Kitabı oku: «Unclaimed»

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
COURTNEY MILAN

“An addictively readable tale of revenge and redemption,

love and family, Unveiled is brilliant.”

—Booklist

“An exquisitely sensual and unforgettable romance by one of the genre’s incandescent new stars.”

—Booklist (starred review) on Trial by Desire

“Milan’s strength of writing draws the reader into her deeply emotional love stories, which are romantic yet brimming over with sexual tension and marvelous characters…filled with enough wit and wisdom to make it a ‘keeper.’”

—RT Book Reviews on Trial by Desire (Top Pick)

“Historical romance fans will celebrate Milan’s powerhouse debut, which comes with a full complement of humor, characterization, plot and sheer gutsiness.”

—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Proof by Seduction

“A brilliant debut…deeply romantic, sexy and smart.”

—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James on Proof by Seduction

“One of the finest historical romances I’ve read in years.”

—New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn on Proof by Seduction

“With a tender, passionate romance, a touch of sly humor, and a gruff and incredibly sexy hero, Courtney Milan’s Proof by Seduction is a delicious read from the first page all the way to the very satisfying ending.”

—New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Hoyt

Unclaimed
Courtney Milan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

I’ve always wanted to write a rock-star hero. Unfortunately, I write historical romances, and that means no burning guitars, no long, unkempt hair. I had pretty much chalked that one up to “lost causes” for good. Then I started thinking about the sorts of things that would be popular in the nineteenth century. Sure, they wouldn’t go for Bon Jovi. But there were popular men back then—men like Beau Brummel or Lord Byron. Once you venture into early Victorian times, you can imagine what would prove popular: Novelists. Prince Albert. Books on public morality….

Which is why my Victorian-era rock star is Sir Mark Turner, who wrote a book on chastity. Mark is more than a little embarrassed by his popularity. And unlike modern celebrities, he can’t fall back on “sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.” He doesn’t do drugs. Rock ’n’ roll hasn’t been invented yet. And as for sex…well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

I thought you might enjoy a membership card to his most embarrassing fan club for kicks.

Courtney

Once again, an army went into making this book as strong as it could be. Tessa, Amy and Leigh all helped with brainstorming. Kristin Nelson, my amazing agent, and the rest of the agency staff, Sara, Anita and Lindsay, smoothed the way on a thousand counts. My editor, Margo Lipschultz, tirelessly worked to make this the best book it could be, and didn’t flinch too much when I said the hero was a virgin. Thanks to Libby Sternberg, for copyediting above and beyond the call of duty. The team at Harlequin produced my favorite cover yet.

The Vanettes helped with cover copy. The Pixies, Destination Debut and the Loop that Must Not Be Named helped with sanity. Franzeca Drouin, as always, saved me more times than I could count. Elyssa Papa holds a special place in my heart for catching a mistake that would have been very embarrassing, and Kim Castillo made my life easy in a thousand other ways. And my husband didn’t complain (much) when I went to England without him.

Last but not least, I owe a debt of gratitude to those who helped with the research for this book. Lorraine Pratten and Sue Wilson at Shepton Mallet’s Tourist Information and Heritage Centre answered numerous questions. I relied extensively on Fred Davies and Alan Stones’s accounts of historical Shepton Mallet, and would never have found Friar’s Oven without the walking guide from the Mendip Ramblers. Thanks!

Unclaimed

For Wathel. Who was always my sister,

even when she was very, very far away.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

London

June, 1841

SIR MARK TURNER did not look like any virgin that Jessica had ever seen before.

Perhaps, she mused, it was because he was surrounded by women.

The uneven glass of the taproom window obscured the tableau unfolding across the street. Not that she would have been able to see anything, even had she been standing in the muck of the road. After all, it had taken less than a minute for the mob to form. The instant Sir Mark had come out the door across the way, a carriage had come to an abrupt halt. A pair of young ladies had spilled out, tugged along by an eager chaperone. Two elderly matrons, strolling along the gangway, had laid eyes on him a few moments later and darted in front of a cart with surprising speed.

The oldest woman now had one clawed hand on the cuff of his greatcoat and the other on her cane—and she was merely the most aggressive of his hangers-on. Sir Mark was thronged on all sides by women…and the occasional man, sporting one of those ridiculous blue rose cockades on his hat. Jessica could see nothing of him through the crowd but the gray of his coat and a glint of golden hair. Still, she could imagine him flashing that famous smile reproduced in woodcuts in all the newspapers: a confident, winning grin, as if he were aware that he was the most sought-after bachelor in London.

Jessica had no desire to join the throng around Sir Mark. She had no autograph book to wave at him, and the likes of her wouldn’t have been welcomed in any event.

Sir Mark handled the crowd well. He didn’t bask in the attention, as the men of Jessica’s acquaintance might have done. Neither did he shrink from the pressing women. Instead, he ordered them about with an air of gentle command—signing the little books with a pencil he produced from a pocket, shaking hands—all the while making his way inexorably toward the street corner, where a carriage stood.

When Jessica thought of virgins, she imagined youths plagued by red spots or youngsters who wore thick spectacles and spoke with a stammer. She didn’t think of blond men with clean-shaven, angular faces. She certainly didn’t imagine tall fellows whose smiles lit up the dark, rainy street. It all went to show: Jessica knew nothing of virgins.

Hardly a surprise. She’d not spoken to a single one, not in all her years in London.

Beside her, George Weston let out a snort. “Look at him,” he scoffed. “He’s acting like a damned jackanapes—parading up and down the street as if he owned the place.”

Jessica traced her finger against the window. In point of fact, Sir Mark’s brother, newly the Duke of Parford, did own half the buildings on the street. It would annoy Weston if she corrected him, and so for a moment, she considered doing so.

But then, Sir Mark’s presence was irritation enough. Some days, it seemed as if every society paper in London sent out a new issue every time he sneezed. Not much of an exaggeration. How many times had she passed post-boys waving scandal sheets, headlines a half-page high declaring: Sir Mark: Threatened by Illness?

“He must think,” Weston continued, “that just because his brother is a duke—” he spat those words “—and the Queen has shown him a little favor, that he can caper about, displacing everyone who stands as his better. Did you know they’re considering him for Commissioner?”

Jessica slanted him another glance. No; no need to rile the man. He could work himself into a lather without any help from her, and for now, she still needed him.

“He’s never had to try for anything,” Weston groused. “It just falls in his lap. And here I’ve been running myself ragged, trying to put myself forward. Lefevre’s spot was practically promised to me. But no—now it’s Turner’s for the asking.”

Sir Mark reached his carriage. He smiled to one and all. Even inside the taproom, Jessica could hear the cries of disappointment as a footman closed the carriage door.

“I don’t understand how he became such a darling of London society,” Weston vented. “Would you believe that they’ve tapped him for the office not because he has any administrative experience, but because they wish to increase public approval? Why everyone cares about him, I can’t understand. He’s unwilling to engage in even the most time-honored gentlemanly pursuits.”

By which Weston undoubtedly meant drinking and wenching.

“He wrote a book.” Jessica pressed her hands against her skirt. Understatement served her purposes better than truth. “It has enjoyed a run of some little popularity.”

“Don’t start on the bloody Gentleman’s Guide,” Weston growled. “And don’t mention the bloody MCB, either. That man is a plague on my house.”

Before Sir Mark’s conveyance could spirit him away, the footmen had to politely clear the crowd from in front of the horses. The carriage was closed, but through a window on the side that faced her, Jessica could see Sir Mark’s silhouette. He removed his hat and bowed his head. It was a posture halfway between despair and exhaustion.

So. All those smiles and handshakes were false. Good. A man who put on one false front would put on another, and if all his vaunted moral superiority was an act, it would make Jessica’s work very, very easy. Besides, if Sir Mark despaired over a little thing like a mob determined to pay him adulation, he deserved what was coming to him. One paid a price for popularity.

And Sir Mark’s book had been very popular indeed. The Queen had read it, and had knighted its author for his contribution to popular morality. Thereafter, his work had been read in all the favored salons in London. Every Sunday sermon quoted passages from the Gentleman’s Guide. Why, just last month, a diminutive version had been printed, so that women could carry his words about in their skirt pockets—or in intimate compartments sewn into their petticoats for just that purpose.

There was something rather ironic, Jessica thought, about proper young ladies carrying A Gentleman’s Practical Guide to Chastity as near to their naked thighs as they could manage.

But women were not his only devotees. Some days, it seemed as if half the men of London had joined that benighted organization of his followers. They were everywhere on the streets these days, with their blue cockades and their supposedly secret hand signals. Sir Mark had done the impossible. He’d made chastity popular.

Beside her, Weston watched with narrowed eyes as the carriage finally started up. The coachman flicked his whip, and the conveyance moved slowly through the gathered crowd. He shook his head and turned to consider Jessica. It was only in her imagination that his eyes left a rancid, oily film behind.

“I don’t suppose you asked me here just so I could talk about the insufferable Mark Turner.” His eyes fell to her bosom in idle, lecherous speculation. “I told you you’d miss me, Jess. Come. Tell me about this…this proposition of yours.”

He took her arm; she gritted her teeth at the touch of his fingers and managed not to flinch.

She hated that appellation. Jess sounded like a falcon’s leash, as if she were captured and hooded and possessed by him. She’d hated it ever since she realized she had been pinioned—tamed, taught commands and trotted out on the occasions when he needed to make use of her. But she had hardly been in a position to object to his use of it.

Someday. Someday soon. It was not a promise she made as he led her to the table in the back room. It was a last breath of hope, whispered into darkness.

Jessica sat in the chair that Weston pulled up for her.

Six months ago, she’d sent him on his way. She’d thought she would never have to see him again. If her plan succeeded now, she would not have to. She would be free from Weston and London…and this life in its entirety.

Weston took his seat at the head of the table. Jessica stared across at him. She had never loved him, but for a while, he had been tolerable. Neither generous nor overly demanding. He had kept her safe and clothed. She hadn’t needed to pretend too hard; he’d not wanted her false protestations of affection.

“Well, Jess,” Weston said. “Shall I ring for tea?”

At the words, her hands clenched around the sticky wood of the taproom table. She could feel each of her breaths, sharp inside her lungs. They labored in the cavern of her breast, as if she were climbing to the top of a tower. For just an instant, she felt as if she had ascended some great height—as if this man was a small, distant specimen, viewed from on high. Reality seemed very far away.

What she managed to say was: “No tea.”

“Oh.” He glanced at her sidelong. “Ha. Right. I’d forgotten entirely. You’re not still put out over that, are you?”

She had always thought that the life of a courtesan would take its toll slowly over time. That she might tolerate it for at least a decade to come, before her beauty slowly faded into age.

But no. Six months ago, her life had become unbearable over the course of one cup of tea. She didn’t respond, and he sighed, slouching in his chair.

“Well, then. What is it you want?” he asked.

What she wanted sounded so simple. When she went outside, she wanted to feel the sunlight against her face.

She hadn’t realized how bad matters had become until the first sunny day of spring had arrived. She’d gone outdoors—had been chivied outside, in fact, by a friend—to promenade in the park. She had felt nothing—not inside her, nor out. She hadn’t felt cold. She hadn’t felt warm. And when the spring sun had hit her face, it had been nothing but pale light.

This man had made her into dark gray stone, from the surface of her skin to the center of her soul. No nerves. No hopes. No future.

“I didn’t come here to tell you what I want,” she said firmly.

She wanted never again to have to fill another man’s bed, telling falsehoods with her body until her mind could no longer track her own desires. She wanted to rid herself of the murk and the mire that had filled her. This life had bound her as effectively as if she were a falcon tied by a leather shackle, and she wanted to be free.

She steepled her fingers. “You’ve offered a reward to the woman who seduces Sir Mark Turner.”

These words had an immediate effect. Weston sucked his breath in. “How did you know that was me? I thought I kept that quiet.” He looked at her. “It’s supposed to be quiet. It’s no good if I ruin the man at the expense of my own reputation.”

She shrugged. “A little research. There’s not much secrecy among courtesans.”

“I shouldn’t have bothered. A reward of three hundred pounds, and the finest whores in all of London have failed. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of taking him on, Jess.”

She met his gaze without flinching.

“You are thinking of it.” Weston’s lip curled. “Of course you are. You’re between protectors. Honestly, Jess. If you’re that desperate for funds, I’ll take you back.”

After what he’d done to her six months ago, the offer should have made her skin crawl. As it was, the proposition felt like nothing more than the cold gray of shadow.

She should have yearned for justice. She should have wanted revenge. She should, at a minimum, have wanted to extract something from him, of a size and shape to fill the desolate wasteland of nothingness he’d left inside her.

But she’d learned years ago that there was no justice, not for a woman like her. There was no way to crawl backward, to unravel the harms that had been done. There were only small, timid paths to be found through tangled underbrush. If you were lucky, you might hit upon one and escape the dark forest.

“It happens,” she said, “that I have something none of those other women had.”

Weston rubbed his chin. “Well, what is it?”

Desperation, she thought.

But what she said was, “Information. Sir Mark is returning to his boyhood home for the summer—a small market town called Shepton Mallet. I gather he wants to escape the adoring throngs for a period. He’ll be away from his loving public. Staying, not in his brother’s mansion, packed with servants, but in an isolated house, with only a few villagers to come by and take care of his needs.”

“That’s not precisely a secret.”

“With nobody watching him, he’ll have the opportunity to stray from his righteous path. He wouldn’t dare, here in London—he’s the center of everyone’s attention. Out there…?” She trailed off suggestively. “At a very minimum, I should like the chance to try.”

“If you know I made the offer, you know the rules. Seduce him. It needs to be believable—I’ve tried to ruin him with false accounts already, so you’ll have to prove it by getting his ring. Tell the entire ton your experience through the gossip sheets and destroy Sir Mark’s good reputation. Do all that, and you’ll get your money.”

Jessica tapped her lips. “I will be investing far more than an evening’s work. He’ll have to think me available. Not good enough to marry, but genteel enough that I’d make good…company. I’ll be hiring a house in the country. Retaining servants.” It would stretch her last reserves to the breaking point. If this failed, she would have no choice but to find another protector. She stared flatly at the table in front of her. “If I do it, I want three thousand.”

Enough to purchase a small home in the country in a tiny village where nobody knew her. Enough to have morning after morning to herself, to lift her face to the sun. They said time healed all wounds. Jessica prayed it was so, that one day she might feel more than this impossible emptiness.

Weston clapped his hands. “So. The vicar’s daughter has learned to bargain. Admit it, Jess. I made you who you are. You owe me.”

She did owe him. He had made her, twice over. But there was no point in dreaming of a revenge that would never come. Right now, she just wanted to survive. “Three thousand,” she repeated coolly.

“One thousand pounds,” he countered. “Ruin Sir Mark, and I’ll consider it a bargain at the price.”

She’d be damned if she agreed. But then, she was already damned. The only question was whether she’d get full value for her soul.

“Fifteen hundred,” she told him, “and not one penny less.”

“Agreed.” He held out his hand, as if he honestly expected her to shake it.

For one brief second, she imagined grabbing hold of the fireplace poker, not too distant, and smashing it into his arm. Hard. He would fall to his knees… The imagined jolt of the impact shook her from her reverie. “Agreed, then,” she said, pushing to her feet.

Still, she didn’t shake his hand.

CHAPTER TWO

Shepton Mallet

Two weeks later

PEACE. AT LAST.

Sir Mark Turner had walked all the way from the small house on the northern edge of Shepton Mallet into the very center of town, without attracting any more attention than any other newcomer who might make his way to Market Place in the early morning. He’d received a few nods, a few long stares. But there had been no choking crowds, no cries of recognition. No men had followed him, aghast that he walked about without an honor guard twelve-strong.

He’d wanted distance and anonymity to think about the proposal he’d received, to join the Commission on the Poor Laws. Here he’d found it.

He stood in the midst of the market, unmolested. Tomorrow, the rectangular pavement would be filled with butchers and cheesemongers. Today, it was blissfully quiet: only a few individuals could be seen.

Mark had grown up in Shepton Mallet. He knew the history of this square—a mix of the new, the old and the downright ancient. The public house, off to the side of the market, had been built centuries before Mark had been born. An elderly woman had taken shelter from the early-morning sun under the stone arches of the structure that marked the center of the square. Market Cross was a haphazard combination: half gothic spires, half hexagonal stone gazebo. Its tallest tower was topped by a cross. It stood alone in a sea of cobblestones, as if it were the confused, lost nephew of the stone church that stood on the corner.

In the two decades since Mark had left it, the town had changed. People he dimly remembered from childhood had grown older. He’d walked past a building on the way here that had once been a bustling wool mill; now, it was nothing but a burned-out shell. But those minor alterations only underscored how slow change was in arriving. Shepton Mallet was very distant from the frenetic hustle of London. There was no hurry here. Even the sheep he’d encountered on his walk seemed to bleat at a slower rate than the livestock in London.

A few people stood on the edges of the square, conversing. From here, he could not make out individual words—just the rough lilt of Somerset farm country, a rise and fall that, from a distance, sounded like…home.

He hadn’t been back in more than twenty years. Long enough to lose the accent himself, long enough that his tongue felt too fast, too sharp in his mouth, an unwelcome, foreign invader in this familiar place. London sped along at the frenzied pace of steam and piston; Shepton Mallet strolled, like cows returning from the field at the end of a long summer day.

If anyone heard his name, they might recall his mother. They might even conjure up an image of his father, which was more than Mark himself could bring to mind. Perhaps they would also remember Mark: a thin, pale child, who’d accompanied his mother on her charitable missions. They wouldn’t think of Sir Mark Turner, knighted by Victoria’s hand, author of A Gentleman’s Practical Guide to Chastity. They wouldn’t see a shining beacon of saintly virtue.

Thanks be to God. He’d escaped.

He turned slowly. It was early on a Thursday morning, but the market was exactly how he remembered it. The ancient stalls of the marketplace—rough, broad-wood benches—were no doubt still in use because in all the centuries of their service, nobody had ever considered replacing them. They were even called by their old name here: the Shambles. Doubtless, they’d seen as many centuries of service as the public house.

Mark smiled. With all this aging history around him, not one person would care who he was in the present.

“Sir Mark Turner?”

Mark whirled around. He’d never met the man who stood at his back, one hand raised in tentative greeting. He was a plump fellow, dressed in clergyman’s black, with a stiff white clerical collar to match.

The man dropped his raised hand. “I’m Alexander Lewis—the rector of the Church of St. Peter and St. Paul. Don’t look so startled. I’ve been expecting you ever since news got out that your brother the duke had purchased the old Tamish house.”

It wasn’t the old Tamish house; it was the old Turner house. But then, this fellow was one of the few things that was new to Shepton Mallet. As the rector, no doubt he concerned himself with comings and goings. His curiosity was natural. He wasn’t the harbinger of a sudden throng. Mark relaxed slightly.

“I’d heard of your family from my predecessor,” the man was saying. “Welcome back to Shepton Mallet.”

So he was to be the prodigal, returning after decades of desertion. Even better. “The town’s almost exactly as I recall,” Mark said. “But surely you can tell me. What is the latest news?”

As Mark had suspected, Lewis needed little encouragement to begin talking. In minutes, he’d produced a stream of words that Mark needed only half his mind to monitor. After all, they both knew that the only thing that changed in Shepton Mallet was the degree to which the abandoned mills deteriorated every year.

“But times are looking up,” Lewis was saying, capping off a monologue on those selfsame mills. “There’s a new shoe factory beginning to make its mark. And the crepe manufacturers have been seeing redoubled orders. After Her Majesty purchased the silk for her wedding gown from Shepton mills, we’ve seen more patronage.”

This was what small-town life meant. This last was not news—at least, not in the sense that it was new. It was a measure of how slowly time passed in sleepy Shepton Mallet, that the primary topic of conversation was the Queen’s marriage, an event that had taken place more than a year in the past.

Mark had been right to come here. Here, they might have heard of his book and his knighthood. But in this little town, he could escape the inexplicable swarms that had gathered in London. He would be left in peace.

People might even believe that he was human here—the sort of person who had faults and who committed sins—instead of some sort of saint.

“Why,” the rector continued, “I assure you, everyone here feels a debt of gratitude to you on that score.”

The first discordant note sounded in Mark’s bucolic dream. “Gratitude?” he asked in befuddlement. “To me? Why on earth would anyone be grateful to me?”

“Such humility!” Lewis beamed at him. “Everyone knows it was your favor that brought Her Majesty’s eye upon us!” As he spoke, Lewis leaned forward and tapped Mark’s lapels lightly.

A deep dread welled up inside of him. This was not a forward, grasping sort of fumble. Instead, it was a reverent little touch—the way one might dip a forefinger into a font of holy water.

“Oh, no,” Mark protested. “No, no. Really, you mustn’t put that complexion on it. I—”

“We here in Shepton Mallet are truly grateful, you know. If the silk manufacturers had failed…” Lewis spread his arms wide, and Mark looked around. The few people dispersed around the square were all staring at him in avid curiosity.

Not again. Please. He’d come here to escape the adulation, not to be feted once more.

“This town owes you much. Everyone’s been waiting for me to make your acquaintance, so I might show you around. Let me start with this introduction.”

Lewis motioned with one hand, and a figure slouching against one side of the Market Cross straightened. The man—no, however tall the figure, it was a boy—came dashing over, nearly tripping over ungainly feet.

Whoever this young man was—and he could not have been a day older than seventeen—he was well-dressed. He was wearing a top hat. He raised his hand to adjust it every few seconds, as if the article of apparel were new to him after years of the quartered caps that boys favored.

“Sir Mark Turner,” Lewis was saying, with all the pomp of a high-church official, “may I present to you Mr. James Tolliver.”

James Tolliver wore a blue ribbon cockade, artfully formed into the shape of a rose, on the brim of his hat. Mark’s hopes, which had so recently soared as high as the church’s tower, fell eight stories to dash on the cobblestones underfoot. Please. Not a blue rose cockade. Anything but a blue rose cockade. Maybe the ornament was just an accident. Maybe some peddler had brought through a batch, without explaining their significance. Because the alternative—that he was not escaping the hubbub of London, that he had not left behind the hangers-on and the constant reports in the gossip columns—was too appalling to contemplate. He’d come to Shepton Mallet to relax into its relative timelessness.

But Tolliver was peering up at him with wide, brilliant eyes. Mark knew that look—that gaze of utter delight. Tolliver looked as if he’d just received a pony for Christmas and couldn’t wait for his first ride.

And by the way he was staring, Mark was the pony. Before Mark could say anything, his hand was captured in an impassioned grip.

“Forty-seven, sir!” Tolliver squeaked.

Mark stared at the earnest young man in front of him in confusion. The boy had barked out those words as if they had some special significance. “Forty-seven what?”

Forty-seven people who might accost him on the street? Forty-seven more months before society forgot who he was?

The boy’s face fell. “Forty-seven days,” he said, sheepishly.

Mark shook his head in confusion. “Forty-seven days is a little long for a flood, and a bit short for Michaelmas term.”

“It’s been forty-seven days of chastity. Sir.” He frowned in puzzlement. “Didn’t I do it right? Isn’t that how members of the MCB greet one another? I’m the one who started the local division, and I want to make sure our details are correct.”

So the cockade was real, then. Mark stifled a groan. It had been foolish to hope that the MCB had restricted itself to London. It was embarrassing enough there, with those cockades and their weekly meetings. Not to mention the secret hand signals—somebody was always trying to teach him the secret hand signals.

Why was it that men had to take every good principle and turn it into some sort of a club? Why could nobody do the right thing on his own? And how had Mark gotten himself embroiled as the putative head of this one?

“I’m not a member of the Male Chastity Brigade,” Mark said, trying not to make his words sound like a rebuke. “I just wrote the book.”

For a moment, Tolliver simply stared at him in disbelief. Then he smiled. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “After all, Jesus wasn’t Church of England, either.”

Beside him, the rector nodded at this piece of utter insanity. Mark wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or weep.

Instead, he gently removed his hand from Tolliver’s grip. “One thing to consider,” he said. “Comparing me to Christ is…” Ridiculous, for one, but he didn’t want to humiliate the poor boy. A logical fallacy, for another. But this young man, however exuberant, meant well. And he was trying. It was hard to be angry about a youth throwing his heart and soul into chastity, when so many others his age were off pursuing prizefights and fathering bastards instead.