Unclaimed

by Courtney Milan

  I hated him. I loved him. His heart raced. He could almost reach out and touch the loneliness in her words.

  I loved him. After the spare, quiet words of her narration, those three words echoed. It might have been a lie. It might have been a dramatization.

  It felt like the truth.

  He’d held to the notion that she’d lied to him because he’d not wanted to contemplate an alternate possibility. He had imagined her laughing at him. He’d imagined her meeting with George Weston and mocking his tentative adoration. He’d believed all that, because the alternative was that he’d promised her she wasn’t alone, and he’d lied.

  I loved him. He felt drunk and uncertain, as if he’d been assailed by a vertigo of the soul.

  I loved him. But she’d lied to him. He grasped for the fading shreds of his righteous indignation, but it fled. She’d hurt him. Wasn’t that worth something?

  I loved him, but a woman like me could never have a man like him.

  He’d been blind. And stupid. And wrong. So focused on his own hurt that he’d not stopped to question. She’d practically begged him not to like her. She’d told him she was ruined and outcast. How was she surviving? If she’d stooped to seducing him, how badly had she needed the money? And what was she doing now?

  Mark was wealthy beyond imagining. He’d had letters and love and companionship all his life.

  But where was she? Whom was she with?

  How was he to find her?

  He stared into the darkness, questions dancing about him. He stared until the night seemed to take on colors of its own before his unblinking eyes. He stayed there for minutes longer, listening to his brothers’ silence, until finally Ash punched him lightly on the shoulder and then, as if deciding against it, converted the motion into a gentle pat. The fire snapped behind them.

  “How much of that was a factual account?” Ash asked eventually.

  Mark shook his head. “She omitted the portions that don’t reflect well on me. I told her about Mother—if she’d wanted to embarrass us, she could easily have done so.”

  “Hmm.” That was Smite.

  “Do you want me to have the paper print a retraction?” Ash asked. “I could…buy the building in which it resides. Make life difficult for the owner.”

  “It’s all true. She actually painted me in a…a fairly flattering light. She didn’t even mention the times I kissed her.”

  Mark felt his brothers turn next to him, as if exchanging careful glances.

  “You kissed her?” Ash asked.

  “Times?” Smite echoed. “Plural?”

  “There’s no need to sound so surprised. I’m chaste, not dead. Although it was close on more than one occasion. Really close.” He hunched into the cushion and shut his eyes.

  “Oh, well done,” Smite said. “Well done.”

  “It wasn’t done at all,” Mark mumbled. “Well or poorly.”

  “Honestly,” Ash said, “what is it you want, Mark? Do you want this stopped? I’ll stop it. Do you want her found and silenced? I’ll pay her whatever you want. You have only to ask and it is yours.”

  What did he want? He felt as if he were on the edge of a precipice, posed to fall. He reached for the shreds of his balance, sought out calmness, peace, quiet…

  But no. She thought that a woman like her could never have a man like him. He’d excoriated the MCB as a bunch of hypocrites. Women are the point of chastity, not the enemy of it, he’d said.

  Fine words. But what was the point of holding one’s own balance on the cliffside only to see the woman you cared for topple over the side?

  “Yes,” Mark said. “Ash, I do want your help. Let me explain what I need…”

  THE RAIN SLASHED against Jessica’s cloak as she fumbled in her pocket for the key to her London flat. The few rooms she had were in White chapel, and the streets were dingy. She’d taken them late in the spring as a temporary place to store her things while she went to Shepton Mallet, and so that she would have someplace to retreat to once she’d finished with Sir Mark. The rooms didn’t feel like home, but until Parret delivered the final payment, she needed somewhere to stay.

  The dark clouds had come on quickly that night. She ducked her head in front of the door, her fingers chilled and clumsy. Iron rattled in the keyhole. It had been a few days since the last serial had been published. It should have made her feel queasy, knowing her words were out there for anyone to see. She’d heard that Mark was in town—that he’d arrived last night.

  She didn’t want to think of him. Of what she’d done to him. She had done what she always did: she had survived, and never mind the cost. The key finally turned in the lock, and she wiped the water that trickled down the side of her face. In the doorway, she turned to wring the wet wool of her cloak into the street.

  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.

  “You don’t need my forgiveness.”

  “No?” His hand curled about hers. “Tell me, then, why I have been reliving that awful moment when I left you, again and again. Tell me why it hurts me here—” he pulled her hand against the wet wool that covered his chest and spread her fingers “—when I remember that I walked from you. Explain how I am to ever deserve your trust, if I can’t have your forgiveness first.”

  “You don’t need my forgiveness. You’ve had it since the day you gave me your coat. I think I was already half in love with you then.”

  His hand crept to the small of her back as she spoke, drawing her close. When she was silent, she could feel the steady beat of her pulse in her throat. That pounding could not fill the impossible silence. It sounded like the opening strains of a symphony, quiet and subdued, with the entire orchestra poised to join in. Her hand curled in his coat in prelude. She could feel his entire body shift, leaning in toward her.

  And then he kissed her. That first taste of him overwhelmed her senses with a pleasure so sharp it could have cut. His clothing was wet against her; his lips cold at first. They warmed. She tasted the rain on him, and then the heat of his mouth. He jolted her to life with that kiss. There was no hiding from her wants, no pretending that she could simply survive any longer.

  No. He’d become necessary to her, and this was more frightening than anything she’d experienced before. At any second, he could break her. He could break her more easily with kindness than a thousand cruel words. She almost cried out at the tenderness in his touch. Every brush of his lips felt like falling.

  Maybe she was just waiting to hit the ground.

  His hands slid to her hair, finding pins in the dark. He pulled them out one by one, until her hair tumbled down her back, a heavy mass, half wet, half dry. He caught it in his hands as it fell. Then he pulled from her and let out a little breath.

  “Oh, Jessica.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “You should have told everyone what a hypocrite I was. I lectured you with a straight face about how profligacy hurt women, and then refused to see how it had hurt you. Don’t tell me I don’t need your forgiveness.”

  That almost did break her. He was vulnerable, too. They were both groping about in the dark, afraid to find one another.

  Jessica found the clasp of her cloak in the dark and released it. The sodden weight slid from her shoulders. “Mark,” she said, “I would never wish you harm.” Her voice shook. “Whatever you need from me, I’ll give it. Gladly.”

  “I need this.” His arms came around her. Water from his coat soaked through her dress. She couldn’t make herself care about it, not now, not with his mouth seeking out hers once more, not with his lips covering hers, his body hard against hers. He was so firm, and yet she had only to set her hand on his chest and he pulled back. No; he wasn’t going to hurt her. Not today. Not now.

  But what of tomorrow?

  Jessica shook her head, clearing it of those worries, and gave herself up to his kiss. There was nothing but the give and take of lips and tongue and teeth, nothing but the ebb and flow of breath cycling into kiss cycling back into breath again. She pulled back briefly, fumbled in the dark until she guided him to the sofa in the front room. They sank onto it, and he kissed her again, leaning over her. The cold and wet of his clothing gave way to a warm, damp humidity.

  His hands cupped her cheeks. He held her as if she were precious. Tonight, maybe, she would be precious to him. This minute and for every minute it lasted.

  The buttons of his coat were hard lumps pressing against her; she undid them, at first absently, and then in earnest. He paused only to strip the garment off. And then he found her lips in the dark once more. Not just lips; their bodies met, her hips nestling against his, her chest brushing his. It felt so right to cradle him, so right to feel that pleasure flooding her. He felt so good, she was sure this couldn’t last.

  When he pulled away, she wasn’t surprised; she’d been expecting it for minutes. But instead of calling a halt, he knelt before her. His hands tangled in her skirt, lifting it, pushing her petticoats up to gather at her hips. Cool air touched her thighs. Her whole body tingled in anticipation.

  And then his hands, hot now, slid up her knees.

  “Jessica.” His thumbs slid farther up, finding the wetness of her sex. He made a strangled sound.

  But it was nothing to the shock that filled her. His caress, tentative at first, slid against her most intimate parts. His fingers were hesitant in their discovery, then became more sure.

  “Is that right?” he asked, his thumb sweeping over the nub of her pleasure. It felt so good.

  “Yes.”

  “This?”

  Her hand joined his. “Right there. Like that. Oh, yes. Like that.”

  Again he tempted her, tormented her, his hands uncovering all her secrets.

  “I want—” she began, but stopped, letting out a small cry, as he caressed her once more.

  “Tell me what you want.” His voice was strong, urgent.

  “No—oh, Mark—we can’t. We have to stop. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

  He paused. And then he pulled his hands away, letting her skirts fall. She ached all over. Her body screamed at her for completion. Still, she scrambled to her feet.

  “There’s a basin over there, if you want it.” She pointed, realized he couldn’t see her, and stumbled over to a side table near the entrance. Her hands shook as she found a lucifer by shape, shook when it failed to light once, twice—on her third try, a sharp sulfurous smell filled the room. She cupped the precious flame and lit a candle. The light danced, too bright, and too late she realized her mistake. If he could see her eyes, he would see…everything.

  Behind her, Mark had found the basin. He washed his hands methodically before turning back to her.

  “Let me explain something to you,” he said. His trousers were tented out in front of him; she tried not to focus on that telltale bulge. “You warned me once not to make a romance of you.” He advanced on her again. But when he got to her, he didn’t try to kiss her. He turned her around, so her back was to him, and folded his arms around her. “You have only one chance to escape.”

&
nbsp; His hands slid to her waist, curled in the sash of her dress.

  “I plan to thwart you,” he said against her neck. “I am going to make you understand that you deserve to have romance. And you, my dearest, will not be able to stop me.”

  He pulled the ends of her sash, letting it float to the ground.

  “Mark?”

  He undid the top button at the nape of her neck. “I never should have listened to you about that anyway.”