Unclaimed (29 page)

“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.”

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.”

His lips touched her ear—the lobe of it, just a brush, the heat of his breath in sharp contrast to the chill of his hands. Her nipples tightened, pointing; a well of warmth rose up inside her. And then he was not just kissing her ear but catching it lightly between his teeth, his mouth tracing the edge. His tongue—oh, heavens, his
tongue,
flicking out. She felt it in her hands, her breasts, that rising sense of pleasure.

“What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just finished unbuttoning her dress, his fingers moving slowly. “Thank you for lighting the candle,” he said quietly, as he slid the sleeves down her shoulders. He pressed his lips to her neck. “I wouldn’t have been able to do
this
without light.”

His hands slid to her corset laces. He leisurely untied the knot, unlaced the ribbons and pulled the garment away. She wanted to grab for it, to pull it back. It wasn’t just her body he wanted; it was intimacy, and that was more than she’d given in years. She couldn’t help but feel that at any moment, he would come to his senses and leave her where she stood, trembling and hurt and wanting.

“Is there a trick to the petticoats?” He found the first button that held the top layer in place.

“Mark, what are you doing?”

“You know what I’m doing.” He peeled away one layer of muslin and started in on the next. “I’m undressing you.” The second petticoat joined the first on the floor. “I feel like I’m taking apart a watch,” he said. “It’s easy enough to disconnect the parts, but I’m fairly certain I couldn’t reconstruct the whole without expert help.”

“Truly, Mark, you have to stop.” She was beginning to shake.

Her last petticoat slid to the floor, and she stood in her shift.

“Is that what you want?”

She turned in his arms. His eyes slid down her form—uncluttered now by skirts and excess fabric.

All her scampering vulnerabilities froze in the heat of his gaze. She felt like a rabbit staring up at a hawk. But this hawk didn’t pounce. Instead, he simply leaned in and kissed her. It was a sweet kiss—just his lips against hers, his hand on her shoulder. Her body melted against his. She carried her fear inside that rising tide of pleasure, like shattered glass waiting to slice her.