Untouched Mistress

‘If you say so…Mary McLelland,’ he said, moving in a leisurely manner towards her.

He offered his arm. She took it because she could not politely do otherwise. Together they walked down the back garden until they reached the start of the overgrown lane that led down to the shore and the boathouse.

Guy looked down at her thin leather shoes. ‘Perhaps I should carry you,’ he suggested. ‘The grass is still wet from last night’s rain and I would not want you to spoil your shoes or dress. And, of course—’ he looked directly into her eyes ‘—there is the matter of your wounded feet.’

She threw him an outraged look. ‘My feet are perfectly recovered, thank you.’ And she blushed again.

And Guy knew very well that she was remembering, just as he was, the intimacy of that moment in her bedchamber. He smiled. ‘Or if you prefer, we can turn back.’ He waited with all the appearance of politeness, knowing full well what her answer would be.

‘I am perfectly capable of negotiating the pathway, Lord Varington.’

‘As you will, Mrs McLelland, but I must warn you that the surface is rather uneven.’ Having successfully goaded her, he smiled again and waited for her to set off.

Wild bramble bushes seemed to have taken over on either side, their long thorny branches encroaching far into the path. Not only that, but the grass underfoot was wet, and peppered with jagged nettles, small rocks and shells and copious mounds of sheep droppings. Long riding boots protected Guy’s feet and legs. He sauntered nonchalantly over every obstacle. The same could not be said for Helena. Despite picking her way with the greatest of care, it was not long before her shoes and bandaged feet were soaking. And to make matters worse, water was wicking from the grass up and over the edge of her skirt. Three times a bramble branch managed to snag her skirt most viciously, and twice upon the cloak borrowed from Annabel, the last of which to her chagrin necessitated Guy’s assistance in freeing it. All around them was the smell of damp undergrowth, of earth and sea and fresh air.

The path eventually led them out to the shore and a rather dilapidated-looking large hut. The wood was a faded ash colour, bleached and beaten into submission by years of hostile weather. Guy slipped the key from his pocket. It turned stiffly in the lock. The door creaked open under the weight of his hand. And they were in.

It was a boathouse without a boat. The floor consisted of creaking wooden planks that were covered in a damp sugaring of sand. Over in one corner a pile of crates and lobster pots had been neatly stacked. In another was a sprawl of ropes and nets and in yet another a few barrels and casks. In the middle of the floor lay a small mound covered with a rumpled canvas sheet.

‘But where is the rowing boat?’ Helena peered around the hut.

Guy saw her pull the cloak more tightly around her body. He had made no mention of the type of boat in his note to her. And having viewed a map of the exact location of the island of Islay, Guy was quite willing to bet that no boatman worth his salt would have attempted to row the distance single handed in so small a boat as the remains of which lay in this boat shed. ‘Here.’ He indicated the canvas.

‘But…’ Her words trailed off as he moved forward and pulled the sheet back to reveal the pile of broken timbers.

He watched her face closely for any sign of reaction.

‘I thought…’

‘I should have warned you that it was badly shattered.’ He crouched and began to separate the remnants of the boat, laying them out across the floor with care. ‘Part of the bow is still intact.’ He placed it close to her feet.

She dropped to her knees beside him, unmindful of the hardness of the wooden floor or the sand that now clung to the damp wool of her dress. She reached out a hand, caressed fingers against what had once been the bow of a small boat.

‘I do not know. I cannot tell if it is the same boat.’ She shook her head, a look of frustration crossing her brow.

‘And there is this,’ he said, uncovering a ripped piece of timber on which a string of bright letters had been painted.

He sensed the sudden stillness in the figure by his side. It seemed that she did not so much as breathe, just leaned forward, taking the torn planking from his hand to trace the remnants of the name.

‘Bonnie Lass.’ Her voice was just a whisper. She swallowed hard; without moving, without even laying down the wood, she closed her eyes. She looked as if she might be praying, kneeling as she was upon the floor with her eyes so tightly shut. Her face appeared bloodless and even her lips had paled.

‘Mrs McLelland,’ he said, and gently removed the wood from between her fingers to place it on the ground. ‘Do you recognise what remains of this boat?’

She made no sign of having heard him.

He heard the shallowness of her breathing, saw how tightly she pressed her lips together in an effort to control the strength of the emotion assailing her. ‘Helena,’ he said quietly, and touched a hand to her arm.

Even then she did not open her eyes, just stayed as she was, rigid and unwavering.

He pulled her kneeling form against him, his hands stroking what comfort he could offer against her back, his breath touching against her hair. Yet still, she did not yield.

His fingers moved to caress her hair, not caring that several of her hairpins scattered upon the floor in the process.

He heard the pain in her whispered words, ‘They should not have died. It was my fault. They were only there to help me. And now they’re dead.’ For all her agony she did not weep.

Guy held her, awkward and stiff though she was, and looked down into her face. ‘How can it be your fault?’ he said. ‘It was an accident, nothing more than a terrible accident. A small boat out in a big storm.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘Then explain it to me,’ he said gently.

Her eyes slowly opened and looked up into his. And for a moment he thought she would do just that. Every vestige of defence had vanished from her face. Stripped of all pretence she looked young and vulnerable…and desperately afraid. ‘I…’

He waited for what she would say.

‘I…’

And then he saw the change in her eyes, the defensive shutters shift back into place.

‘I must be getting back. Mrs Weir will be wondering where I am.’ She began to gather up her hairpins.

‘Annabel knows very well where you are,’ he said with exasperation.

Helena carefully picked each pin from the sandy floor before rising and turning to leave.

‘Wait,’ he said, catching her back by her wrist. ‘You are certain that this is the boat in which you travelled?’

A nod of the head sent a shimmer down the coils of hair dangling against her breast. ‘Yes.’

‘With whom did you sail?’

He saw the pain in her eyes, the slight wince before she recovered herself. ‘The boatman who agreed to take me.’

‘Who else?’

‘No one,’ she said, and averted her eyes.

‘Not even your maid?’

Her gaze darted to his and then away. He heard her small fast intake of breath and released her. She folded her hands together, but they gripped so tightly that her knuckles shone white. ‘I have told you my story.’

He reached one finger to tilt her chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘And that is exactly what you’ve told me, isn’t it, Helena? A story.’

He saw the involuntary swallow before she pulled her head away.

‘When I found you upon the shore you told me that your maid, Agnes, had been with you in the boat. In your distress just now you spoke of them, rather than he. Why will you not tell me what happened?’

She shook her head, stumbling back to get away from him.

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her to him, until he could feel the wool of her dress pressing against his thighs, feel the softness of her breast against his chest. He lowered his face to hers, so close that their lips almost touched. He could see each fleck within her eyes, every long dark red lash that bordered them, the delicate red arc of her eyebrow. His lips tingled with the proximity of her mouth, so close that they shared the same breath. ‘The truth has a strange way of making itself known sooner or later, sweetheart. Are you sure that you do not want to tell me yourself?’ Much more of this and he would give in to every instinct and kiss her as thoroughly and as hard as he wanted to.

The tension stretched between them.

His eyes slid longingly to her mouth, to the soft ripeness of her lips. He was so close as to almost taste her.

‘Please, Lord Varington,’ she gasped.

It was enough to bring him to his senses. Slowly he released her. Watched while she began to coil her hair back into place.

He replaced the boat wreckage in an orderly pile and re-covered it with the canvas, and when he looked again she had tidied her hair.

‘We should return to the house.’ She spoke calmly, smoothing down the creases in her skirt, fixing the cloak around her body, as if she hadn’t just discovered the boat that had claimed the life of her servants and very nearly her own, as if she was not grieving and afraid. There wasn’t even the slightest hint that he had just pressed her the length of his body and almost ravaged her lips with his own. Yet he had felt the tremor ripple through her, the strength of her suppressed emotion. There was no doubting that the woman before him was a consummate actress when it came to hiding her feelings. But Guy had glimpsed behind her façade, and what he saw was temptation itself. What else was she hiding and why? Guy was growing steadfastly more determined to discover the mystery of the beautiful redheaded woman.

Chapter Four

Later that afternoon Guy was sharing a bottle of whisky with Weir in the comfort of Weir’s gunroom.

‘Do you think that she was lying about the boat?’ Weir poured yet another tot of whisky into Guy’s glass and added a splash of water. ‘Could be she’d never set eyes on the blasted thing before. I’m beginning to wonder whether this whole thing of her being apparently washed up on the shore that morning isn’t just some kind of farce.’

‘Her reaction to the boat seemed genuine enough. She’d have to be a damned good actress to have feigned that.’ Guy accepted the whisky with thanks.

‘Well, maybe that’s exactly what she is.’

‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘Certainly her name is not Mary McLelland, nor did she travel alone with a boatman from Islay. But whoever she is, and whatever she’s up to, I think she recognised the wreckage of the Bonnie Lass.’

Weir stood warming himself at the massive fire that roared in the chimney place. ‘Doesn’t mean she was in it when it went down.’

‘Maybe not,’ said Guy.

‘Don’t you think it rather incredible that anyone, let alone a woman, could have survived being shipwrecked in such conditions?’

‘Incredible, yes, but not impossible.’

‘She might have arranged herself on the shore like that for some passing soul to find.’

‘Come on, Weir. You saw the state she was in when I brought her here. Had I not chanced upon her when I did she would have died. And no one could have known I’d decided to walk along the beach when I did. It’s not exactly my usual habit.’

‘That’s true. But even had you not gone out walking that morning, someone would have found her. Storms wash up all manner of things. The villagers would have been down looking for firewood and Spanish treasure.’

‘There was firewood aplenty, but nothing of treasure,’ said Guy with a grin, ‘unless one counts a half-drowned woman in that league.’

Weir rolled his eyes.

‘Besides,’ said Guy, ‘if she contrived the whole thing to land herself a bed here, why has she been so determined to leave since regaining consciousness? It doesn’t add up.’

‘Whether she was shipwrecked or not, that woman is bad news.’

‘Don’t worry, old man. I’ll have her off your hands and out of your house tomorrow morning.’

‘You seem rather determined to have her travel down to London with you. I must confess that although I’ll be relieved to see the back of her, I beg that you will exercise some level of caution where “Mrs McLelland” is concerned.’

Guy gave a laugh. ‘What exactly do you think that she’s going to do to me?’

‘God only knows.’ Weir sighed. ‘Just have a care, that’s all I’m asking. I don’t want anything happening to you. Tregellas would kill me.’

‘And there was me thinking you had some measure of friendship for me, when in truth your concern is because you’re afraid of my brother.’

‘Everyone’s afraid of your brother!’ Weir took a gulp of whisky.

Guy smiled and refilled the two glasses. ‘Still got your feeling of impending doom?’ he teased

‘Don’t laugh at me. The blasted thing’s lodged in my gullet and showing no signs of shifting. I’m serious, Varington, take care where that woman’s concerned.’

‘No need to be so worried, Weir. I mean to pay very close attention to Mrs McLelland for the entirety of our journey together.’

Weir’s eyes became small and beady with suspicion. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. Just what are you up to?’

One corner of Guy’s mouth tugged upwards. ‘We wish to know the truth of the woman who is at present your guest, and by the time we reach London I tell you I will have it.’

Weir leaned back in his chair and gave a weary sigh. ‘And just how do you intend to do that? She’ll just feed you more lies as she’s done so far. I wish you’d let me send for the constable.’

‘Not at all, my dear Weir. You see, it’s really quite simple.’ Guy smiled. ‘I mean to seduce the truth from her.’

A groan sounded from Weir. ‘I beg you will reconsider. You can have women aplenty once you’re back in London. And if musts, then even in the coaching inns on your way down, though the Lord knows I must counsel you against it.’

‘Alas, my friend, you know that I have a penchant for widows with red hair.’ Guy was smiling as if not quite in earnest. ‘And it will be an easy enough and rather pleasant distraction from the tedium of the journey. By the time I’m home I shall know the truth of her, just in time to kiss her goodbye and set her on her way.’ He loosened his neckcloth and made himself more comfortable in the chair.

‘I have a bad feeling over this.’

‘Relax, Weir. I’ve had plenty of practice in the art of seduction. I’ll have Mrs McLelland spilling her secrets before we’re anywhere near the capital.’

‘I only hope you know what you’re doing, Varington.’

Guy raised his whisky glass and made a toast. ‘To Mary McLelland.’

‘Mary McLelland,’ repeated Weir. ‘And an end to the whole unsettling episode.’

At half past seven the next morning a murky grey light was dawning across the skyline. The noise of horses and wheels crunched upon gravel and gulls sounded overhead. Helena inhaled deeply, dragging in the scent of the place, trying to impress it upon her memory. Salt and seaweed and damp sand. It was a clean smell and one that she had known all her life. After today she did not know when, or indeed if, she would ever smell it again. Mercifully the weather seemed to have gentled. Only a breath of a sea breeze ruffled the ribbons of her borrowed bonnet and whispered its freshness against her cheeks. Despite the early hour Mrs Weir was up, wrapped in the largest, thickest shawl that Helena had seen.

‘I simply could not let you go without saying goodbye, my dear Mary.’ Mrs Weir linked an impulsive hand through Helena’s arm. ‘You will write to me, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’ Helena smiled, hiding the sadness that tugged at her heart. Once Mrs Weir knew the truth she would not want letters. In short she would not want anything to do with ‘Mary McLelland’.

Mrs Weir pulled her aside and lowered her voice in a conspiratorial fashion. ‘Mary, there is something I must say to you before you leave.’ She patted her hand. ‘There is no need to look so worried. It is just that…’ She bit at her lip. ‘Promise me that you will not heed any rumours that you may come to hear concerning Lord Varington or his brother while you are in London.’

‘Rumours?’ Helena stared at her, puzzled.

‘Promise me,’ said Mrs Weir determinedly. ‘Guy is a good man.’ Mrs Weir smiled and let her voice return to its normal volume.

‘I do not let gossip influence my opinion of people,’ said Helena.

‘You must come back and visit me soon. London is such a long way and John is most reticent to leave his lands, else I would visit you myself.’

John Weir could not quite manage to force a smile to his face. ‘Come now, Annabel, we must let Lord Varington and Mrs McLelland be on their way. They have a considerable distance to travel today.’ So saying, he moved forward and drew his wife’s hand into his own. The message was very clear.

Helena made her curtsy, thanked Mr and Mrs Weir again for all their kindness and finally allowed herself to look round at Lord Varington.

He was watching her while fondling the muzzle of one of the four grey horses that stood ready to pull the carriage. ‘Mrs McLelland, allow me to assist you, ma’am.’ He moved towards her, took her hand in his and helped her up the steps into the carriage.

Helena gave a polite little inclination of the head, ignored the awareness that his proximity brought and quelled quite admirably the fear of being enclosed within a carriage for two days with the man by her side. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said stiffly.

Only once she was comfortably seated with a travelling rug wrapped most firmly around her knees and a hot brick beneath her feet, all fussed over personally by Lord Varington himself, did the carriage make ready to depart. The door slammed shut. Lord Varington flashed her a most handsome smile.

Helena experienced a moment of panic and struggled out from beneath the blanket, which in her haste seemed to be practically binding her to the carriage seat. But Lord Varington had already thumped the roof with his cane.

She heard Mrs Weir’s voice through the open window. ‘Goodbye, Mary. Take care.’

The carriage moved off with a lurch, the horses’ hooves crunching against the gravel.

‘No, wait!’ she gasped.

Varington smiled again. ‘Have you changed your mind about visiting your aunt, Mrs McLelland? Perhaps you wish to remain here at Seamill Hall. Shall I stop the carriage?’

She looked into those ice blue eyes, and wondered if he would do it. Leave her here, to wait for the next mail, to travel half the country by stage, all the while looking over her shoulder for Stephen. She was being foolish, letting her fears get the better of her. Lord Varington might well know that she was not being honest, but he could know nothing of the truth. Quite simply, she would not be sitting here now with him if he did. He might be flirtatious. He might be a little too curious for comfort, asking too many questions, tricking her into revealing things that she did not want to reveal, but Helena McGregor was no innocent when it came to the devices that men used for their own ends. At seven-and-twenty she had seen more of the dark side of life than most women could bear. But Helena had survived, because Helena was strong.

Lord Varington might well ask the questions. It did not mean that he would receive the answers that he wanted. Quite deliberately she closed herself off to her emotions, resuming the mantle of calm poise that she knew from years of experience would protect her…and deflect any attempt to come close to the real Helena. Her only aim in life was to escape Stephen. Nothing else mattered. She would do whatever she had to, just as she had always done. She hardened her heart and her resolve. She could weather whatever Lord Varington would throw at her.

‘Mrs McLelland?’ he prompted, recalling her from her thoughts.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said calmly, ‘but that will not be necessary.’ She turned her face away to the open window and raised her hand in response to Mrs Weir’s waving. She waved until the carriage reached the bottom of the driveway and turned out on to the road, and the couple standing before the front door of the big house were no longer visible. Then the horses got into their rhythm, their hooves clipping against the stones and mud of the road surface.

Helena was sitting bolt upright, facing the direction of travel, her hands neatly folded together upon her lap. Across from her, Lord Varington seemed to be taking up the whole seat. His head was against the squabs, his legs stretched out so that the ankles of his long riding boots were crossed rather too close to Helena’s skirts. She made an infinitesimal motion to shift her feet away from him.

Varington saw it and smiled. ‘You might as well make yourself comfortable, Mrs McLelland. It’s going to be a very long day. Long enough for us to dispense with formalities.’

In Dunleish Castle on the island of St Vey, Sir Stephen Tayburn was standing at the top of the north-east tower, leaning on the crenellations looking out at the sea. The sky was a pale muted grey streaked with brush marks of deep charcoal and a wash of delicate pink. The sea was calm—for now. The calm would not last. Sir Stephen knew that. What more could be expected? They were already into November and slipping closer towards winter, to the time when days grew shorter and nights grew longer and darkness prevailed—just the way he liked it. The wind caught at his cape, swirling it up and out as if it were the wings of some great dark bird. Everything of Sir Stephen was black—his clothing, his eyes, his heart, everything excepting his hair, which was a stark white. He sipped from the goblet in his hand, relishing the slightly sour taste of the wine. The door behind him creaked open. A figure emerged, hesitated, cap in hand.

‘Sir.’

Stephen Tayburn did not look round, just continued surveying the scene before him.

There was the quiet shuffling of feet and a nervous cough.

‘You have news for me, Crauford?’ It was an imperious tone, a tone that barely concealed an underlying contempt. Still, he kept his face seaward, not deigning to look at the man.

‘Aye, sir. I made the enquires, discreet like you instructed. Nosed around in the taverns and howfs o’ the villages on the mainland.’

‘And?’ He moved at last, turning his dark terrifying gaze to the hook-nosed man standing so patiently by.

‘There was talk o’ a woman found washed up on the shore near Portincross. They tain her to Mr Weir’s house and had the doctor look at her.’

Nothing of emotion showed upon Tayburn’s face. ‘So she was still alive?’

‘Aye, sir, she was alive, all right. They’ve kept her there in the big house, on account of her bein’ in a swoon.’

‘How very convenient,’ he mused. ‘Has the woman a description? Was she seen by any of your…sources?’

‘Oh, aye, sir.’ Rab Crauford crept a little closer towards his master. ‘Ma source has a pal whose lassie works at Seamill Hall.’ His grin spread wider. ‘The woman frae the shore has red hair.’

Tayburn’s eyes narrowed and the set around his mouth hardened. ‘Has she indeed.’ His gaze raked the tall thin man before him. ‘Have McKenzie ready the boat. I’ve a mind to visit the mainland this morning, Kilbride, perhaps…’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Crauford. ‘I’ll see to it right away.’

Sir Stephen Tayburn did not wait for his servant to leave before presenting his back and turning once more to look out across the rolling waves below. He drained the rest of his wine and belched loudly. The door closed behind him, and he heard the sound of Crauford’s footsteps running down the winding stone stairs. Only then did he say beneath his breath, as if the words were a thought murmured aloud, ‘I have found you at last, my darling Helena. What a homecoming you shall have, my dear.’ A cruel smile spread across his mouth and over the sound of the waves and the wind was the dull crack of crystal as the grip of his fingers shattered the fine goblet within.

Helena’s back was beginning to ache and her right hand was growing numb from clinging so hard and so long to the securing strap. The bouncing and rocking of the carriage was threatening nausea and she had long since closed her eyes to block out the view of the countryside racing by in a blur of green and brown. And still, they had not made their first stop, aside from the rapid change of the horses. She was just gritting her teeth and wondering how much longer she could endure it when she heard a thump upon the roof and the carriage began to slow. Her eyes opened and as the carriage ground mercifully to a halt she could do nothing to contain the sigh of relief that escaped her. The door was open and Lord Varington was leaning out, shouting something up to his driver. He withdrew back inside, shutting first the door, then the window and sat back in his seat.