Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPheeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.
Chapter Two
Guy did not release the woman until they were standing before the roaring fire in Weir’s gunroom. He poured two glasses of whisky, pressed one into her hand and took the other himself. The amber liquid burned a path down through his chest and into his stomach. The woman stood there, the glass untouched in her hand.
‘Drink it,’ he instructed. ‘God knows, you need it after that soaking.’
She hesitated, then took a sip, coughing as the heat of the whisky hit the back of her throat.
He could feel the glow from the flames warming his legs and see the steam starting to rise from the dampness of the woman’s skirts. ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is about?’ They stood facing each other before the fireplace. He could see the rain droplets still glistening on her cheeks. His eye travelled down, following the thick snaking tendrils of hair that lay against her breast, their colour deep and dark with rain. The smell of wet wool surrounded them.
She was not looking at him; her focus was fixed on the whisky glass still in her hand, and he thought from her manner that she would give him no answer. A lump of coal cracked and hissed upon the fire. The clock ticked. The wind whistled against the windowpanes, causing the curtains at either side to sway. And then she spoke, quietly with a cautious tone for all that her face had become expressionless. ‘Who are you, sir, and where is this place?’
‘I forget my manners, ma’am.’ He gave the slightest of bows. ‘I am Viscount Varington and we are in Seamill Hall, the home of my good friend Mr Weir.’
He thought that she paled at his words. ‘Seamill Hall?’ Her eyes closed momentarily as if that revelation was in some way unwelcome news, and when they opened again she had wiped all emotion from them. ‘It was you that rescued me from the shore,’ she said.
He gave a small inclination