Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

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