Unclaimed (Turner #2)(90)

Jessica fired. The report of his gun sounded, almost atop her shot. Someone shouted. The recoil snapped her arm back; the black powder smoke obscured everything. Jessica was running before the shreds cleared away, running as fast as she could, her heart and hands like ice.

They were both on the ground, Mark and Weston. But Mark was calmly pressing a handkerchief to Weston’s shoulder, while Godwin huddled ineffectually in the background.

“My dispute has always been with Sir Mark,” Weston was saying. “Any other course would have been foolish.”

“This is irregular,” Godwin was repeating to himself, as if he had finally noticed. “Most irregular.”

“Precisely my point.” Weston winced as Mark pressed harder. “There are no rules of honor in an affair like this.”

“Should we…should we tell others?” Godwin asked.

“And admit a woman winged me? God, no.” He glanced at Jessica. “You missed.”

“You missed,” Mark said. “And you were standing at six paces.”

The doctor was coming up behind them. The man knelt beside Weston, probed the wound. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he reported. “Straight through the shoulder. But had it been three inches to the side…” The man whistled and pulled a flask from his bag. “Here. You’ll be needing this.”

“I didn’t miss,” Jessica said as Weston raised the flask to his lips. “You came within three inches of killing me. I gave you those three inches.”

His eyes met hers, and he turned white.

“Next time,” she said, “I won’t feel so generous. What you did to me—it was a hanging offense. You have nothing on me, Weston. You can embarrass me, but I can do far worse to you. I have the power of life and death over you. This—” she pointed at his wound “—this was so you would know that next time you bother me and mine, I’ll not be afraid to use it.” He swallowed.

“But then there won’t be a next time. Will there, Weston?”

He shook his head. And this time, this time, she believed him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

MARK BUNDLED Jessica into the waiting coach and then entered himself.

He’d had many sleepless hours to think of the harsh words she’d spoken last night, to hold them up and examine them from all sides. He’d reread the serial she’d published, too. And he’d come to one inevitable conclusion: part of her really did hate him. They’d not talked of it much, and it still hung between them unresolved.

She sat awkwardly across from him on the carriage seat, not meeting his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” She fixed her gaze on the leather squabs. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did last night.”

“Don’t apologize.” His gaze was steady. “When I first met you, you flinched from my touch. Well, I’ve realized you didn’t stop flinching—at least not inside.”

She shut her eyes at those words.

“I think,” he said, “you told me the truth of it all the way back in Shepton Mallet. You hate that I’ve had it so easy, while you’ve had to struggle for everything. You despise me because I like myself. And Jessica…I suspect you still think you don’t deserve happiness.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Happiness leaves. And it hurts so much when it does.”

“Try it for a year. I think you’ll grow accustomed to it.”

“Happy for a whole year?” she said.

“Happy for a whole lifetime,” he responded. “Happy and surrounded by people who love you—brothers and sisters, friends and children. Horses, if you wish, and cats and ducks.”

“Ducks?”

“Yes,” he said obstinately. “Ducks. And a husband.”

She lifted her face at that. A faint line of crystal tears had collected in the corner of her eyes. “Today,” she said quietly, “I stopped running from my past. Maybe I can stop fleeing husbands and ducks, as well.”

He crossed to her side of the coach. He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle, as if it were her first kiss and he wanted to savor it. And maybe it was something new, because for the first time, she relaxed against him in truth. His hands framed her face, and she kissed him as if he were a future she finally wanted to hold to. She kissed him as if she planned to keep him.

“I love you,” she said, taking a deep breath. “Now, about that special license. Maybe we should use it after all.”

He kissed her on one cheek. Again on the other. And then he pulled away and looked into her eyes. “No, Jessica,” he said gravely. “I think the time for the special license has passed.”

Those eyes widened, and her hands clutched his elbows.

“I’ve been thinking about family,” he told her. “And I’ve decided the special license was a mistake. There’s something more important.”

MARK DIDN’T THINK he would need any introduction to Alton Carlisle, vicar of Watford, a small town outside of London. Still, he’d come prepared. When he stood on the steps of the vicarage, he handed over the letter of introduction to the woman who was brought to the door, along with his card.

The maid must have passed the card on to Mrs. Carlisle, because she arrived scant seconds later. She ushered him in, her hands fluttering. “Mr. Carlisle is out in the garden,” she said, her voice breathy. “I’ll go fetch him. At once.”