Unclaimed (Turner #2)(89)

From behind her she heard more steps. Then:

“I say, Weston, is it your fault I was roused at four in the bloody morning? Not very kind, I tell you. Not very kind.”

Weston peered around Jessica. “Godwin?” he said. “Godwin, what the devil are you doing here?”

Mark’s voice followed. “What, don’t you know? He’s your second.”

Only Silas Godwin could have done, Mark had explained to her. Mark had chosen him. He was, he’d said, good-humored. More important, he was close-mouthed. When Mark had told him he was needed, he’d come instantly, without asking and without regard to the lateness of the hour.

“Turner?” A gob of spittle flew from Weston’s mouth. “Turner? You’re having me fight a duel? And who else is that you have with you?”

“This is Doctor Agsley.” Mark glanced at Weston. “It’s customary to have one present at an affair of honor.”

Jessica’s fingers found the edge of her glove as Mark spoke. She worked the leather off her hand.

“Not enough to beat me to a pulp, is it?” Weston was turning red. “No. You’re going to challenge me to a duel. Don’t tell me you’re going to fight for a whore’s honor. Even you couldn’t be so—”

Jessica slapped him with the glove she’d removed. “Don’t be daft, Weston. I am going to fight you for his.”

She would never have agreed to this had she felt herself in the slightest danger. But she knew Weston. She’d watch him shoot before, and she’d every faith in his inability to hit anything at thirty paces.

“You?” He put back his head and laughed. “You? Oh, that’s a remarkable jest. The day I stand before one such as you, and—”

She smacked him again with her glove, and while he rubbed at his cheek, she reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a pistol. “You haven’t a choice between fighting a duel and walking away. You have a choice between fighting a duel and being shot in cold blood. I told you last time that if you ever intruded on my life again, I was going to shoot you.” Her voice was steady; it was only inside that she trembled.

“I can’t fight a duel,” Weston said with a scoff. “I don’t have my dueling pistols.”

“Got them here,” Silas Godwin said cheerily. He glanced at Weston and frowned. “Is something amiss?”

Godwin’s other main qualification, besides his quiet demeanor, was that he was none too bright.

“Of course something’s amiss,” Weston snapped. “I’m not fighting a woman. It would be…ungentle-manly. Wrong. Jess, really.”

“Don’t call me Jess.” She jerked her pistol at him.

“But, Jess—”

She took a step back from him. “You want to believe that I’m impotent. That I’m helpless. That I am yours to move about as you wish, to comfort you in your life. You want to believe that you own me. And I let you do it for far too long.”

“Come now, Jess. You’re upset, I see that. But let’s be rational about this.”

Her voice was shaking. “I am not your victim. And I am being rational. The only way to win is to rid myself of you. You look at me and the only thing you can see is a possession, something that you can pick up and use however you want.”

“Jess, we both know how poor a shot you are. This is utterly ridiculous, this notion of a duel.”

“That’s what you want to believe. You’re telling yourself that you’re safe, that surely a woman couldn’t hurt you. You’re telling yourself that you have nothing to fear, and that once you’re released from this situation, you won’t need to be afraid again. But maybe I’m not a poor shot. And maybe, this time, when you try to hurt me and mine, I won’t just walk away.”

He gave her a flat look. “You just go on and think so, then. Insist on this charade if you must, but when I emerge unscathed, we’ll… We’ll talk again.” He cast a wary glance at Mark. “Assuming I’m allowed to do any talking. Some people here have already shown their bad faith and ungentle-manly conduct.”

“I didn’t box to your rules,” Mark said quietly. “Think about what you’ve done.”

“What? What did I do?”

“Weston,” Jessica said, “I came within three inches of death because of you. What makes you think I’ll let you off?”

He yawned. “Let’s get this over with.”

Her blood was pounding as they faced away from each other. Their seconds—Godwin, on Weston’s part, and Mark, on hers—counted the paces. Each stride seemed interminable. It was unbelievable that this should be happening to her, that she should be taking him on.

They turned. Weston was a shrouded figure, almost disappearing in the mist. He was also a pitiable man; she couldn’t believe that she’d believed herself powerless before him. She could feel her whole body trembling. On the sidelines, Godwin held up a handkerchief.

She didn’t need to fire first. She braced herself, let her stance still. He wouldn’t hit her. In this fog, at this distance—it was entirely out of his capabilities.

The white cloth fluttered down. In that instant, as Jessica stood on the cusp of pulling the trigger, Weston turned toward Mark. It must have happened quickly, because Mark had not even begun to react when Weston raised his gun on him. Still, the space between one beat of her heart and the next seemed to take forever. The barrel trained on Mark with an ominous certainty. Seeing that weapon swerve toward the man she loved—