“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

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A dramatic medieval tale of untamed passion…

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.

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 of his head. ‘You were washed up near Portincross.’

‘Alone?’ She could not quite disguise the anxiety in her voice.

And then he remembered the companions that she had cried out for upon the shore, and understood what it was that she was asking. ‘Quite alone,’ he said gently.

She lowered her gaze and stood in silence.

He reached out his hand, intending to offer some small solace, but she stared up at him and there was something in her eyes that stopped him. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he offered instead.

‘My loss? What do you mean, sir?’ He saw the flash of wariness before she hid it.

‘The death of your companions. You alluded to them upon the shore.’

‘I cannot recall our conversing.’ She set the whisky glass down. Her hands slid together in a seemingly demure posture but he could see from the whiteness of her knuckles how tightly they gripped. ‘What did I tell you?’

Guy could feel the tension emanating from her and he wondered what it was that she feared so very much to have told. He gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. ‘Very little.’

There was the hint of relaxation in her stance, nothing else.

‘The boat’s other occupants are likely to have been lost. Had there been anyone else come ashore, we would have heard of it by now.’

She stilled. It seemed to Guy that she was holding her breath. And all of the tension was back in an instant, for all that she stood there with her expression so guarded. ‘But it is only an hour or two since you found me.’

‘On the contrary…’ he gave a rueful smile ‘…you have lain upstairs for three days.’

‘Three days!’ There was no doubting her incredulity. The colour drained from her face, leaving her so pale that he was convinced that she would faint.

Guy set out a hand to steady her arm.

‘It cannot be,’ she whispered, as if to herself, and again there was the flicker of fear in her eyes, there, then gone. And then she seemed to remember just where she was, and that he was present, standing so close, supporting her arm. She backed away, increasing the distance, breaking the link between them. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I did not realise.’

‘You have suffered a shock, ma’am. Sit down.’

‘No.’ She began to shake her head, then seemed to change her mind and stumbled back into the nearest chair.

‘To where were you running?’

She did not look at him, just said in a flat voice, ‘You have no right to keep me here against my will.’

‘Indeed I do not.’

Her eyes widened. He saw surprise and hope flash in them and wondered why she was so hell-bent on escape.

‘Then you will let me go?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why…’ she hesitated and bit at her bottom lip ‘…why did you stop me?’

‘I didn’t save your life to have you throw it away again. You are not dressed for this weather.’ And what the hell kind of woman woke from her sickbed in a strange place and hightailed it down the driveway in a torrent of rain without so much as a by your leave to those who had cared for her? He looked at the woman sitting before him.

‘I must leave here as soon as possible.’

‘Why such haste?’

She shook her head. ‘I cannot tell you.’

‘Then I cannot help you.’

Her mouth twisted to an ironic smile, and he thought for a moment that she would either laugh or weep, but she did neither. ‘No one can help me, Lord Varington. I am well aware of that. Besides, I am not asking for your help.’ And there was such honesty in her answer that Guy felt a shiver touch to his spine.

‘You have no money, no adequate clothing—’ his eyes flicked down over the creamy swell of her bosom ‘—and you are unwell from your ordeal. How far do you think you will get without some measure of assistance?’

‘That should not concern you, my lord.’

‘It should concern any gentleman, ma’am.’

There was the quiet sound of a sigh and she looked away. ‘If you have any real concern for my welfare, you will take me to the door and wave me on my way.’

‘Why are you in such a hurry to leave? You have been in this house for three days—what difference will one more make?’

‘More than you can know,’ she said quietly.

‘Come, ma’am, tell me what can be so very bad?’

She gave a small shake of her head and looked down.

Guy knew he needed something more to push her to speak. ‘Or should I address that question to the constable? Shall we have him back to speak with you now that you have wakened?’

She stared up with widening eyes, her fear palpable. He saw the way that her hands wrung together and he felt wretched for her plight. Yet even so, he let the silence stretch between them.

‘Please…please do not,’ she said at last, as if she could bear the silence no more.

He stepped towards her, drew her up from the chair to stand before him and said very gently, ‘Why not?’

There was just the tiniest shake of her head.

She was exhausted, not yet recovered from battling a stormy winter sea. She had been half-drowned, frozen, battered and cast up to die upon a shoreline. Her companions had died that night in the Firth of Clyde. That she had escaped death was a miracle. He eyed the bruise still livid against the pale skin of her forehead and stepped closer, so that barely a foot separated them. ‘Tell me.’ He stared into her eyes—a beautiful grey green, as soft-looking as velvet. The desperation there seemed to touch his soul. ‘I promise I will help you.’

Her eyes searched his, as if she were trying to gauge the truth of his words. He could sense her wavering.

‘I…’ She inhaled deeply.

He held his breath in anticipation.

‘I—’

The door of the gunroom swung open and Weir strode in.

The moment was lost. Guy’s breath released in a rush.

‘The strangest thing, Varington. Brown has just retrieved a blanket from the…’ Weir’s words trailed off at the sight before his eyes.

Guy watched the woman step away from him, and inwardly cursed his friend’s timing. All of the emotion wiped from her face and she became remote and impassive and untouchable. The transformation was remarkable, like watching her change into a different woman, or more like watching a mask pulled into place to hide the woman behind, he thought.

‘What the blazes…?’ Weir’s eyes swung from Guy to the woman and back again. ‘You’re soaked through to the skin.’

‘The lady and I stepped outside for a spot of fresh air,’ said Guy. ‘It felt a trifle stuffy in here.’

Weir seemed to have lost the power of words. His mouth gaped. He stared.

‘I was just about to escort your guest up to her bedchamber. She needs a change of clothing.’ He began to guide her towards the door.

‘Varington.’ It seemed that Weir had found his voice.

Guy glanced back at his friend.

Weir gestured down towards the woman’s feet.

Only then did Guy notice the trail of bloody footprints that she left in her wake and the crimson staining that crept around the edges of the skin on her feet.

But the woman continued walking steadily on towards the door.

‘Your feet…I will carry you.’ He caught her arm.

‘There is no need, my lord, I assure you.’ She 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.’ 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 character. He was handsome and charming and flirtatious…and were it not for his interference she would not still be sitting here in Seamill Hall. Indeed, she reflected, she would never have been here in the first place; most likely she would have perished out upon the shore. It was a sobering thought.

She wondered why he was so concerned with her. The man Weir wasn’t. Mr Weir would not have chased her the length of the driveway in the pouring rain; judging from the look upon his face he would have let her go and been glad of it. But then Mr Weir hadn’t looked at her like he wanted her in his bed. Heaven help her, but she had troubles enough in her life without Lord Varington.

Helena sighed and let her gaze wander to the islands that lay beyond. St Vey was so clear that she could see the different shades of green and brown and purple grey, could see the glint of the sun picking out a brook that flowed over the rocks to the south, and in the north the dark outline of Dunleish Castle. It looked so close, close enough to swim the short stretch of sea that separated it from the mainland, as if she could reach across the water and touch it. St Vey lay only four miles off the coast, and that four miles had cost Agnes and Old Tam their lives. She felt the terrible stab of guilt and of grief. Helena stared for a long time at the island and the water and the sand, and mentally rehearsed her story.

She could go nowhere without owning an identity; that much was obvious. If she told the truth, her fate was sealed: a rapid return to Stephen and Dunleish Castle. She had thought long and hard about her problem, until, at last, in the wee small hours of the morning, came the seed of an idea. As a widow not from these parts, Helena could borrow some money, enough to finish what she had started, and leave Seamill Hall quite properly, without affecting anyone’s gentlemanly sensibilities. Just enough money to finish what she had started: escape to a place where Stephen would not find her.

Helena would speak to Mr Weir’s wife today, and make the necessary arrangements. She would have to lie to them all—to Mr Weir and his wife and to Lord Varington. She ran a hand down her skirt, smoothing out the creases as she stood to go down to breakfast, and remembered a time when she had thought dishonesty to be the most reprehensible of sins. Such naïvety; Stephen had changed that. And yet she found the prospect of lying so blatantly, particularly to Lord Varington, did not sit comfortably with her. Part of her wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. A few lies to a stranger were the least of her problems. But she heard the whisper of a little voice that this stranger had saved her life, and she remembered the touch of his hands upon her feet and the intensity in those pale eyes. She thrust the thoughts away, forced herself on. Survival was everything.

Chapter Three

The woman—Helena, as he suspected she was called—was already seated next to Weir’s wife, Annabel, at the breakfast table when Guy entered the sunlit dining room. She was wearing a drab black dress, clearly something borrowed from one of the servants as Annabel was so much shorter. Pity, when her own sea-shrunken attire was so very much more becoming. Still, even in the servant’s guise, there could be no mistaking that she bore herself with dignity. She was of average height and build. But Helena had a face that marked her out from other women, a face that any man would not easily forget: almond-shaped eyes, a small straight nose and lips that were ripe for kissing. Guy’s eyes lingered over the deep flame of her hair, the cream velvet of her skin and the smoky green of her eyes.

She was exuding an air of calm watchfulness, as if all her actions, every answer, was considered most carefully before given, as if she desired to reveal nothing of the real woman. Yet beneath her composure he thought that he could detect an undercurrent of tension.

‘Good morning, ladies.’

‘Guy!’ Annabel, all pretty and pink and blonde, gushed. ‘We thought you had quite slept in, didn’t we, Mary?’ She glanced at Helena.

Mary? He allowed only the mildest surprise to register upon his face as he turned to look at her. The harsh black of the woollen dress served only to heighten the pale perfection of her skin and the vivid colour of her hair, which had been caught up neatly in a chignon. She did not meet his eyes.

‘It seems that I have missed the introductions.’ He sat down at the table, poured himself some coffee and looked expectantly at the woman who it now seemed was calling herself Mary.

‘Oh, Guy,’ said Annabel. ‘Poor dear Mary has suffered so much—’

‘Perhaps,’ interrupted Weir, ‘Mrs McLelland would be kind enough to recount her story again for Lord Varington? If it is not too much trouble, that is.’

Guy noticed how there was nothing of emotion upon her face, that she wore the same mask-like expression he had watched her don on Weir’s entry to the gunroom yesterday.

‘It would be no trouble at all,’ she said.

Guy sat back, sipped his coffee and waited.

Helena took a deep breath and ignored the way her stomach was beginning to churn. It had not seemed so bad telling her lies to Mr and Mrs Weir alone. It was not something that she would have chosen to do, but needs must, and Helena’s situation was desperate. But now that Lord Varington was sitting across the table, watching her with those pale eyes of his, her determination felt shaken. She forced herself to begin the story that she had spent the hours of the night rehearsing.

‘My name is Mary McLelland and I am from Islay.’ By choosing an island of the Inner Hebrides she was effectively ensuring that any trace that they might set upon her would be slow, so slow that by the time the results of any investigation arrived Mary McLelland would have long fled Scotland. She could see that Lord Varington was still watching her. She forced herself to stay focused, shifted her gaze to where the sunlight reflected upon the silver jug of cream set just beyond her plate. ‘I am the widow of James McLelland, and I am travelling to London to stay with my aunt.’

‘How came you to be washed upon the shore?’ asked Lord Varington.

‘A local boatman from the island agreed to take me on the first leg of my journey, for a fee, of course. When first we started out, the weather was cold and damp, but with little wind. Indeed, the sea was remarkably calm, but that soon changed during the sailing.’ That bit at least was true, and so was the rest of what she had not yet told the Weirs. ‘First the wind fetched up and then the rain began. I have never seen rain of its like. All around us the sea grew wilder and higher, tossing us from wave to wave as if we were a child’s plaything, until the lanterns were lost, and we were clinging to the boat for dear life.’

Helena could no longer see the jug of cream, nor was she aware of the dining room or its inhabitants. Her nose was overwhelmed with the stench of the sea; her skin felt again the rawness of the battering waves. She heard nothing save the roar of the water. It seemed that she could see only the darkness, feel only the terrible fear that had overtaken her as she realised that they were going to die. Agnes was clinging to her, sobbing, wailing. Old Tam’s shouts: Hold fast, lassies. Hold as you’ve never held afore. And pray. Pray that the Lord will have mercy on our souls. Struggling to stay within the boat as it bucked upon the water’s surface. Soaked by the merciless lash of the waves. Gasping for breath. She sucked in the air, fast, urgent. The cry muffled in her throat by the invading sea. Felt the waves lift the boat, so high as to be clear of it, time was suspended. Agnes’s hand in hers, clinging hard. And then they were falling. It was so dark. So cold. And silent…just for a while. The water filled her eyes, her ears, her nose, choked into her lungs, as the sea pulled her down. She could not fight it, just was there, aware of what was happening and strangely accepting of it. Just when she closed her eyes and began to give in to the bursting sensation in her lungs, the sea granted her one last chance, thrusting her back up to its surface, letting her hear Agnes’s screams, Old Tam’s shouts. Her skirts bound themselves around her legs and she could kick no more. And then there was only darkness.

‘Ma’am.’

She opened her eyes to find Lord Varington by her side. She was alive. Agnes and Old Tam were dead…and it was her fault. The sob escaped her before she could bite it back.

His hand was on her arm, dragging her back from the nightmare.

She blinked her eyes, smoothed the raggedness of her breath.

‘Drink this.’ A glass was being pressed into her fingers.

‘There is no need,’ a voice said, and she was surprised to find that it was her own.

‘There’s every need,’ he growled, and guided the glass to her mouth.

The drink was so strong as to burn a track down her throat. Whisky. She coughed and pushed the glass away.

‘Take another sip.’

She shook her head, feeling revived by the whisky’s fiery aromatic tang.

‘She must go and lie down at once!’ Helena became aware of Mrs Weir by her other side. ‘The trauma of recounting the accident has quite overwhelmed her.’

The dreadful memory was receding. And Helena found herself back sitting at the breakfast table in the dining room of Seamill Hall. Only the rhythmic rush of sea upon sand sounded in the distance. She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Mrs Weir, Lord Varington…’ she turned to each in turn ‘…but I am recovered now. I did not expect to be so affected. Forgive my foolishness.’

‘Dear Mary, you are not in the slightest bit foolish. Such a remembrance would overset the strongest of men,’ said Mrs Weir stoutly.

Helena gave a stiff little smile.

‘There is no need for you to continue with your story.’ Mrs Weir looked up imploringly at her husband. ‘Tell her it is so, John.’

Mr Weir looked from his wife to Helena. There was the slightest pause. ‘You need not speak further of your shipwreck, Mrs McLelland.’

‘There is not much more to tell,’ she said, anchoring down all emotion. ‘I do not know what happened other than I landed in the water. From there I remember nothing until I awakened to find myself here.’

‘Mary, you are the bravest of women,’ said Mrs Weir, and patted her arm.

Guilt turned tight in her stomach. ‘No, ma’am.’ She shook her head. ‘I am not that. Not now, not ever.’ There was a harsh misery in her voice that she could not disguise. Lord Varington had heard it, she could see it in the way that he looked at her.

‘You should rest,’ he said.

She turned to him with a slight shake of the head. ‘I am fine, really, I am; besides, I must make myself ready to leave.’

‘To leave, Mrs McLelland?’ He raised an eyebrow.

‘Mary means to catch the coach to Glasgow,’ said Mrs Weir by way of explanation. ‘She is intent on continuing her journey to London…by stage’

‘Mr and Mrs Weir have been kind enough to agree to lend me what I need. I will, of course, return everything that I have borrowed as soon as I have found my aunt.’

‘You must not worry, Mary. You need return nothing. The maid will be delighted to have a new dress, and John sees that I have more than enough money,’ said Mrs Weir.

Weir said nothing, just sat with a look of undisguised relief upon his face.

Varington resumed his seat opposite Helena. ‘Leaving so soon, Mrs McLelland?’ She remembered that he had spoken similar words within the hallway when she had tried to flee, and that memory brought others that she did not wish to think about—Lord Varington carrying her up the staircase, Lord Varington tending her feet.

‘I am quite recovered and can therefore no longer impose upon Mr and Mrs Weir’s hospitality, and besides…’ Helena folded one hand over the other, keeping a firm grip on her emotions ‘…my aunt is expecting me and shall be worried over my continued absence. I do not wish to add to her concern.’

Varington stretched out his legs and made himself comfortable within the chair. ‘Write her a letter explaining all.’

‘What a good idea,’ said Mrs Weir.

Weir turned away, but not before Helena had seen the roll of his eyes.

‘I would rather see her in person.’

‘Have you no other relatives?’

‘No,’ said Helena, worrying just how far Lord Varington’s questioning and her lies would lead them.

‘And that is why you left Islay—to visit your aunt in London?’

‘Yes.’ Experience with Stephen had taught her it was better not to elaborate.

‘I know London very well. It is my usual abode, apart from when I am coaxed away under extreme duress.’ Varington smiled and glanced meaningfully towards Weir.

Helena swallowed, knowing instinctively that he was leading up to something.

‘Where exactly does your aunt live?’ he asked.

Helena had never visited London in the entirety of her life. She had not an inkling of its streets. Be sure your lies will find you out. The words whispered through her mind. ‘It is not precisely in London,’ she said, racking her brains for a village, any village in the vicinity of the capital.

All eyes were upon her, waiting expectantly.

Hendon was near London, wasn’t it? For once Helena wished she had taken more interest in geography. Her mind went blank. ‘Hendon,’ she said, and hoped that she had not got it wrong.

‘Your aunt lives in Hendon?’ There was a definite interest in Guy’s tone.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know the place, Guy?’ asked Annabel.

‘Indeed,’ he said with more confidence than Helena wanted to hear. ‘I have a friend that lives there. What a coincidence.’

Helena’s heart sank. He would ask her now her aunt’s precise direction in Hendon, and what answer could she give? She dropped her gaze, staring down at her hands and waited for his question.

‘And what travel arrangements have you made, Mrs McLelland?’

She glanced up at him, surprise widening her eyes, relief flooding her veins. ‘I leave this afternoon on the one o’clock mail to Glasgow. From there I will take the stage and travel down the rest of the way.’

‘May I be so bold as to suggest an alternative?’

Helena felt a stab of foreboding. ‘Please do.’

‘I will be returning to London myself at the end of the week. You are most welcome to travel with me.’

It seemed that her heart had ceased to beat. ‘Thank you, my lord, you are generous to think of me, but I cannot wait so long to leave. I must find my aunt as soon as possible.’

Mrs Weir patted Helena’s arm. ‘But it shall be so much safer to travel with Guy than by stage, won’t it, John?’

Lord Varington crooked a sensual smile in Helena’s direction.

There was nothing remotely safe about Lord Varington, Helena thought.

Weir’s eyes slid to meet his friend’s.

‘The stage is inconveniently slow,’ said Lord Varington. ‘You do know that it will take you practically four days to make the journey, don’t you?’

In truth, Helena had no idea how long the journey would take. She had planned to travel by stage rather than mail for the majority of the journey because it was significantly cheaper and she had no wish to indebt herself to Mr and Mrs Weir for any more than was necessary. ‘Of course,’ she lied.

‘I can do it in two,’ he said.

‘And so he can,’ added Mrs Weir, ‘it took him even less to reach us. But I imagine he would have some consideration for a lady passenger and drive a little more sedately than normal.’

Varington laughed. ‘Indeed, I would.’

Helena could feel the noose tightening around her. ‘There is no need to inconvenience yourself, Lord Varington. Besides, I really must reach my aunt before the end of the week. I will take the stage as I planned, and you—’ she gave a kind of breathless forced laugh ‘—may travel every bit as fast as you wish without the encumbrance of a passenger slowing you down.’

‘Mary!’ Mrs Weir scolded.

‘Then you really believe it a matter of urgency to arrive in London before Friday?’ Varington turned the full force of his gaze upon her.

She could feel the guilty warmth in her cheeks. ‘Yes, my lord. I thank you for your offer, but you can see why it is impossible for me to accept.’

‘Very well.’ He nodded.

Helena almost sighed her relief aloud…too soon.

‘We will leave on Monday morning and I will have you in London by Tuesday evening…a full day earlier than the stage’s arrival. I cannot offer better than that.’ A handsome smile spread across his mouth.

Mrs Weir clapped her hands together. ‘Oh, Guy, you are too good!’

Helena froze.

‘Isn’t he, Mary?’ Mrs Weir demanded of Helena.

‘Indeed,’ said Helena weakly, and cast wildly around for some excuse that might extricate her from the mess that her lies had just created. ‘But I could not impose on you to change your plans in such a way. It would be most unfair.’

‘It is no imposition, Mrs McLelland. I look forward to your company,’ he replied, never taking his eyes from hers. ‘Besides, I couldn’t possibly allow a lady to travel alone and by stage.’

‘Thank you,’ said Helena, and forced a smile to her face, knowing that there really was no way out this time. Lord Varington had neatly outmanoeuvred her and there was not a thing that she could do about it.

Lord Varington rose and helped himself to some ham and eggs from the heated serving dishes on the sideboard.

‘Please excuse me,’ Helena said wanly, and escaped to the solitude of the yellow bedchamber, knowing full well that she must wait the rest of this day and all of tomorrow before travelling with Lord Varington to London. She could only hope that he would not insist on taking her directly to the home of her make-believe aunt.

Guy did not see the woman calling herself Mary McLelland again until the next afternoon. She descended the staircase at exactly two o’clock, just as he had known that she would. There was a hint of colour in her cheeks that contrasted prettily with her clear creamy complexion. Several strands of her hair had escaped her pins and she swept them back with nervous fingers. Guy cast an appreciative eye over the image she presented.

‘Lord Varington,’ she said rather breathlessly, ‘I came as your note requested.’ He noticed that she surreptitiously kept her hands folded neatly behind her back…out of sight…and out of reach.

‘Mrs McLelland.’ He moved from where he had been lounging against the heavy stone mantel in the hallway, and walked to meet her. ‘I see you have had the foresight to have worn a cloak. You seem to be eminently practical; not a trait often observed in beautiful women.’

She ignored his comment completely. ‘You said that a boat had been found, that it might be…’ Her words trailed off. ‘Where is it now?’

‘The remains have been carried to Weir’s boat shed, a mere five minutes’ walk from here.’ He waited for her protest at having to walk. None was forthcoming. She just gave a curt nod of her head and started to walk towards the back door. She had almost reached the door when he called softly, ‘Helena.’

Her response was instinctive. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder.

He smiled, and watched as the realisation of what she had just betrayed registered.

The blush bloomed in her cheeks, and something of fear and anger passed transiently across her features. ‘My name is Mary McLelland,’ she said quietly, but she did not meet his eye.

‘If you say so…Mary McLelland,’ he said, moving in a leisurely manner towards her.

He offered his arm. She took it because she could not politely do otherwise. Together they walked down the back garden until they reached the start of the overgrown lane that led down to the shore and the boathouse.

Guy looked down at her thin leather shoes. ‘Perhaps I should carry you,’ he suggested. ‘The grass is still wet from last night’s rain and I would not want you to spoil your shoes or dress. And, of course—’ he looked directly into her eyes ‘—there is the matter of your wounded feet.’

She threw him an outraged look. ‘My feet are perfectly recovered, thank you.’ And she blushed again.

And Guy knew very well that she was remembering, just as he was, the intimacy of that moment in her bedchamber. He smiled. ‘Or if you prefer, we can turn back.’ He waited with all the appearance of politeness, knowing full well what her answer would be.

‘I am perfectly capable of negotiating the pathway, Lord Varington.’

‘As you will, Mrs McLelland, but I must warn you that the surface is rather uneven.’ Having successfully goaded her, he smiled again and waited for her to set off.

Wild bramble bushes seemed to have taken over on either side, their long thorny branches encroaching far into the path. Not only that, but the grass underfoot was wet, and peppered with jagged nettles, small rocks and shells and copious mounds of sheep droppings. Long riding boots protected Guy’s feet and legs. He sauntered nonchalantly over every obstacle. The same could not be said for Helena. Despite picking her way with the greatest of care, it was not long before her shoes and bandaged feet were soaking. And to make matters worse, water was wicking from the grass up and over the edge of her skirt. Three times a bramble branch managed to snag her skirt most viciously, and twice upon the cloak borrowed from Annabel, the last of which to her chagrin necessitated Guy’s assistance in freeing it. All around them was the smell of damp undergrowth, of earth and sea and fresh air.

The path eventually led them out to the shore and a rather dilapidated-looking large hut. The wood was a faded ash colour, bleached and beaten into submission by years of hostile weather. Guy slipped the key from his pocket. It turned stiffly in the lock. The door creaked open under the weight of his hand. And they were in.

It was a boathouse without a boat. The floor consisted of creaking wooden planks that were covered in a damp sugaring of sand. Over in one corner a pile of crates and lobster pots had been neatly stacked. In another was a sprawl of ropes and nets and in yet another a few barrels and casks. In the middle of the floor lay a small mound covered with a rumpled canvas sheet.

‘But where is the rowing boat?’ Helena peered around the hut.

Guy saw her pull the cloak more tightly around her body. He had made no mention of the type of boat in his note to her. And having viewed a map of the exact location of the island of Islay, Guy was quite willing to bet that no boatman worth his salt would have attempted to row the distance single handed in so small a boat as the remains of which lay in this boat shed. ‘Here.’ He indicated the canvas.

‘But…’ Her words trailed off as he moved forward and pulled the sheet back to reveal the pile of broken timbers.

He watched her face closely for any sign of reaction.

‘I thought…’

‘I should have warned you that it was badly shattered.’ He crouched and began to separate the remnants of the boat, laying them out across the floor with care. ‘Part of the bow is still intact.’ He placed it close to her feet.

She dropped to her knees beside him, unmindful of the hardness of the wooden floor or the sand that now clung to the damp wool of her dress. She reached out a hand, caressed fingers against what had once been the bow of a small boat.

‘I do not know. I cannot tell if it is the same boat.’ She shook her head, a look of frustration crossing her brow.

‘And there is this,’ he said, uncovering a ripped piece of timber on which a string of bright letters had been painted.

He sensed the sudden stillness in the figure by his side. It seemed that she did not so much as breathe, just leaned forward, taking the torn planking from his hand to trace the remnants of the name.

‘Bonnie Lass.’ Her voice was just a whisper. She swallowed hard; without moving, without even laying down the wood, she closed her eyes. She looked as if she might be praying, kneeling as she was upon the floor with her eyes so tightly shut. Her face appeared bloodless and even her lips had paled.

‘Mrs McLelland,’ he said, and gently removed the wood from between her fingers to place it on the ground. ‘Do you recognise what remains of this boat?’

She made no sign of having heard him.

He heard the shallowness of her breathing, saw how tightly she pressed her lips together in an effort to control the strength of the emotion assailing her. ‘Helena,’ he said quietly, and touched a hand to her arm.

Even then she did not open her eyes, just stayed as she was, rigid and unwavering.

He pulled her kneeling form against him, his hands stroking what comfort he could offer against her back, his breath touching against her hair. Yet still, she did not yield.

His fingers moved to caress her hair, not caring that several of her hairpins scattered upon the floor in the process.

He heard the pain in her whispered words, ‘They should not have died. It was my fault. They were only there to help me. And now they’re dead.’ For all her agony she did not weep.

Guy held her, awkward and stiff though she was, and looked down into her face. ‘How can it be your fault?’ he said. ‘It was an accident, nothing more than a terrible accident. A small boat out in a big storm.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘Then explain it to me,’ he said gently.

Her eyes slowly opened and looked up into his. And for a moment he thought she would do just that. Every vestige of defence had vanished from her face. Stripped of all pretence she looked young and vulnerable…and desperately afraid. ‘I…’

He waited for what she would say.

‘I…’

And then he saw the change in her eyes, the defensive shutters shift back into place.

‘I must be getting back. Mrs Weir will be wondering where I am.’ She began to gather up her hairpins.

‘Annabel knows very well where you are,’ he said with exasperation.

Helena carefully picked each pin from the sandy floor before rising and turning to leave.

‘Wait,’ he said, catching her back by her wrist. ‘You are certain that this is the boat in which you travelled?’

A nod of the head sent a shimmer down the coils of hair dangling against her breast. ‘Yes.’

‘With whom did you sail?’

He saw the pain in her eyes, the slight wince before she recovered herself. ‘The boatman who agreed to take me.’

‘Who else?’

‘No one,’ she said, and averted her eyes.

‘Not even your maid?’

Her gaze darted to his and then away. He heard her small fast intake of breath and released her. She folded her hands together, but they gripped so tightly that her knuckles shone white. ‘I have told you my story.’

He reached one finger to tilt her chin, forcing her to look at him. ‘And that is exactly what you’ve told me, isn’t it, Helena? A story.’

He saw the involuntary swallow before she pulled her head away.

‘When I found you upon the shore you told me that your maid, Agnes, had been with you in the boat. In your distress just now you spoke of them, rather than he. Why will you not tell me what happened?’

She shook her head, stumbling back to get away from him.

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her to him, until he could feel the wool of her dress pressing against his thighs, feel the softness of her breast against his chest. He lowered his face to hers, so close that their lips almost touched. He could see each fleck within her eyes, every long dark red lash that bordered them, the delicate red arc of her eyebrow. His lips tingled with the proximity of her mouth, so close that they shared the same breath. ‘The truth has a strange way of making itself known sooner or later, sweetheart. Are you sure that you do not want to tell me yourself?’ Much more of this and he would give in to every instinct and kiss her as thoroughly and as hard as he wanted to.

The tension stretched between them.

His eyes slid longingly to her mouth, to the soft ripeness of her lips. He was so close as to almost taste her.

‘Please, Lord Varington,’ she gasped.

It was enough to bring him to his senses. Slowly he released her. Watched while she began to coil her hair back into place.

He replaced the boat wreckage in an orderly pile and re-covered it with the canvas, and when he looked again she had tidied her hair.

‘We should return to the house.’ She spoke calmly, smoothing down the creases in her skirt, fixing the cloak around her body, as if she hadn’t just discovered the boat that had claimed the life of her servants and very nearly her own, as if she was not grieving and afraid. There wasn’t even the slightest hint that he had just pressed her the length of his body and almost ravaged her lips with his own. Yet he had felt the tremor ripple through her, the strength of her suppressed emotion. There was no doubting that the woman before him was a consummate actress when it came to hiding her feelings. But Guy had glimpsed behind her façade, and what he saw was temptation itself. What else was she hiding and why? Guy was growing steadfastly more determined to discover the mystery of the beautiful redheaded woman.

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