Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee

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