Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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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.’
‘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