Untouched Mistress

‘Nonsense! Did any of the neighbours see her outside?’ He rubbed at his forehead with undisguised agitation. ‘Hell, they’re bound to draw only one conclusion.’

‘Which is?’ Guy raised an eyebrow.

Weir cleared his throat. ‘I don’t need to spell it out to you, of all people, Varington. She’ll have to be found some more suitable clothing.’

‘More is the pity.’

‘Will you not take this seriously?’ Weir poured himself a glass of whisky and topped up the one that Guy had previously emptied. ‘You must see my dilemma. I cannot have that sort of woman in this house, not with Annabel and the girls, nor can I ignore my Christian duty to help those in need. I cannot cast an unwell woman out into the street.’ He broke off to take a gulp of whisky and said, ‘Who is she anyway? Has she told you her name?’

Guy’s hesitation was small and unnoticeable. ‘We did not get to that.’ He had no real way of knowing, other than his gut instinct, of whether the words she had spoken upon the shore were the truth or just the ramblings of a confused and barely conscious mind.

‘One minute she’s out for the count in my guest bedchamber and the next she’s running down my blasted driveway dressed like a doxy!’ Weir’s mouth drew to a tight straight line. ‘Lord help us, Varington, what am I to do?’

‘Given her determination to leave Seamill Hall I do not think that you will have to do anything.’

‘I don’t like this one little bit. I think I should have the constable over to speak to her.’

Guy thought of the woman’s fear at the mention of the constable. ‘No need for that just yet.’ This was one mystery that Guy intended on solving by himself.

Weir took another sip of whisky. ‘And what the hell happened to her feet?’

‘She ran barefoot across the driveway, must be some glass still out there from the broken lantern. Never had a woman running away from me—well, not one outwith a bedchamber and that didn’t want chasing.’

Weir winced, but smiled all the same. ‘Dear God, Varington.’

‘Quite shocking,’ agreed Guy good-humouredly. ‘But there’s a first for everything.’

Weir’s eyes rolled. ‘I was referring to the woman’s feet.’

Guy laughed. ‘The cuts are not deep. She’ll recover quick enough.’

‘Good,’ said Weir. ‘The sooner that she’s gone, the better. It’s as I said before. There’s something about her that makes me uneasy and what with her trying to run off and our not even knowing who she is…’ Weir stopped and looked at Guy. ‘And she was trying to steal that blanket, was she not?’

‘She was indeed,’ said Guy, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Fortunately I managed to apprehend her before she could make off with the item.’

‘You see…’ Weir nodded sagely ‘…did I not say she could be a criminal?’ And then caught a glimpse of Guy’s face. ‘Will you not be serious? Would you see Annabel and the girls suffer over this woman?’

Guy knew his friend’s predisposition to worry and so he let something of the playful teasing drop away. ‘I shall make it my duty to ensure that neither Annabel nor the girls suffer in the slightest. As you said, the woman is here because of me and she is therefore my responsibility.’ His responsibility indeed, and for once Guy was being entirely serious.

Weir gave a nod. ‘Amen to that.’

‘Amen indeed,’ said Guy, and drained the whisky from his glass in a single gulp.

Sunlight lit the sky as Helena sat by the window, looking out at the stretch of sea that was calm and clear and so pale a blue as to be almost white, water that mirrored the colour of Lord Varington’s eyes. Seagulls called, circling in the sky and from the shore beyond came the rhythmic wash of waves against sand. She was dressed, as she had been since six o’clock that morning when she had given up watching the slow crawl of the hours on the clock.

She adjusted her legs, making herself more comfortable, and felt the press of the linen around her feet, bindings that Lord Varington had put in place. A wash of guilt swept over her, and yet she knew she could not allow guilt to stop her. Lord Varington would not understand. He did not know what it was to be so desperate that it was worth risking anything, even death, to escape. She thought of the words he had spoken yesterday, of his offer of help, of the kindness of his voice and the gentleness of his hands and the smile in his eyes, and Lord only knew how she wanted to believe him. Once upon a time she would have. Not now. Five years of Stephen had taught her better. And yet there was nothing of Stephen in Lord Varington.

She thought again of the tall dark-haired man, just as she had thought about him throughout the night. There was an attractiveness about him, both in his looks and his character. He was handsome and charming and flirtatious…and were it not for his interference she would not still be sitting here in Seamill Hall. Indeed, she reflected, she would never have been here in the first place; most likely she would have perished out upon the shore. It was a sobering thought.

She wondered why he was so concerned with her. The man Weir wasn’t. Mr Weir would not have chased her the length of the driveway in the pouring rain; judging from the look upon his face he would have let her go and been glad of it. But then Mr Weir hadn’t looked at her like he wanted her in his bed. Heaven help her, but she had troubles enough in her life without Lord Varington.

Helena sighed and let her gaze wander to the islands that lay beyond. St Vey was so clear that she could see the different shades of green and brown and purple grey, could see the glint of the sun picking out a brook that flowed over the rocks to the south, and in the north the dark outline of Dunleish Castle. It looked so close, close enough to swim the short stretch of sea that separated it from the mainland, as if she could reach across the water and touch it. St Vey lay only four miles off the coast, and that four miles had cost Agnes and Old Tam their lives. She felt the terrible stab of guilt and of grief. Helena stared for a long time at the island and the water and the sand, and mentally rehearsed her story.

She could go nowhere without owning an identity; that much was obvious. If she told the truth, her fate was sealed: a rapid return to Stephen and Dunleish Castle. She had thought long and hard about her problem, until, at last, in the wee small hours of the morning, came the seed of an idea. As a widow not from these parts, Helena could borrow some money, enough to finish what she had started, and leave Seamill Hall quite properly, without affecting anyone’s gentlemanly sensibilities. Just enough money to finish what she had started: escape to a place where Stephen would not find her.

Helena would speak to Mr Weir’s wife today, and make the necessary arrangements. She would have to lie to them all—to Mr Weir and his wife and to Lord Varington. She ran a hand down her skirt, smoothing out the creases as she stood to go down to breakfast, and remembered a time when she had thought dishonesty to be the most reprehensible of sins. Such naïvety; Stephen had changed that. And yet she found the prospect of lying so blatantly, particularly to Lord Varington, did not sit comfortably with her. Part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. A few lies to a stranger were the least of her problems. But she heard the whisper of a little voice that this stranger had saved her life, and she remembered the touch of his hands upon her feet and the intensity in those pale eyes. She thrust the thoughts away, forced herself on. Survival was everything.

Chapter Three

The woman—Helena, as he suspected she was called—was already seated next to Weir’s wife, Annabel, at the breakfast table when Guy entered the sunlit dining room. She was wearing a drab black dress, clearly something borrowed from one of the servants as Annabel was so much shorter. Pity, when her own sea-shrunken attire was so very much more becoming. Still, even in the servant’s guise, there could be no mistaking that she bore herself with dignity. She was of average height and build. But Helena had a face that marked her out from other women, a face that any man would not easily forget: almond-shaped eyes, a small straight nose and lips that were ripe for kissing. Guy’s eyes lingered over the deep flame of her hair, the cream velvet of her skin and the smoky green of her eyes.

She was exuding an air of calm watchfulness, as if all her actions, every answer, was considered most carefully before given, as if she desired to reveal nothing of the real woman. Yet beneath her composure he thought that he could detect an undercurrent of tension.

‘Good morning, ladies.’

‘Guy!’ Annabel, all pretty and pink and blonde, gushed. ‘We thought you had quite slept in, didn’t we, Mary?’ She glanced at Helena.

Mary? He allowed only the mildest surprise to register upon his face as he turned to look at her. The harsh black of the woollen dress served only to heighten the pale perfection of her skin and the vivid colour of her hair, which had been caught up neatly in a chignon. She did not meet his eyes.

‘It seems that I have missed the introductions.’ He sat down at the table, poured himself some coffee and looked expectantly at the woman who it now seemed was calling herself Mary.

‘Oh, Guy,’ said Annabel. ‘Poor dear Mary has suffered so much—’

‘Perhaps,’ interrupted Weir, ‘Mrs McLelland would be kind enough to recount her story again for Lord Varington? If it is not too much trouble, that is.’

Guy noticed how there was nothing of emotion upon her face, that she wore the same mask-like expression he had watched her don on Weir’s entry to the gunroom yesterday.

‘It would be no trouble at all,’ she said.

Guy sat back, sipped his coffee and waited.

Helena took a deep breath and ignored the way her stomach was beginning to churn. It had not seemed so bad telling her lies to Mr and Mrs Weir alone. It was not something that she would have chosen to do, but needs must, and Helena’s situation was desperate. But now that Lord Varington was sitting across the table, watching her with those pale eyes of his, her determination felt shaken. She forced herself to begin the story that she had spent the hours of the night rehearsing.

‘My name is Mary McLelland and I am from Islay.’ By choosing an island of the Inner Hebrides she was effectively ensuring that any trace that they might set upon her would be slow, so slow that by the time the results of any investigation arrived Mary McLelland would have long fled Scotland. She could see that Lord Varington was still watching her. She forced herself to stay focused, shifted her gaze to where the sunlight reflected upon the silver jug of cream set just beyond her plate. ‘I am the widow of James McLelland, and I am travelling to London to stay with my aunt.’

‘How came you to be washed upon the shore?’ asked Lord Varington.

‘A local boatman from the island agreed to take me on the first leg of my journey, for a fee, of course. When first we started out, the weather was cold and damp, but with little wind. Indeed, the sea was remarkably calm, but that soon changed during the sailing.’ That bit at least was true, and so was the rest of what she had not yet told the Weirs. ‘First the wind fetched up and then the rain began. I have never seen rain of its like. All around us the sea grew wilder and higher, tossing us from wave to wave as if we were a child’s plaything, until the lanterns were lost, and we were clinging to the boat for dear life.’

Helena could no longer see the jug of cream, nor was she aware of the dining room or its inhabitants. Her nose was overwhelmed with the stench of the sea; her skin felt again the rawness of the battering waves. She heard nothing save the roar of the water. It seemed that she could see only the darkness, feel only the terrible fear that had overtaken her as she realised that they were going to die. Agnes was clinging to her, sobbing, wailing. Old Tam’s shouts: Hold fast, lassies. Hold as you’ve never held afore. And pray. Pray that the Lord will have mercy on our souls. Struggling to stay within the boat as it bucked upon the water’s surface. Soaked by the merciless lash of the waves. Gasping for breath. She sucked in the air, fast, urgent. The cry muffled in her throat by the invading sea. Felt the waves lift the boat, so high as to be clear of it, time was suspended. Agnes’s hand in hers, clinging hard. And then they were falling. It was so dark. So cold. And silent…just for a while. The water filled her eyes, her ears, her nose, choked into her lungs, as the sea pulled her down. She could not fight it, just was there, aware of what was happening and strangely accepting of it. Just when she closed her eyes and began to give in to the bursting sensation in her lungs, the sea granted her one last chance, thrusting her back up to its surface, letting her hear Agnes’s screams, Old Tam’s shouts. Her skirts bound themselves around her legs and she could kick no more. And then there was only darkness.

‘Ma’am.’

She opened her eyes to find Lord Varington by her side. She was alive. Agnes and Old Tam were dead…and it was her fault. The sob escaped her before she could bite it back.

His hand was on her arm, dragging her back from the nightmare.

She blinked her eyes, smoothed the raggedness of her breath.

‘Drink this.’ A glass was being pressed into her fingers.

‘There is no need,’ a voice said, and she was surprised to find that it was her own.

‘There’s every need,’ he growled, and guided the glass to her mouth.

The drink was so strong as to burn a track down her throat. Whisky. She coughed and pushed the glass away.

‘Take another sip.’

She shook her head, feeling revived by the whisky’s fiery aromatic tang.

‘She must go and lie down at once!’ Helena became aware of Mrs Weir by her other side. ‘The trauma of recounting the accident has quite overwhelmed her.’

The dreadful memory was receding. And Helena found herself back sitting at the breakfast table in the dining room of Seamill Hall. Only the rhythmic rush of sea upon sand sounded in the distance. She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Mrs Weir, Lord Varington…’ she turned to each in turn ‘…but I am recovered now. I did not expect to be so affected. Forgive my foolishness.’

‘Dear Mary, you are not in the slightest bit foolish. Such a remembrance would overset the strongest of men,’ said Mrs Weir stoutly.

Helena gave a stiff little smile.

‘There is no need for you to continue with your story.’ Mrs Weir looked up imploringly at her husband. ‘Tell her it is so, John.’

Mr Weir looked from his wife to Helena. There was the slightest pause. ‘You need not speak further of your shipwreck, Mrs McLelland.’

‘There is not much more to tell,’ she said, anchoring down all emotion. ‘I do not know what happened other than I landed in the water. From there I remember nothing until I awakened to find myself here.’

‘Mary, you are the bravest of women,’ said Mrs Weir, and patted her arm.

Guilt turned tight in her stomach. ‘No, ma’am.’ She shook her head. ‘I am not that. Not now, not ever.’ There was a harsh misery in her voice that she could not disguise. Lord Varington had heard it, she could see it in the way that he looked at her.

‘You should rest,’ he said.

She turned to him with a slight shake of the head. ‘I am fine, really, I am; besides, I must make myself ready to leave.’

‘To leave, Mrs McLelland?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Mary means to catch the coach to Glasgow,’ said Mrs Weir by way of explanation. ‘She is intent on continuing her journey to London…by stage’

‘Mr and Mrs Weir have been kind enough to agree to lend me what I need. I will, of course, return everything that I have borrowed as soon as I have found my aunt.’

‘You must not worry, Mary. You need return nothing. The maid will be delighted to have a new dress, and John sees that I have more than enough money,’ said Mrs Weir.

Weir said nothing, just sat with a look of undisguised relief upon his face.

Varington resumed his seat opposite Helena. ‘Leaving so soon, Mrs McLelland?’ She remembered that he had spoken similar words within the hallway when she had tried to flee, and that memory brought others that she did not wish to think about—Lord Varington carrying her up the staircase, Lord Varington tending her feet.

‘I am quite recovered and can therefore no longer impose upon Mr and Mrs Weir’s hospitality, and besides…’ Helena folded one hand over the other, keeping a firm grip on her emotions ‘…my aunt is expecting me and shall be worried over my continued absence. I do not wish to add to her concern.’

Varington stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable within the chair. ‘Write her a letter explaining all.’

‘What a good idea,’ said Mrs Weir.

Weir turned away, but not before Helena had seen the roll of his eyes.

‘I would rather see her in person.’

‘Have you no other relatives?’

‘No,’ said Helena, worrying just how far Lord Varington’s questioning and her lies would lead them.

‘And that is why you left Islay—to visit your aunt in London?’

‘Yes.’ Experience with Stephen had taught her it was better not to elaborate.

‘I know London very well. It is my usual abode, apart from when I am coaxed away under extreme duress.’ Varington smiled and glanced meaningfully towards Weir.

Helena swallowed, knowing instinctively that he was leading up to something.

‘Where exactly does your aunt live?’ he asked.

Helena had never visited London in the entirety of her life. She had not an inkling of its streets. Be sure your lies will find you out. The words whispered through her mind. ‘It is not precisely in London,’ she said, racking her brains for a village, any village in the vicinity of the capital.

All eyes were upon her, waiting expectantly.

Hendon was near London, wasn’t it? For once Helena wished she had taken more interest in geography. Her mind went blank. ‘Hendon,’ she said, and hoped that she had not got it wrong.

‘Your aunt lives in Hendon?’ There was a definite interest in Guy’s tone.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know the place, Guy?’ asked Annabel.

‘Indeed,’ he said with more confidence than Helena wanted to hear. ‘I have a friend that lives there. What a coincidence.’

Helena’s heart sank. He would ask her now her aunt’s precise direction in Hendon, and what answer could she give? She dropped her gaze, staring down at her hands and waited for his question.

‘And what travel arrangements have you made, Mrs McLelland?’

She glanced up at him, surprise widening her eyes, relief flooding her veins. ‘I leave this afternoon on the one o’clock mail to Glasgow. From there I will take the stage and travel down the rest of the way.’

‘May I be so bold as to suggest an alternative?’

Helena felt a stab of foreboding. ‘Please do.’

‘I will be returning to London myself at the end of the week. You are most welcome to travel with me.’

It seemed that her heart had ceased to beat. ‘Thank you, my lord, you are generous to think of me, but I cannot wait so long to leave. I must find my aunt as soon as possible.’

Mrs Weir patted Helena’s arm. ‘But it shall be so much safer to travel with Guy than by stage, won’t it, John?’

Lord Varington crooked a sensual smile in Helena’s direction.

There was nothing remotely safe about Lord Varington, Helena thought.

Weir’s eyes slid to meet his friend’s.

‘The stage is inconveniently slow,’ said Lord Varington. ‘You do know that it will take you practically four days to make the journey, don’t you?’

In truth, Helena had no idea how long the journey would take. She had planned to travel by stage rather than mail for the majority of the journey because it was significantly cheaper and she had no wish to indebt herself to Mr and Mrs Weir for any more than was necessary. ‘Of course,’ she lied.

‘I can do it in two,’ he said.

‘And so he can,’ added Mrs Weir, ‘it took him even less to reach us. But I imagine he would have some consideration for a lady passenger and drive a little more sedately than normal.’

Varington laughed. ‘Indeed, I would.’

Helena could feel the noose tightening around her. ‘There is no need to inconvenience yourself, Lord Varington. Besides, I really must reach my aunt before the end of the week. I will take the stage as I planned, and you—’ she gave a kind of breathless forced laugh ‘—may travel every bit as fast as you wish without the encumbrance of a passenger slowing you down.’

‘Mary!’ Mrs Weir scolded.

‘Then you really believe it a matter of urgency to arrive in London before Friday?’ Varington turned the full force of his gaze upon her.

She could feel the guilty warmth in her cheeks. ‘Yes, my lord. I thank you for your offer, but you can see why it is impossible for me to accept.’

‘Very well.’ He nodded.

Helena almost sighed her relief aloud…too soon.

‘We will leave on Monday morning and I will have you in London by Tuesday evening…a full day earlier than the stage’s arrival. I cannot offer better than that.’ A handsome smile spread across his mouth.

Mrs Weir clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, Guy, you are too good!’

Helena froze.

‘Isn’t he, Mary?’ Mrs Weir demanded of Helena.

‘Indeed,’ said Helena weakly, and cast wildly around for some excuse that might extricate her from the mess that her lies had just created. ‘But I could not impose on you to change your plans in such a way. It would be most unfair.’

‘It is no imposition, Mrs McLelland. I look forward to your company,’ he replied, never taking his eyes from hers. ‘Besides, I couldn’t possibly allow a lady to travel alone and by stage.’

‘Thank you,’ said Helena, and forced a smile to her face, knowing that there really was no way out this time. Lord Varington had neatly outmanoeuvred her and there was not a thing that she could do about it.

Lord Varington rose and helped himself to some ham and eggs from the heated serving dishes on the sideboard.

‘Please excuse me,’ Helena said wanly, and escaped to the solitude of the yellow bedchamber, knowing full well that she must wait the rest of this day and all of tomorrow before travelling with Lord Varington to London. She could only hope that he would not insist on taking her directly to the home of her make-believe aunt.

Guy did not see the woman calling herself Mary McLelland again until the next afternoon. She descended the staircase at exactly two o’clock, just as he had known that she would. There was a hint of colour in her cheeks that contrasted prettily with her clear creamy complexion. Several strands of her hair had escaped her pins and she swept them back with nervous fingers. Guy cast an appreciative eye over the image she presented.

‘Lord Varington,’ she said rather breathlessly, ‘I came as your note requested.’ He noticed that she surreptitiously kept her hands folded neatly behind her back…out of sight…and out of reach.

‘Mrs McLelland.’ He moved from where he had been lounging against the heavy stone mantel in the hallway, and walked to meet her. ‘I see you have had the foresight to have worn a cloak. You seem to be eminently practical; not a trait often observed in beautiful women.’

She ignored his comment completely. ‘You said that a boat had been found, that it might be…’ Her words trailed off. ‘Where is it now?’

‘The remains have been carried to Weir’s boat shed, a mere five minutes’ walk from here.’ He waited for her protest at having to walk. None was forthcoming. She just gave a curt nod of her head and started to walk towards the back door. She had almost reached the door when he called softly, ‘Helena.’

Her response was instinctive. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder.

He smiled, and watched as the realisation of what she had just betrayed registered.

The blush bloomed in her cheeks, and something of fear and anger passed transiently across her features. ‘My name is Mary McLelland,’ she said quietly, but she did not meet his eye.