Untouched Page 4

  As the rich and familiar flavors filled her mouth, she closed her eyes and fought tears. She refused to start bawling just because her captors gave her a decent meal. That would be too pitiable.

  The delicious food brought back so many memories. Memories she’d crushed deep inside through years of deprivation. Memories that now surfaced to make her dangerously vulnerable.

  Control yourself, Grace, she told herself sternly, or you’ll be lost. With a shaking hand, she reached for her wine and took a gulp. But even the cool flow of claret down her tense throat reminded her poignantly of her past.

  “The gowns didn’t meet with your approval?” the marquess asked idly after a long silence. He raised his wine to his lips and sipped. “Surely you must realize by now that the grieving widow hasn’t disarmed me.”

  She ignored the taunting jibe. “What gowns?”

  He gestured contemptuously with his heavy crystal glass. “Your costumes for act two. The bedroom coffers overflow with silks and satins.”

  “I didn’t look.” Her heart sank under the desolate knowledge that someone had made elaborate preparations for her arrival. And if they’d made such effort to get her here, they’d make doubly sure she didn’t leave.

  She drank more wine to bolster her failing nerve. Questions might anger her companion but she had to take the risk. Ignorance rendered her utterly defenseless.

  “My lord, where are we?”

  He’d combed his thick dark hair away from his face and she had no trouble reading the suspicion that settled on his features. “Madam, what profit is there in continuing this pretense?”

  Nothing shook his belief that she worked against him in some plot.

  Weren’t madmen always certain the world conspired to achieve their ruin? Apart from his own avowals, it was the first indication that he was indeed insane.

  Still she didn’t give up. “What harm to tell me?”

  He surveyed her for a disturbing interval while his fingers toyed with the stem of his glass. He had beautiful hands, she noticed inconsequentially. Slender, strong, long-fingered, sensitive.

  Would those hands soon be on her skin, hurting her?

  He sighed with impatience. “No harm compared to what has already been done,” he growled eventually. “If it amuses you, by all means let’s play this little scene. You are in an isolated corner of Somerset about twenty miles from Wells.”

  “How long have you…how long have you lived here?”

  The wry smile flickered and died. “How long have I been out of my wits, do you mean?” When she didn’t answer, he went on in a terse voice, “I contracted a brain fever when I was fourteen. I am now five and twenty.”

  They were the same age, she realized with astonishment. She couldn’t imagine why that created a bond, but it did.

  “So you’ve been a captive for eleven years?”

  Eleven years of incarceration, eleven years of his warders’ brutality, eleven years of madness. The misery he must have endured didn’t bear thinking about.

  He shrugged. “It could have been worse. My uncle in his kindness,” he bit out the words, “saved me from confinement in an asylum. I doubt I’d have survived otherwise.”

  “Even so, eleven years a prisoner,” she said, aghast.

  Abruptly, the fine food lost its flavor. With trembling hands, she set down her knife and fork. She noticed the marquess had eaten even less of the extravagant meal than she.

  He shrugged. “I believe it was for the good of all concerned. At the time.” This last with a caustic edge.

  “You speak of your uncle. What of your parents? What of your brothers and sisters?”

  “My parents died before I fell ill. They had no other children. My uncle was my legal guardian when I was a boy and as I never regained my wits, he has continued in that role.” He frowned across the elaborately set table. “Didn’t Lord John explain this? Surely he’d want you in possession of the basic facts, if only to stop you bolting in hysteria when faced with your client.” He paused. “But of course, you did bolt, didn’t you?”

  “I wasn’t hysterical,” she snapped. “And for the last time, I don’t know your uncle.”

  His face tautened with disdain. “And for the last time, I tell you I don’t believe you.” He shoved back his chair and stood. “I weary of this conversation, madam. I bid you goodnight.”

  Just like that, he stalked out of the room. She heard his firm footstep cross the hall then the slam of the door as he left the house.

  Thank heaven she was alone at last. The aching tension that had knotted her muscles since he’d fetched her from the bedroom eased a fraction and allowed her an unfettered breath.

  Perhaps the marquess’s mistrust was part of his affliction. Josiah had definitely gone a little strange toward the end. But he’d been old and sick. She didn’t have the experience to judge the marquess’s sanity. In her untutored opinion, he appeared disconcertingly intelligent. Certainly nothing escaped those perceptive eyes.

  Was it possible to be both mad and coherent at the same time?

  The urgent question, though, wasn’t whether he was mad but what he intended to do. Until now, he’d only touched her to help her. Nor had he indicated he meant violence.

  Until now.

  She shivered and stared bleakly into the shadows. He was so much stronger than she. She remembered the latent power in his muscles when he’d carried her. If he threw himself upon her, she had no hope of fighting him off.

  Should she flee? She couldn’t escape the estate. But the night was fine, if cool. Sleeping outdoors wouldn’t hurt her.

  Outdoors she risked running into Monks and Filey.

  Dear Lord, she couldn’t face that. Whatever the marquess did, it had to be better than the degradation she’d meet at their hands.

  She rose and staggered, grabbing the table for balance. She hadn’t touched a drop of wine in years. On her empty stomach, even the small amount she’d imbibed made her head spin. She sucked in another deep breath and strove for clarity.

  Why hadn’t she been more careful? The last thing she needed was alcohol slowing her reactions. She was such a fool. She bent her head and waited for the dizziness to pass.

  Her bedroom. That was her only sanctuary. She’d barricade the door. When the marquess returned, at least he wouldn’t find her waiting like a dog expecting its master.

  How long did she have? He’d marched out in a huff but he might decide roaming the night wasn’t the only way to work off his bad temper.

  She had to make herself safe. And quickly.

  She needed a weapon. Her trembling fingers curled around the knife she’d used for dinner. It wasn’t sharp enough to do real damage, but it might slow him down.

  Clutching the knife, she hurried upstairs so fast that her candle threatened to flicker out. She hurled herself into the elaborate bedroom and kicked the door shut behind her. Then she slipped her knife into her pocket and raised her candle to find the bolt.

  No bolt. No lock of any kind.

  Of course, this house was a madman’s prison. His jailers would need continuous access. She should have realized there would be no way to secure the door. With unsteady hands, she slid the candle onto the dresser.

  A heavy oak chest sat against the wall. She could pull it in front of the door then pile other furniture on top. The marquess was strong but she’d make sure not even Samson could break into this room to ravish his reluctant Delilah.

  She ranged herself against the far side of the chest and pushed hard.

  Nothing. No movement at all.

  She took a deep breath and tried again. The chest didn’t budge. Again and again, she pushed. Eventually, she realized nothing would shift it.

  Perhaps the dresser would serve. She straightened and moved across to set her shoulder to the bulky piece of furniture.

  It didn’t move an inch.

  She pushed until the breath sawed in her lungs and her muscles cramped with effort.

  Her heart h
eavy with a dread she didn’t want to face, she checked the rest of the room. The furniture was nailed to the floor so firmly that without heavy tools, she couldn’t hope to pry it loose.

  Fighting tears, she sank onto the bed’s high mattress. All she had to show for her efforts were broken fingernails and aches and bruises where she’d slipped and fallen in her desperation.

  She couldn’t bar the door against the marquess. She was as defenseless up here as she’d been when her kidnappers had drugged her.

  No, not quite. She fumbled for the knife. Although the grim truth was that it provided only the flimsiest protection.

  She hadn’t heard the marquess downstairs. Even as she strained to shift the room’s heavy oak fittings, she’d listened avidly for his return.

  Now it was late and she was stupid with weariness and fear. Her eyes stung with exhaustion but she couldn’t allow herself to sleep. Clutching her knife in damp hands, she lay back against the pillows and stared into the candlelit room.

  Grace stirred from her troubled sleep. It was dark. The candle must have burned out. She had the strange fancy she was a child again, safe in her room at Marlow Hall. The large bed, fine sheets, soft pillows under her head.

  Then she realized safe was the last word she should use.

  The faint breeze from the open door must have woken her. This puzzled her briefly as she knew she’d closed it when she came upstairs. She curled shaking fingers around her knife.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she saw the tall silent man on the threshold. His stare burned unerringly through the darkness to where she lay.

  Chapter 4

  Matthew stood in the bedroom doorway, breathing heavily. Lust thundered through his veins and his heart hammered as though he’d just fought off a powerful assailant.

  The room was dark and still, but he knew instinctively the woman was awake. And watching him.

  He could see a pale glimmer where her face turned toward him. She didn’t speak. He couldn’t even hear her breathing. Every nerve in his body sensed that she waited for him to cross to the bed.

  He could go to her now. He could have her. It was what she was here for.

  She’d open her arms and offer up her body’s secrets. He grew hard thinking about it. He’d lose himself in her honeyed depths and she’d give him the ease so long denied.

  He braced his arms against the doorway on either side as if only physical effort stopped him surging across to take her. She wouldn’t refuse him. She’d been paid to do this. Whatever her distaste for him, she’d honor her contract or face his uncle’s wrath.

  He’d paced the dank woods for hours, battling his baser self. And God help him, his baser self had won.

  What man could resist when defeat was so sweet?

  He shook his head as a drop of water traced a chilly path down his face. It had started to rain while he was outside. He hadn’t cared, had hardly even registered the wet. It did nothing to douse the raging fire inside him.

  Dismissing his uncle’s plan had been easy when the doxy remained an imaginary creature. Faced with this defiant beauty, his resolution wavered, disintegrated.

  Yet here he hesitated like a beggar at the kitchen door.

  Why didn’t she say something? Scream? Protest?

  Invite him to touch her?

  She must know her collusion with his uncle no longer mattered. All that mattered was she was female and he wanted her. Wanted her with every beat of his yearning heart.

  As his uncle had known he would.

  He curled his fingers so hard against the wood that the edges bit painfully into his flesh.

  Jesus, had it come to this? Eleven lonely years of struggle to retain his humanity. Then one whiff of female and he forgot everything else?

  He would not do it. He would not.

  His uncle hadn’t yet won. Although he came damned close with this latest sally.

  Matthew could hold out against temptation.

  Just.

  Brave words. Only with the greatest difficulty did he straighten and step back.

  He’d honed his mind as his weapon against Lord John. Only to find his body threatened to prove his downfall. His body and one exquisite strumpet.

  As he retreated, she released her breath in a sobbing gasp.

  She was frightened of the madman. Well, let her stay frightened. If she kept her distance, he might have a chance against her. Despair blacker than the surrounding night weighed his heart as he trudged downstairs to his mean, makeshift bed in the salon.

  He was trying to accommodate his ungainly height to a sofa never designed for sleeping when he heard a sudden flurry of footsteps on the floor above.

  The door to the bedroom slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windowpanes.

  Late the next morning, Matthew worked in the walled courtyard, grafting his new hybrid to some rootstock. He felt an electric shift in the air and looked up to find the wench staring at him from the red brick archway. She looked in better health than yesterday, although her face was still stark with suffering and her cobalt eyes still cut to his soul.

  “Good morning,” he said stiffly. The hand holding the grafting knife dropped away from the rose bush.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she responded with those damnably perfect manners.

  Her gaze fixed on the knife but she didn’t retreat. Even after one day, he was used to her daring. She took a wary step from the shadow of the ivy and entered the heart of his private kingdom.

  Then he noticed what she wore and he almost groaned aloud. The teal dress hung loosely on her slight frame and slashed perilously low across her magnificent bosom. He could see the rounded tops of her breasts and the intriguing valley between them. The neckline drooped so all he could think about was how easily he could bare that creamy bounty.

  Manfully, he dragged his gaze from her cleavage to meet her accusing glare.

  Well, what could she expect when she flaunted herself in whore’s regalia?

  Last night, he’d sworn never to touch her. But it was only human to look, wasn’t it? Looking couldn’t hurt. But looking led inevitably to touching.

  If he touched her, he was lost.

  She wrapped her arms around herself to hide her eye-catching décolletage. An attractive flush lay high on her cheekbones. He had to give his uncle credit for unearthing the only whore in Christendom who remembered how to blush.

  He returned his attention to what he was doing. It took him a hellishly long time. For once, his thoughts were far from his botanical experiments.

  Any conversation had faltered after the greeting. What did he know of entertaining the fair sex? Nothing. And right now, he told himself with no great conviction, he was glad.

  He waited for her to accept the dismissal. She merely hovered near the archway as if she were as ill at ease as he.

  Nice touch, he thought grimly. And snagged his thumb on a thorn for his trouble.

  He wiped the spot of blood on his linen shirt and glared at her. Against his will, he made a detailed inventory of the figure the dress displayed. The narrow waist. The way the shiny material skimmed the outward curve of her hips. She wasn’t wearing petticoats—indication enough of her lack of virtue—and the light behind her offered glimpses of her legs through the skirt.

  Every drop of moisture in his mouth evaporated as his gaze traced their slender length. He clenched his hands at his sides to stop himself from reaching for her.

  After a tense silence, she moved. Unfortunately not away, but closer. Closer so the faint breeze carried drifts of her scent to torment him.

  She still smelled like sunshine. But today her soap hinted at the heavier perfume of jasmine. He wished he didn’t like it. He closed his eyes as he enumerated his reasons to despise and mistrust this woman.

  “My lord,” she began. She sounded nervous, an impression fortified when he opened his eyes to see her fingers laced together in an unsuccessful attempt to hide their trembling.

  The gesture was
disarming. He steadfastly refused to be disarmed.

  “Mmm?” He wished she’d disappear. He wished she’d take one short step and press all that flower-scented loveliness against him.

  “My lord,” she said more firmly, staying exactly where she was, confound her. She hitched at the dress’s neckline but it slipped down immediately. “We need to talk.”

  Matthew’s mature experience of women was sketchy to the point of nonexistence. But he was acute enough to know those words from a female promised trouble.

  “I’m busy.” He studied his new rose as if it held the secrets of the ages on its barren stalk.

  She sighed with impatience. “This won’t take long.”

  Startled, he lifted his head and looked into her eyes for the first time. “You’re not frightened anymore.”

  A steady blue gaze met his. “Of course I’m still frightened,” she snapped. “But cowering away at the mere sight of you won’t do any good. And I’ve worked out that if you meant to hurt me, you’d have done so already.”

  She raised her chin in a brave gesture that stirred his heart. My God, where had his uncle found her? She was a miracle.

  “I might be lulling you into a false sense of security,” he said dryly. He had to remember her candor and courage were weapons she used against him.

  “Believe me, secure is a long way from how I’m feeling.” Her eyes didn’t waver. “I want your help to escape.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. She was so earnest, yet she must know her request was ridiculous.

  Her fine dark brows had lowered with annoyance when he finally regained his breath. She’d even forgotten to fiddle with her dress. “I am overjoyed I provide your lordship with such amusement,” she said with heavy sarcasm.

  He sobered immediately. “That is your purpose, is it not?” he responded in a silky tone.

  He turned his back to go to the greenhouse for more binding to finish the graft. Perhaps his deliberate rudeness would chase her off. But of course, it didn’t. Instead, she came after him, close enough for damned jasmine to mingle with the other scents that surrounded him, of spring flowers and freshly turned soil.