Untouched Mistress

Guy ceased what he was doing and listened. All was quiet except for the soft creaking coming from the main staircase. It was a normal everyday sound, yet for some reason his ears pricked and he became alert. He remembered that Annabel and the children had gone out for the day, and his sense of unease stirred stronger. Guy knew better than to ignore his instincts. Quietly he set the rifle down upon the table and turned towards the door.

Helena reached the bottom of the staircase and, with a nervous darting glance around, moved towards the heavy oak front door. The doorknob was round and made of brass. Her fingers closed around it, feeling the metal cold beneath her skin. She gripped harder, twisted, turning the handle as quietly as she could. The door began to open. She shivered as the wind rushed around her ankles and toes. She pulled the door a little wider, letting the wind drive the raindrops against her face. Up above, the sky was grey and dismal. Out in front, the gravel driveway was waterlogged with rain that still pelted with a ferocity. Helena made to step down on to the stone stair.

‘Not planning on leaving us so soon, are you?’

The voice made her jump. She let out a squeak, half-turned and saw a man in the shadows behind the staircase.

Helena reacted instinctively. She spun, wrenched the door open, and fled down across the two wide stone steps and up the driveway. The blanket was thrown aside in her haste. Gravel and something sharp cut into her feet; she barely noticed, just kept on running, towards the tall metal gate at the end of the driveway, unmindful of the rain that splashed up from puddles and poured down from the heavens. Running and running, ignoring the rawness in her throat from her gasping breath, ignoring the stitch of pain in her side, and the pounding in her head and the heavy slowness of her legs. She could feel her heart pumping fit to burst. And still, she ran and just ahead lay the road; she could see it through the iron railings of the gate. So close. And then she felt the grasp upon her shoulder, his hand slipping down to her arm, pulling her back. She fought against him, struggling to break his hold, lashing out at him.

He caught her flailing wrists. ‘Calm down, I mean you no harm.’

‘No!’ she cried, and struggled all the harder.

‘Ma’am, I beg of you!’ She found herself pulled hard against him, his arms restraining hers. ‘Look at me.’

She tried to wriggle away, but he was too strong.

‘Look at me,’ he said again. His voice was calm and not unkind. The panic that had seized her died away. She raised her eyes to his and saw that he was the pale-eyed angel from her dream. No angel, just a man, with hair as dark as ebony, and skin as white as snow and piercing ice-blue eyes filled with compassion.

‘What the—’ He caught the words back. ‘You are not yet recovered. Come back to the house.’

‘I will not.’ She began to struggle against him, but could do nothing to release his grip.

‘You have no shoes, no cloak, no money. How far do you think you will get in this weather?’ The rain ran in rivulets down his face. Even his coat was rapidly darkening beneath the downpour of rain. She was standing so close that she could see each individual ebony lash that framed the paleness of his eyes, so close that she could see the faint blue shadow of stubbled growth over his jaw…and the rain that dripped from his hair to run down the pallor of his cheeks. ‘Come back inside,’ he said, and his voice was gentle. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

She closed her eyes at that, almost laughed at it. Nothing to fear, indeed. He had no idea; none at all. ‘Release me, sir.’

He did not release her, nor did his eyes leave hers for a second, and she could see what his answer would be before he even said the words. ‘I cannot. You would not survive.’

‘I will take my chance.’ Better that than sit and wait for Stephen to find her.

‘We can discuss this inside.’

‘No!’

‘Then let us discuss it here, if it is your preference.’

A carriage rolled by on the road outside, its wheels splashing through the puddles. She glanced towards the gate, nervous that Stephen might arrive even as she stood here in this man’s arms. ‘You are getting wet, sir.’

‘As are you,’ came the reply.

She could see by the determined light in his eyes that he would not release her. He thought he was being a gentleman; he would be no gentleman if he knew the truth. She shivered.

‘And cold,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ And gently he began to steer her back up the driveway to where the front door lay open.

Chapter Two

Guy did not release the woman until they were standing before the roaring fire in Weir’s gunroom. He poured two glasses of whisky, pressed one into her hand and took the other himself. The amber liquid burned a path down through his chest and into his stomach. The woman stood there, the glass untouched in her hand.

‘Drink it,’ he instructed. ‘God knows, you need it after that soaking.’

She hesitated, then took a sip, coughing as the heat of the whisky hit the back of her throat.

He could feel the glow from the flames warming his legs and see the steam starting to rise from the dampness of the woman’s skirts. ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is about?’ They stood facing each other before the fireplace. He could see the rain droplets still glistening on her cheeks. His eye travelled down, following the thick snaking tendrils of hair that lay against her breast, their colour deep and dark with rain. The smell of wet wool surrounded them.

She was not looking at him; her focus was fixed on the whisky glass still in her hand, and he thought from her manner that she would give him no answer. A lump of coal cracked and hissed upon the fire. The clock ticked. The wind whistled against the windowpanes, causing the curtains at either side to sway. And then she spoke, quietly with a cautious tone for all that her face had become expressionless. ‘Who are you, sir, and where is this place?’

‘I forget my manners, ma’am.’ He gave the slightest of bows. ‘I am Viscount Varington and we are in Seamill Hall, the home of my good friend Mr Weir.’

He thought that she paled at his words. ‘Seamill Hall?’ Her eyes closed momentarily as if that revelation was in some way unwelcome news, and when they opened again she had wiped all emotion from them. ‘It was you that rescued me from the shore,’ she said.

He gave a small inclination of his head. ‘You were washed up near Portincross.’

‘Alone?’ She could not quite disguise the anxiety in her voice.

And then he remembered the companions that she had cried out for upon the shore, and understood what it was that she was asking. ‘Quite alone,’ he said gently.

She lowered her gaze and stood in silence.

He reached out his hand, intending to offer some small solace, but she stared up at him and there was something in her eyes that stopped him. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he offered instead.

‘My loss? What do you mean, sir?’ He saw the flash of wariness before she hid it.

‘The death of your companions. You alluded to them upon the shore.’

‘I cannot recall our conversing.’ She set the whisky glass down. Her hands slid together in a seemingly demure posture but he could see from the whiteness of her knuckles how tightly they gripped. ‘What did I tell you?’

Guy could feel the tension emanating from her and he wondered what it was that she feared so very much to have told. He gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. ‘Very little.’

There was the hint of relaxation in her stance, nothing else.

‘The boat’s other occupants are likely to have been lost. Had there been anyone else come ashore, we would have heard of it by now.’

She stilled. It seemed to Guy that she was holding her breath. And all of the tension was back in an instant, for all that she stood there with her expression so guarded. ‘But it is only an hour or two since you found me.’

‘On the contrary…’ he gave a rueful smile ‘…you have lain upstairs for three days.’

‘Three days!’ There was no doubting her incredulity. The colour drained from her face, leaving her so pale that he was convinced that she would faint.

Guy set out a hand to steady her arm.

‘It cannot be,’ she whispered, as if to herself, and again there was the flicker of fear in her eyes, there, then gone. And then she seemed to remember just where she was, and that he was present, standing so close, supporting her arm. She backed away, increasing the distance, breaking the link between them. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I did not realise.’

‘You have suffered a shock, ma’am. Sit down.’

‘No.’ She began to shake her head, then seemed to change her mind and stumbled back into the nearest chair.

‘To where were you running?’

She did not look at him, just said in a flat voice, ‘You have no right to keep me here against my will.’

‘Indeed I do not.’

Her eyes widened. He saw surprise and hope flash in them and wondered why she was so hell-bent on escape.

‘Then you will let me go?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why…’ she hesitated and bit at her bottom lip ‘…why did you stop me?’

‘I didn’t save your life to have you throw it away again. You are not dressed for this weather.’ And what the hell kind of woman woke from her sickbed in a strange place and hightailed it down the driveway in a torrent of rain without so much as a by your leave to those who had cared for her? He looked at the woman sitting before him.

‘I must leave here as soon as possible.’

‘Why such haste?’

She shook her head. ‘I cannot tell you.’

‘Then I cannot help you.’

Her mouth twisted to an ironic smile, and he thought for a moment that she would either laugh or weep, but she did neither. ‘No one can help me, Lord Varington. I am well aware of that. Besides, I am not asking for your help.’ And there was such honesty in her answer that Guy felt a shiver touch to his spine.

‘You have no money, no adequate clothing—’ his eyes flicked down over the creamy swell of her bosom ‘—and you are unwell from your ordeal. How far do you think you will get without some measure of assistance?’

‘That should not concern you, my lord.’

‘It should concern any gentleman, ma’am.’

There was the quiet sound of a sigh and she looked away. ‘If you have any real concern for my welfare, you will take me to the door and wave me on my way.’

‘Why are you in such a hurry to leave? You have been in this house for three days—what difference will one more make?’

‘More than you can know,’ she said quietly.

‘Come, ma’am, tell me what can be so very bad?’

She gave a small shake of her head and looked down.

Guy knew he needed something more to push her to speak. ‘Or should I address that question to the constable? Shall we have him back to speak with you now that you have wakened?’

She stared up with widening eyes, her fear palpable. He saw the way that her hands wrung together and he felt wretched for her plight. Yet even so, he let the silence stretch between them.

‘Please…please do not,’ she said at last, as if she could bear the silence no more.

He stepped towards her, drew her up from the chair to stand before him and said very gently, ‘Why not?’

There was just the tiniest shake of her head.

She was exhausted, not yet recovered from battling a stormy winter sea. She had been half-drowned, frozen, battered and cast up to die upon a shoreline. Her companions had died that night in the Firth of Clyde. That she had escaped death was a miracle. He eyed the bruise still livid against the pale skin of her forehead and stepped closer, so that barely a foot separated them. ‘Tell me.’ He stared into her eyes—a beautiful grey green, as soft-looking as velvet. The desperation there seemed to touch his soul. ‘I promise I will help you.’

Her eyes searched his, as if she were trying to gauge the truth of his words. He could sense her wavering.

‘I…’ She inhaled deeply.

He held his breath in anticipation.

‘I—’

The door of the gunroom swung open and Weir strode in.

The moment was lost. Guy’s breath released in a rush.

‘The strangest thing, Varington. Brown has just retrieved a blanket from the…’ Weir’s words trailed off at the sight before his eyes.

Guy watched the woman step away from him, and inwardly cursed his friend’s timing. All of the emotion wiped from her face and she became remote and impassive and untouchable. The transformation was remarkable, like watching her change into a different woman, or more like watching a mask pulled into place to hide the woman behind, he thought.

‘What the blazes…?’ Weir’s eyes swung from Guy to the woman and back again. ‘You’re soaked through to the skin.’

‘The lady and I stepped outside for a spot of fresh air,’ said Guy. ‘It felt a trifle stuffy in here.’

Weir seemed to have lost the power of words. His mouth gaped. He stared.

‘I was just about to escort your guest up to her bedchamber. She needs a change of clothing.’ He began to guide her towards the door.

‘Varington.’ It seemed that Weir had found his voice.

Guy glanced back at his friend.

Weir gestured down towards the woman’s feet.

Only then did Guy notice the trail of bloody footprints that she left in her wake and the crimson staining that crept around the edges of the skin on her feet.

But the woman continued walking steadily on towards the door.

‘Your feet…I will carry you.’ He caught her arm.

‘There is no need, my lord, I assure you.’ She appeared so calm that he wondered if it were he that was going mad. Hadn’t she just tried to run away, leaving the warmth and protection of Weir’s house, and for what? He was quite sure that she had nowhere else to go, why else had she taken the blanket? And when he had tried to stop her, she had fled from him, fought with him, pleaded with him to let her go. He had seen the terror in her eyes, the utter anguish. And now she stood there as if there was nothing wrong in the slightest. Guy stared all the harder.

Her face was white, the shadows beneath her eyes more pronounced. The bruise on her head told him that it undoubtedly throbbed, and the blood on her feet only hinted at the damage beneath. Yet she looked at him like she felt nothing of the pain; indeed, like she felt nothing at all. He wondered again who this woman was and what it was that she was hiding and why she so feared the constable. And he remembered Weir’s allusions to her criminality.

He glanced at his friend.

Weir gave a nod, his face taut, unsmiling, worried.

Guy turned and accompanied the woman from the room.

It was all Helena could do to put one foot in front of the other. The soles of her feet were stinging red raw and her legs seemed unwieldy and heavy. Her head was throbbing so badly that she could barely think straight, and it seemed that her eyes could not keep up with the speed of the things moving around her. She swallowed down the nausea that threatened to rise. Yet through the pain and the discomfort she kept on going. One step and then another. Each one taking her closer to the bedchamber. Keep going, she willed herself. Think of another way out. She wouldn’t give up; she couldn’t, not now, not while there was still breath in her lungs and blood in her veins. So she walked and focused her mind away from the pain. She thought of her plan; she always thought of her plan at such times.

The gunroom door closed behind them.

‘Allow me…’ Lord Varington held out his arm for her to take.

Her immediate reaction was to reject his offer, but in truth she felt so unwell that she was not confident that she could make the journey without stumbling. Better to take his arm than to fall. So she tucked her hand against his sleeve and slowly, without a further word between them, they made their way along the passageway towards the stairs.

Helena was both resentful and glad of the support of Lord Varington. His arm was strong and steady, his presence simultaneously reassuring and disturbing. His sleeve was warm beneath her fingers and she could feel the hard strength in the muscle beneath. He smelled of cologne and soap, and nothing of that which she associated with Stephen. Everything of him suggested expense: his looks, his manner, his tailoring. Even his accent betrayed his upper-class roots. But Helena knew a rake when she saw one.

With his oh-so-charming manner and his handsome looks, she supposed Lord Varington was a man used to getting what he wanted when it came to women—and she felt a fool for so nearly trusting him and blurting out the truth. She wondered how much she would have revealed had the other man, Weir, not returned to the gunroom exactly when he did. The thought seemed to sap the last of her energy. She focused her attention on reaching her bedchamber.

Every step up the staircase drained her flagging strength. Her head was swimming with dizziness and her legs felt so weak that she scarcely could lift them to find the next stair. She leaned heavily, one hand on the worn wooden banister that ran parallel to the staircase, the other on Lord Varington. At the end of the first flight she paused, trying to hide the fact that her breathing was as heavy as if she had been running rather than tottering up the stairs.

‘I think it might be easier if I were to carry you up the remainder of the distance,’ he suggested in that deep melodic voice of his.

‘No, thank you.’ Even those few words seemed an effort. She did not look round at him, just concentrated all her effort on remaining upright, and tried to ignore the perspiration beading upon her brow and the slight blurring of her vision. She forced herself to focus upon the banister beneath her right hand. The wood was worn smooth and dark from years of use, and warm beneath the grip of her fingers.

The smile in his voice rendered it friendly and sensual and slightly teasing. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, ‘after the last time, I was rather looking forward to it.’

She stayed as she was, unmoving, her gaze fixed upon the banister. ‘I don’t know what you mean, my lord.’

‘Surely you cannot have forgotten your journey from Portincross to Seamill Hall—I carried you in my arms.’

The banister began to distort before her eyes. She squeezed them shut and gripped at it even harder.

‘Ma’am?’ The teasing tone had gone, replaced now with concern.

‘I require only to catch my breath,’ she managed to murmur.

‘I see,’ he said, and before she realised his intent, he had scooped her up into his arms and was walking up the staircase.

She struggled to show some sense of indignation. ‘Sir!’

‘You may catch your breath a mite easier this way.’ He crooked a smile.

‘Lord Varington…’ she started to protest, but her head was giddy and her words trailed off and she let him carry her the rest of the way.

He laid her upon the bed.

She knew that she was wasting precious time, tried to push herself to sit up.

‘Rest a while,’ he said, and eased her back down. Only then did she notice the maid in the background setting down a pitcher and some linen. Lord Varington saw the girl, too, and beckoned her over. He took off his coat, casting it aside on one of the chairs by the fireplace. Helena watched him move to stand at the bottom of the bed and she knew she should get up and run. His intent was clear. Why else did a man take off his coat? But Helena did not move. She couldn’t. It was as if she was made of lead. Her arms, her legs, her body were so heavy, all of them weighing her down. She stared as he rolled up his sleeves and she heard the sound of water being poured. And then, unbelievably, Lord Varington began to wash her feet. ‘Sir!’ she gasped, ‘You must not!’ The pale eyes flickered up to meet hers, and she saw in them a determination that mirrored her own.

‘They must be cleansed if the cuts are not to suppurate,’ he said.

She could see the maid’s face staring in disbelief. But Lord Varington’s hands were on her feet, wiping away the dirt and the blood and picking out the embedded gravel. His touch was gentle, caressing almost. One hand held her foot firmly, the other stroked the pad of linen against the sole. No man had ever touched Helena with such gentleness. His fingers were warm and strong and sensitive. Carefully working around each cut, each tear of skin, as if tending wounded feet was something that he did every day. The movement of his hands soothed her. And it seemed to Helena that something of her pain eased, and her head did not throb quite so angrily, nor her body ache so badly. So she just lay there and allowed him to tend her, and it seemed too intimate, as if something that would happen between lovers. She raised her eyes to his and looked at him and he looked right back, and in that moment she knew that she was as aware of him as a man as he was of her as a woman. And the realisation was shocking. She tore her gaze away, feeling the sudden skitter of her heart, and traitorous heat stain her cheeks. Lord Varington’s hands did not falter. When he had finished with the cleansing he dabbed her soles with something that stung.

Helena bit her lip to smother her gasp.

‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘To prevent infection.’ Then he dried her feet and bound them up in linen strips.

He spoke to the maid. ‘Bring some dry clothing for the lady and help her change. And put some extra blankets upon the bed and more coal upon the fire.’ Then he took up his coat and moved to stand by the side of the bed.

Helena pushed herself up to a sitting position, leaning back heavily against the pillows. ‘Thank you.’

The expression on Lord Varington’s face was unfathomable and yet strangely intense. ‘Rest now, we will speak tomorrow.’ And the door closed quietly behind him.

She looked over to where the maid was placing several large lumps of coal from the scuttle on to the fire. The room was quiet save for the wind that rattled at the window and the drip of water from the guttering. He would want to know everything tomorrow—who she was, how she had come to be washed up on the shore. Her heart sank at the prospect and she knew that she had to find a way out of this mess in which she now found herself.

‘Well? What the hell just happened?’ demanded Weir.

‘Our mystery lady decided to leave in rather a hurry,’ said Guy.

‘What the blazes…? You mean, she tried to run away?’

‘Unbelievable that it may be for any woman to flee from me, I know, yet…’ he smiled mischievously ‘…in this case, true.’

‘But what on earth can have possessed her?’ Weir looked pointedly at his friend’s damp clothing. ‘I mean, she must have only just come to, and it isn’t exactly walking weather, is it?’

‘Hardly,’ replied Guy.

‘Then why?’

Guy shrugged. ‘The lady is reticent to reveal her reasons. She does, however, appear unwilling to prolong her stay. Most probably she does not wish to inconvenience you further,’ he lied. More likely she was fleeing the constable, but there was no need to make mention of that if he did not want Weir to eject her immediately.

‘Damn and blast it! Can’t be turfing her out when the woman is so clearly ill recovered. But…’

‘But?’ prompted Guy.

‘You know that I do not like having her here.’

‘Oh, come on, Weir, you cannot tell me that she is not a beauty.’

‘She looks like a doxy.’

Guy smiled. ‘Aye, but a damnably attractive doxy.’ Indeed, she was quite the most beautiful woman Guy had seen, and Guy, Lord Varington, had seen a great many beautiful women.

‘All that hair, and that dress, and bare feet and those ankles.’

Guy put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. ‘Divine.’ He smiled. ‘But it is the sea we have to thank for her appearance. You judge her too soon, my friend. Perhaps she is the height of respectability.’

Weir snorted. ‘That is profoundly unlikely.’

Guy laughed. ‘I fear that her beauty has prejudiced you.’