Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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appeared so calm that he wondered if it were he that was going mad. Hadn’t she just tried to run away, leaving the warmth and protection of Weir’s house, and for what? He was quite sure that she had nowhere else to go, why else had she taken the blanket? And when he had tried to stop her, she had fled from him, fought with him, pleaded with him to let her go. He had seen the terror in her eyes, the utter anguish. And now she stood there as if there was nothing wrong in the slightest. Guy stared all the harder.
Her face was white, the shadows beneath her eyes more pronounced. The bruise on her head told him that it undoubtedly throbbed, and the blood on her feet only hinted at the damage beneath. Yet she looked at him like she felt nothing of the pain; indeed, like she felt nothing at all. He wondered again who this woman was and what it was that she was hiding and why she so feared the constable. And he remembered Weir’s allusions to her criminality.
He glanced at his friend.
Weir gave a nod, his face taut, unsmiling, worried.
Guy turned and accompanied the woman from the room.
It was all Helena could do to put one foot in front of the other. The soles of her feet were stinging red raw and her legs seemed unwieldy and heavy. Her head was throbbing so badly that she could barely think straight, and it seemed that her eyes could not keep up with the speed of the things moving around her. She swallowed down the nausea that threatened to rise. Yet through the pain and the discomfort she kept on going. One step and then another. Each one taking her closer to the bedchamber. Keep going, she willed herself. Think of another way out. She wouldn’t give up; she couldn’t, not now, not while there was still breath in her lungs and blood in her veins. So she walked and focused her mind away from the pain. She thought of her plan; she always thought of her plan at such times.
The gunroom door closed behind them.
‘Allow me…’ Lord Varington held out his arm for her to take.
Her immediate reaction was to reject his offer, but in truth she felt so unwell that she was not confident that she could make the journey without stumbling. Better to take his arm than to fall. So she tucked her hand against his sleeve and slowly, without a further word between them, they made their way along the passageway towards the stairs.
Helena was both resentful and glad of the support of Lord Varington. His arm was strong and steady, his presence simultaneously reassuring and disturbing. His sleeve was warm beneath her fingers and she could feel the hard strength in the muscle beneath. He smelled of cologne and soap, and nothing of that which she associated with Stephen. Everything of him suggested expense: his looks, his manner, his tailoring. Even his accent betrayed his upper-class roots. But Helena knew a rake when she saw one.
With his oh-so-charming manner and his handsome looks, she supposed Lord Varington was a man used to getting what he wanted when it came to women—and she felt a fool for so nearly trusting him and blurting out the truth. She wondered how much she would have revealed had the other man, Weir, not returned to the gunroom exactly when he did. The thought seemed to sap the last of her energy. She focused her attention on reaching her bedchamber.
Every step up the staircase drained her flagging strength. Her head was swimming with dizziness and her legs felt so weak that she scarcely could lift them to find the next stair. She leaned heavily, one hand on the worn wooden banister that ran parallel to the staircase, the other on Lord Varington. At the end of the first flight she paused, trying to hide the fact that her breathing was as heavy as if she had been running rather than tottering up the stairs.
‘I think it might be easier if I were to carry you up the remainder of the distance,’ he suggested in that deep melodic voice of his.
‘No, thank you.’ Even those few words seemed an effort. She did not look round at him, just concentrated all her effort on remaining upright, and tried to ignore the perspiration beading upon her brow and the slight blurring of her vision. She forced herself to focus upon the banister beneath her right hand. The wood was worn smooth and dark from years of use, and warm beneath the grip of her fingers.
The smile in his voice rendered it friendly and sensual and slightly teasing. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, ‘after the last time, I was rather looking forward to it.’
She stayed as she was, unmoving, her gaze fixed upon the banister. ‘I don’t know what you mean, my lord.’
‘Surely you cannot have forgotten your journey from Portincross to Seamill Hall—I carried you in my arms.’
The banister began to distort before her eyes. She squeezed them shut and gripped at it even harder.
‘Ma’am?’ The teasing tone had gone, replaced now with concern.
‘I require only to catch my breath,’ she managed to murmur.
‘I see,’ he said, and before she realised his intent, he had scooped her up into his arms and was walking up the staircase.
She struggled to show some sense of indignation. ‘Sir!’
‘You may catch your breath a mite easier this way.’ He crooked a smile.
‘Lord Varington…’ she started to protest, but her head was giddy and her words trailed off and she let him carry her the rest of the way.
He laid her upon the bed.
She knew that she was wasting precious time, tried to push herself to sit up.
‘Rest a while,’ he said, and eased her back down. Only then did she notice the maid in the background setting down a pitcher and some linen. Lord Varington saw the girl, too, and beckoned her over. He took off his coat, casting it aside on one of the chairs by the fireplace. Helena watched him move to stand at the bottom of the bed and she knew she should get up and run. His intent was clear. Why else did a man take off his coat? But Helena did not move. She couldn’t. It was as if she was made of lead. Her arms, her legs, her body were so heavy, all of them weighing her down. She stared as he rolled up his sleeves and she heard the sound of water being poured. And then, unbelievably, Lord Varington began to wash her feet. ‘Sir!’ she gasped, ‘You must not!’ The pale eyes flickered up to meet hers, and she saw in them a determination that mirrored her own.
‘They must be cleansed if the cuts are not to suppurate,’ he said.
She could see the maid’s face staring in disbelief. But Lord Varington’s hands were on her feet, wiping away the dirt and the blood and picking out the embedded gravel. His touch was gentle, caressing almost. One hand held her foot firmly, the other stroked the pad of linen against the sole. No man had ever touched Helena with such gentleness. His fingers were warm and strong and sensitive. Carefully working around each cut, each tear of skin, as if tending wounded feet was something that he did every day. The movement of his hands soothed her. And it seemed to Helena that something of her pain eased, and her head did not throb quite so angrily, nor her body ache so badly. So she just lay there and allowed him to tend her, and it seemed too intimate, as if something that would happen between lovers. She raised her eyes to his and looked at him and he looked right back, and in that moment she knew that she was as aware of him as a man as he was of her as a woman. And the realisation was shocking. She tore her gaze away, feeling the sudden skitter of her heart, and traitorous heat stain her cheeks. Lord Varington’s hands did not falter. When he had finished with the cleansing he dabbed her soles with something that stung.
Helena bit her lip to smother her gasp.
‘Whisky,’ he said. ‘To prevent infection.’ Then he dried her feet and bound them up in linen strips.
He 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.’