he labored. Not even to servants.
They didn’t ask each other for anything. Perhaps that was why Mark felt comfortable giving his brother everything.
“Your satchel. It’s moving,” Smite said.
“Oh, good. That means your gift is awake.”
“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.”