Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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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