Читать книгу Untouched Mistress - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 10

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.