Kitabı oku: «Untouched Mistress»

“My lord, please be so kind as to release my hand immediately,” said Helena with the utmost politeness.

In response, Lord Varington raised his gaze to hers and lifted her hand until it was just short of his mouth. Then slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes from hers, he touched his lips to the center of her palm. It was as if he had touched the very core of her being. A spontaneous gasp escaped her, and she found she could not take her eyes from his, could not move, could barely breathe.

“My lord, I must protest!” she said in a breathy whisper.

“You are beautiful,” he said, and she sat as if mesmerized, watching his head bending toward hers until he was so close that she could examine every detail of his face. Helena knew that he was going to kiss her, and, despite the knowledge, she did nothing.

“Helena,” he whispered, and her name rolled off his tongue as if it had been made to do so. There was a richness to his voice, a sensual ripeness.

She felt her eyelids flutter shut. Tilted her mouth to accept his.

The carriage suddenly swerved to the side, throwing Lord Varington off balance and bringing Helena to her senses in an instant.

Untouched Mistress

Harlequin^®Historical

MILLS & BOON

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Praise for
Margaret McPhee

“A fresh new voice in Regency romance. Hugely enjoyable.”

—Bestselling author Nicola Cornick

THE WICKED EARL

“McPhee skillfully weaves a tale of revenge, betrayal and an awakening love in this emotional and compelling romance about an innocent young woman, a forbidding lord and an evil villain.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

MISTAKEN MISTRESS

“McPhee spins a lovely Cinderella story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

THE CAPTAIN’S LADY

“Captivating high-seas adventure.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

MARGARET MCPHEE
UNTOUCHED MISTRESS

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

Author Note

I’ve always enjoyed reading Harlequin’s historical novels, and I still do. I love to lose myself in a good romantic story, preferably set in Regency times, with a dangerous dashing hero, a heroine I’m rooting for and a happy ending. With Harlequin I know that’s what I will get. I’m so pleased and honored to be a part of this famous romantic tradition with my own few books.

Knowing how much Guy hated the countryside in his brother’s story, The Wicked Earl, made me mischievously place him on the rugged coastline of western Scotland for his own story—Untouched Mistress. It was during a cycle along the shore on a cold gray day, with a stiff breeze blowing and a smir of rain in the air, that I thought of the idea of Guy stumbling upon a beautiful, half-drowned woman washed up with the seaweed on the sands. And so came about Guy and Helena’s story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Available from Harlequin^®Historical and MARGARET McPHEE

The Captain’s Lady #785

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The Wicked Earl #843

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Untouched Mistress #921

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

1 November 1815—Ayrshire, Scotland

A white froth of waves crashed against the rocks as the solitary figure picked its way along the shore. The morning sky was a cold grey and the fine drizzle of rain had penetrated the woollen cloth of his coat and was beginning to seep through his waistcoat to the cotton of his shirt below. Beneath his boots the sand was firm, each step cutting a clear impression of his progress. A gull cried its presence overhead, and the wind that had howled the whole night through stung a ruddy rawness to his cheeks and swept a ruffle through the darkness of his hair. Guy Tregellas, Viscount Varington, ignored the damp chill of the air and, not for the first time, thought longingly of London: London that had no gales to part a man’s coat from his back. No incessant rain. No empty landscape that ran as far as the eye could see, with only the hardiest sheep and cattle for company. Guy suppressed a shudder and continued on, avoiding as best he could the mounds of seaweed and driftwood that the sea had cast upon the sand during the night’s storm. The pain in his head was dulling and the nausea in his stomach had almost disappeared; the memory of just how much whisky he had drunk had not. And so he continued, walking off his hangover in this godforsaken place. He crossed the stream that ran down to meet the sea, taking care not to lose his balance on the stepping stones, and followed the curve of the shore round. It was then that he saw the body.

A dark shape amidst the seaweed. At first he thought it was a seal that had been unfortunate enough to suffer the worst of the storm in open water. But as the distance between him and the shape lessened, he knew that what lay washed upon the shore was no seal. The woman was curled on her side, as if in sleep. The dark sodden skirt of her dress was twisted around her body to expose the white of her lower legs. Her feet were bare and the one arm he could see was bloody and bruised beneath the torn sleeve of her dress. Guy rolled her over on to her back and cleared away the long strands of hair plastered across her face. She was not old, in her middle twenties perhaps, and even in her bedraggled state he could see that she was beautiful. He bent closer, touching his fingers to her neck, feeling the faint flutter of her pulse. Guy had seen too many dead bodies in his life. He breathed a sigh of relief that this was not one of them, and as he did so her eyelids flickered open and a pair of smoky green eyes stared up at him.

‘An angel,’ she whispered with something akin to awe. ‘A glorious dark angel come to fetch me.’ Her mouth curved to a small peaceful smile before her eyelids closed once more.

‘Wait!’ Guy gripped at the soft flesh of the woman’s upper arms. He shook her, fearing that she was giving up her fight for life. Her body seemed limp and lifeless beneath his hands. He shook her harder, spoke louder, more urgently, all trace of his hangover gone, leaving in its place a twist of dread. ‘Come on, damn it! Do not dare die on me, girl.’ And then, just when he thought that it was too late, she came to.

She lay still and silent for a few seconds, as if trying to remember where she was, what had happened. And then her eyes focused upon him.

‘Agnes.’ It was little more than a whisper, slipped from lips that scarcely moved. He could see the anxiety in her gaze.

‘Thank God!’ Guy sighed his relief before stripping off the coat from his body and draping it over her. ‘I need to get you back to Weir’s.’

‘Agnes?’ she said again, this time with a note of despair in her voice. ‘My maid…with me in the boat…and Old Tam.’

He scanned the shoreline, knowing that there was nothing else there save sand and sea and rocks, seaweed and shells and driftwood; no more bodies, definitely no Agnes, and no Tam, old or otherwise.

‘They are not here,’ he said gently. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

‘Helena.’ The reply was uttered so weakly as to almost be carried off completely by the wind. Nothing else. Just that one name. Her lungs laboured to pull in another breath of air; such a small noise against the howl of the wind and the distant roar of the sea. A few yards away the water rushed in a steady rhythm against the sand.

Guy could see that she was fighting the darkness that threatened to claim her. Her eyelids dipped and her eyeballs rolled up as she fought to remain conscious. Her lips moved again.

He bent his ear to her mouth to catch the faint words.

‘Please…’ What she would have said he would never know. The woman’s eyes fluttered shut, and he sensed that she was slipping away from him.

‘Helena.’ Guy touched her cheek; the touch became a light slap.

No response.

‘Helena,’ he said more loudly, pressing his fingers to her neck.

There was only the faintest pulse of an ebbing life.

Guy muttered an expletive and in one motion gathered her up against him.

She was heavy with the weight of seawater soaked through her clothing, and cold; colder than any other living person he had felt, almost as cold as a corpse. Her body was limp and fluid, her head lolling against his shoulder. He wasted no more time. With the woman secure in his arms Guy headed back across the expanse of rocks and sand towards Seamill Hall.

Helena opened her eyes and blinked at the sight of what she thought was her own plasterwork ceiling above her. Mercifully she seemed to be alone. No dip in the other side of the mattress; no possessive hands pawing at her; nothing of his male stench. Just the thought of it caused her bile to rise and a shudder to ripple through her. Her fingers scrabbled to find the top of the blanket. And then she noticed that there was something different about the ceiling. She stilled her movement, and became aware that the daylight seemed much brighter than normal. Forcing herself up on to her elbows, she ignored the pounding in her head and stared at the room in which she found herself.

It was a small bedchamber, decorated predominantly in a cosy shade of yellow, shabby but genteel. The bed was smaller than her own and higher, too, with yellow-and-green striped curtains that had been fastened back. A fire roared on the hearth. Everything was clean and homely. Close by the fireplace was a comfortable-looking armchair. A large painting depicting a panoramic view of the Firth of Clyde and its islands was fixed to the wall above the mantelpiece. Near the door was an oak-coloured wardrobe, and over by the window, a matching tallboy set beside a small ornate dressing table in the French style. Next to the bed sat a table with a blue-and-white patterned pitcher and basin and various other small items. Helena recognised none of it.

Where am I? But even as she thought the question, a sinking sensation was dipping in her stomach. The mist began to clear from her mind. Helena swallowed hard. It was coming back to her now. All of it. Agnes had been with her. Old Tam, too, rowing the boat out into the darkness of the night. There had been no wind, no rain, when they had first started out, just a heavy stillness in the air. They would be there before the rain started, or so Old Tam had assured her. It was as if she heard his voice again within the quietness of the room. Didnae be feart, Miss Helena. I’ll ha’e the pair o’you across to the mainland afore the rain comes on. But Old Tam had been wrong.

Helena remembered the sudden pelt of heavy raindrops, and the waves that rose higher in response to the strengthening wind. The sea had seemed to boil with fury, leaping and roaring until their small rowing boat had been swamped and the water had claimed the boat’s occupants. She had not seen Agnes or Tam through the darkness, but she had heard the maid’s screams and the old man’s shouts amidst the furore of the storm.

The water had been cold at first, but after a while she had ceased to notice the icy temperature, pitched as she was in her battle to fight the heavy fatigue that coaxed her to close her eyes and yield to the comfort of black nothingness. She supposed that she must have done just that, for she could remember nothing else until she lay senseless and battered upon the shore with the angel staring down at her.

It was impossible, of course; even if angels existed, they did not come to save the likes of her. And yet the angel’s face was so clear in her memory that she wondered how she could have imagined him. She struggled to recall what had happened on the beach, her head pounding with the effort. But she could remember nothing save the angel’s face: dark sodden hair from which water dripped down on to his cheeks; pale skin and the most piercing eyes that she had ever seen—an ice blue filled with strength and concern. With him she had known she would be safe. Aside from that image, there was nothing.

She knew neither this place in which she now lay nor how she had come to be here. Knew only that she must leave before Stephen found her. Run as fast as she could. And keep on running. This was reality and there was no handsome angel to save her here. She had best get on with the task of saving herself. She pushed back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, took a deep breath and, rather unsteadily, got to her feet.

The entirety of her body ached and she felt unreal and dizzy. But Helena moved across the room all the same. Determination and fear spurred her on. She washed in the cold water from the pitcher and hastily dressed herself in her own clothes that had been cleaned, dried and mended and placed within the bedchamber. Unfortunately there was no sign of her shoes and stockings, nor of her hat or travelling bag.

The reflection in the looking-glass upon the dressing table showed a dark bruise on her temple. Her fingers trembled as she touched the tender spot, wondering as to how it had happened, for she had no recollection of having hit her head. Her face was paler than normal and there were shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes. She did not dally for long, but twisted her hair into a rope and tucked the ends back up on themselves, hoping that the make-do style would hold.

Quickly she smoothed the bedcovers over the bed to give some semblance of tidiness. Then she moved to the large wooden box positioned at the bottom of the bed and removed a single neatly folded blanket. Her eyes scanned the room, alighting on the silver brush-and-comb set sitting upon the chest of drawers, knowing they would fetch a good price. But, for all of her desperation, Helena could not do that to whoever in this house had helped her. It was bad enough that she was stealing the blanket. She hurried to the door, then turned and glanced once more around the room. The fire burned within the fireplace. The room was warm and 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 tolerable to look upon, I suppose I might be persuaded to take an interest in her.’

‘Varington! The devil only knows why I was so insistent on your coming to stay at Seamill.’

‘Something to do with my charming company I believe.’

Weir could not help but laugh.

A knock at the door preceded the manservant who moved silently to Weir’s side to whisper discreetly in his ear.

‘Can’t he come back later?’

More whisperings from the manservant.

Weir’s face pinched with annoyance. ‘Then I had better come and see him.’ The servant departed and Weir turned to Guy. ‘Trouble with one of the tenants. It seems it cannot wait for my attention. Please excuse me; I shall be back as soon as possible.’

Guy watched his friend leave before turning his attention back to the rifle in his hands.

Helena froze as she heard a door downstairs open and close again. Panic gripped her, so that she stood there unable to move, to speak, to breathe. Men’s voices—none that she recognised—footsteps and the opening and closing of more doors. Then only silence. Her heart was thudding fast and hard enough to leap clear of her chest. She forced herself to breathe, to calm her frenzied pulse, to listen through the hissing silence. She knew she had to move, to escape, before whoever was down there came back. Her bare feet made no noise as she trod towards the stairs.

Guy ceased what he was doing and listened. All was quiet except for the soft creaking coming from the main staircase. It was a normal everyday sound, yet for some reason his ears pricked and he became alert. He remembered that Annabel and the children had gone out for the day, and his sense of unease stirred stronger. Guy knew better than to ignore his instincts. Quietly he set the rifle down upon the table and turned towards the door.

Helena reached the bottom of the staircase and, with a nervous darting glance around, moved towards the heavy oak front door. The doorknob was round and made of brass. Her fingers closed around it, feeling the metal cold beneath her skin. She gripped harder, twisted, turning the handle as quietly as she could. The door began to open. She shivered as the wind rushed around her ankles and toes. She pulled the door a little wider, letting the wind drive the raindrops against her face. Up above, the sky was grey and dismal. Out in front, the gravel driveway was waterlogged with rain that still pelted with a ferocity. Helena made to step down on to the stone stair.

‘Not planning on leaving us so soon, are you?’

The voice made her jump. She let out a squeak, half-turned and saw a man in the shadows behind the staircase.

Helena reacted instinctively. She spun, wrenched the door open, and fled down across the two wide stone steps and up the driveway. The blanket was thrown aside in her haste. Gravel and something sharp cut into her feet; she barely noticed, just kept on running, towards the tall metal gate at the end of the driveway, unmindful of the rain that splashed up from puddles and poured down from the heavens. Running and running, ignoring the rawness in her throat from her gasping breath, ignoring the stitch of pain in her side, and the pounding in her head and the heavy slowness of her legs. She could feel her heart pumping fit to burst. And still, she ran and just ahead lay the road; she could see it through the iron railings of the gate. So close. And then she felt the grasp upon her shoulder, his hand slipping down to her arm, pulling her back. She fought against him, struggling to break his hold, lashing out at him.

He caught her flailing wrists. ‘Calm down, I mean you no harm.’

‘No!’ she cried, and struggled all the harder.

‘Ma’am, I beg of you!’ She found herself pulled hard against him, his arms restraining hers. ‘Look at me.’

She tried to wriggle away, but he was too strong.

‘Look at me,’ he said again. His voice was calm and not unkind. The panic that had seized her died away. She raised her eyes to his and saw that he was the pale-eyed angel from her dream. No angel, just a man, with hair as dark as ebony, and skin as white as snow and piercing ice-blue eyes filled with compassion.

‘What the—’ He caught the words back. ‘You are not yet recovered. Come back to the house.’

‘I will not.’ She began to struggle against him, but could do nothing to release his grip.

‘You have no shoes, no cloak, no money. How far do you think you will get in this weather?’ The rain ran in rivulets down his face. Even his coat was rapidly darkening beneath the downpour of rain. She was standing so close that she could see each individual ebony lash that framed the paleness of his eyes, so close that she could see the faint blue shadow of stubbled growth over his jaw…and the rain that dripped from his hair to run down the pallor of his cheeks. ‘Come back inside,’ he said, and his voice was gentle. ‘There is nothing to fear.’

She closed her eyes at that, almost laughed at it. Nothing to fear, indeed. He had no idea; none at all. ‘Release me, sir.’

He did not release her, nor did his eyes leave hers for a second, and she could see what his answer would be before he even said the words. ‘I cannot. You would not survive.’

‘I will take my chance.’ Better that than sit and wait for Stephen to find her.

‘We can discuss this inside.’

‘No!’

‘Then let us discuss it here, if it is your preference.’

A carriage rolled by on the road outside, its wheels splashing through the puddles. She glanced towards the gate, nervous that Stephen might arrive even as she stood here in this man’s arms. ‘You are getting wet, sir.’

‘As are you,’ came the reply.

She could see by the determined light in his eyes that he would not release her. He thought he was being a gentleman; he would be no gentleman if he knew the truth. She shivered.

‘And cold,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ And gently he began to steer her back up the driveway to where the front door lay open.