Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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cheery in its yellow hues. For a moment she was almost tempted to stay; almost. But then she turned and, still clutching the blanket to her chest, opened the door to pass silently through.
‘It’s a fine piece.’ Lord Varington admired the rifle before him. ‘Well balanced.’ He weighed the weapon between his hands, set the butt of the handle against his shoulder and took aim.
John Weir laughed and looked pleased with his friend’s admiration. ‘It turns hunting into something else altogether. I can hit a rabbit at fifty paces and a grouse when the bird thinks it’s got clean away. Thought you might like to try out the Bakers. I’ve two of them; this one here and the other kept oil-skinned in my boat.’ He looked sheepish. ‘Seagulls make for good target practice, you see.’ Then his enthusiasm returned. ‘I can have it fetched for you. We could go up onto the moor. You could give me some pointers on improving my shooting, if you’ve no objection, that is.’ Then, remembering Guy’s dislike of the outdoors, Weir added, ‘Brown says the weather will clear tomorrow, that it might even be sunny.’
Guy’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to tempt me, would you? I’ve been here a week and there’s been no sight of the sun. Indeed, if memory serves me correctly, we’ve not yet had a day without rain.’
‘Mark my words, tomorrow will be different.’ Weir nodded his head sagely. ‘And I wouldn’t want to miss a few hours of rifle practice on a glorious sunny day. Besides, the views from the moor are magnificent. If the cloud clears, you’ll see all of the surrounding islands.’
‘I’ve not the least interest in “magnificent views”, as well you know. But, fill my hip flask with whisky and I’ll willingly accept your invitation.’
‘Done.’ Weir laughed. ‘I do have a rather fine Islay malt in the cellar, nice and peaty in flavour. I think you’ll like it.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ said Guy.
‘Does it take you back to your years in the Rifles?’ Weir jerked his head in the direction of the rifle. ‘The Baker, that is.’
Guy ran a finger along the barrel of the rifle. ‘Naturally.’
‘Do you miss it?’
Guy smiled in a devil-may-care fashion. ‘Sometimes, but it’s been years and there are…’ he threw his friend a raffish look ‘…other interests that fill my time now, and if I’ve time to waste, then I’d rather waste it on them. Even if you are a married man, I’m sure you’ll remember the fun that’s to be had in that.’
‘If you say so, Varington.’
Guy smiled a lazy arrogant smile. ‘Oh, but I do.’
Weir reached down and lifted the Baker rifle. ‘We’d best get back to preparing the guns.’
A comfortable silence ensued while the two men set about their task. Then Weir asked, ‘What are we going to do about that woman upstairs? She still shows no sign of wakening, despite Dr Milligan’s insistence that there’s nothing wrong with her.’
‘Save exhaustion and bruising.’
Weir nodded in agreement. ‘Even so, it has been three days…’
‘She’ll waken when she’s ready.’
‘But we don’t even know who she is yet.’
‘A lady of mystery.’ Guy crooked an eyebrow suggestively, making light of the matter. He did not want to think about what had happened on the shore, when the woman’s life had literally expired before him, and his stomach had clenched with the dread of it. It reminded him too much of the darkness from a past that he wished to forget.
Weir rolled his eyes. ‘You must admit that it is rather curious that a woman is washed up on a beach the morning after a storm and no one reports her missing?’
Guy shrugged. ‘Maybe she has no family to notice her absence, or they, too, perished in the storm. What did the constable say?’
‘That he would make his own enquiries into the matter.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’
‘Save a strange woman lying upstairs in one of my bedchambers.’
Guy gave a roguish smile. ‘If she was lying in one of my bedchambers, I wouldn’t be complaining.’
Weir snorted. ‘I doubt you would, but that’s not the point. We know nothing about her. She could be anyone. Annabel says that the maidservant who laundered the woman’s dress found a key sewn into a secret section in its hem.’ Weir dug in his pocket. ‘Here, take a look at it.’ He extended a hand towards Varington, a silver key upon the outstretched palm.
The key was of a medium size and had been roughly fashioned. Beneath Guy’s fingers the metal was cold and hard. ‘Looks like the key to an internal door.’
Weir gave a shake of his head. ‘Why on earth would she have a key in the hem of her dress? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Maybe she was hiding it from someone.’ Guy shrugged his shoulders. ‘How should I know?’ Closing his fingers around the key, he placed it within his own pocket, patted the pocket and said, ‘I’ll see that it’s returned to the lady at a more appropriate time.’
Weir said nothing, just gave a sigh.
‘Has she spoken yet?’
‘Nothing of sense. Apparently she cries out in her sleep as if in fear, but that is little wonder given that she seems to have survived some kind of boating accident.’
‘To have survived the sea on a stormy November night, our mystery lady must have the luck of the devil.’
Weir gave a shudder. ‘Don’t say such things!’
Guy laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ said Weir with indignation. ‘Not when the storm was on All Hallow’s Eve. I cannot rid myself of the notion that she’s a portend of bad things to come. Her very presence in the house leaves me with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wish you had not brought her here.’
‘I think you may have been reading too many gothic novels, my friend,’ teased Guy. ‘Would you rather I’d left her out on the sand to die?’
‘No, of course not!’ retorted his friend. ‘I could not, in truth, sentence anyone to such a death. And I would be failing in my Christian duty to do other than I’ve done. Yet even so…’ An uncomfortable expression beset Weir’s face. ‘I do have Annabel and the girls’ safety to think about.’
‘What do you think she is? A thief? A murderess?’ Guy’s eyes narrowed and he floated his fingers in the air and said in a sinister voice, ‘Or a witch, perhaps? She does have red hair.’
Weir frowned. ‘This is not some jest, Varington. Maybe she’s innocent enough, but I can’t shake this feeling that something has been unleashed, something that was held safe in check before she arrived.’
‘Weir, the woman is in no fit state to set about any mischief. Even were she conscious, I doubt she would have the strength to walk to the other side of the room, let alone anything else.’
‘Are you not concerned, even a little?’
‘No,’ replied Guy truthfully.
‘Well, you damn well should be. It was you who brought her here. If she turns out to be a criminal, the blame shall be on your head.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ said Guy cheerfully.
‘What are we going to do if she doesn’t wake up soon?’
‘We?’ questioned Guy in a teasing tone. And then, witnessing the rising irritation in his friend’s face, he repented, sighing and saying in a maddeningly nonchalant voice, ‘Well, as on first impression she seemed