Untouched Read online

  “Lord Sheene, I suspect our…intimacy is as unwelcome to you as to me.”

  That made him pull up so suddenly that she crashed into his back, every luscious inch of her.

  He turned on her, fighting the urge to sweep her up in his arms, and barked, “What makes you say that?”

  She stepped away, thank God, before he could grab her and consign his war with his uncle to Hades. Her color was even higher and she breathed in gusty little mouthfuls. A perfect portrayal of an innocent woman who found a man’s proximity disturbing. He’d have applauded her performance if he hadn’t been so disturbed himself.

  She went on in an unsteady voice. “Your manner, for one thing. You clearly resent my presence. Also last night, you didn’t…”

  “Force my disagreeable person upon you?” he finished for her and saw her flinch.

  “If you were in a fever of lust, you’d have already had me. I told you I’m a widow and not unacquainted with men and their…needs.”

  He nearly laughed again. She sounded prim as any spinster schoolmistress. All the time, she stood there arrayed like an expensive tart and driving him out of his mind with her nearness.

  As if he weren’t out of his mind already.

  He folded his arms and surveyed her down the length of his nose. “Madam, if I could get you out of here, I would. But your only hope of leaving is my uncle. And having brought you here, he’ll be less than eager to let you go.”

  She made a curiously defeated gesture. “I know what you think. But I truly am a victim in this. I lost my way in Bristol and wandered into a rough quarter of town. Monks and Filey caught me and drugged me. Surely you cannot doubt I was dosed with laudanum to ensure I didn’t struggle.”

  He gave her credit for sticking to her story. “Both the constraint and the drug could be tricks to convince me of your innocence.”

  “You still don’t believe me,” she whispered. Then more strongly, “Look at me, Lord Sheene. Do I look like a…a whore?”

  “You look more the part today than you did yesterday,” he said frankly.

  She went back to plucking unhappily at her dress but it continued to cling like a loose green skin. “I know, but this was the least revealing thing I could find.”

  His curiosity roused. The rest of her wardrobe must be provocative indeed. He stifled the ribald images flooding his brain.

  Still she fidgeted with her clothing. She certainly gave a realistic show of someone uncomfortable in what she wore. She ended up folding her arms across her bosom again, to his unwilling regret.

  “There was a woman. Mrs. Filey, I suppose. She drew me a bath and took my black dress. I assumed she meant to brush it down but she didn’t bring it back. She wouldn’t answer me when I asked her what happened to it. And she wouldn’t return my petticoats.”

  “She’s deaf, has been for years,” he said flatly. “I believe Filey clouted her too hard about the head after one of his drinking bouts. I see no reason why she can’t speak but I’ve never heard her do so.”

  The girl whitened until he could almost see the veins beneath her skin. “That’s awful.”

  “I don’t need to tell you the man is a brute.”

  “Then I don’t need to tell you why I need help,” she said with a hint of asperity. She reminded him briefly of the shabby duchess he’d met yesterday with her threadbare gown and her imperious manner. “Will you ask your uncle to let me go?”

  This time his laugh held a grim tinge. “Mrs. Paget, my uncle pays no heed to my wishes. I expressed abhorrence of this latest scheme before your arrival.”

  “Well, perhaps I could ask him.”

  He shrugged and turned away, heading toward his greenhouse. “If you can get a message to him, you’re welcome to try. He’s a man who follows his own notions. His current notion is that I need a woman to share my delightful idyll. You’re unquestionably a woman so I doubt he’ll stir himself to find a replacement.”

  “I cannot accept we’re stuck in this impossible situation.”

  Yet again, she pursued him. Couldn’t the blasted chit take a hint?

  He didn’t pause nor did he look at her. “You will.”

  This time he managed to escape by going into the greenhouse and shutting the door firmly after him.

  He should have known she wouldn’t leave the matter there.

  That afternoon Matthew wandered through the woods with Wolfram. He remained blind to the beauty of dappled sunlight breaking through new leaves. Instead, his mind fixed on his problem.

  The woman.

  Mrs. Paget.

  Grace.

  He’d been little more than a boy when he was confined. Even so, his recollection of the world beyond these walls didn’t include whores who spoke in cultured accents and deliberately played down their attractions. She was a beautiful woman but she didn’t use paint and she insisted on that unbecoming hairstyle.

  He had a sudden intense urge to see her hair down. It would be long and shining as it tumbled about her naked shoulders. Even the severe braids around her head couldn’t conceal her hair’s luxuriance.

  He drew a tight rein on his imagination. She was dangerous enough to his control fully dressed. Or as close to fully dressed as that green gown allowed.

  If she wasn’t a common prostitute, what was she? Why would a woman like her agree to this scheme?

  Was she indeed a temporarily unengaged actress? It was possible. With destitution as the alternative, the prospect of tupping a madman might be attractive. His uncle mightn’t even have given her so much information.

  When Matthew had told her he was insane, her shock had almost convinced him.

  If she didn’t know he was mad, why did she think he was held prisoner? She must have known, which meant all her show of dismay and fear was just that—a show.

  Perhaps she had another reason for falling in with his uncle’s machinations. Perhaps she wasn’t here for money, but for love.

  He swore under his breath and kicked discontentedly at the leaf litter on the path. If the woman were his uncle’s cast-off mistress, a great deal made sense.

  Like her air of innocence. His uncle wasn’t above corrupting a respectable woman. His uncle, for all his public probity, wasn’t above much. Eleven years of captivity had taught Matthew that.

  This could explain why she set out to diminish her beauty. In her heart, she remained loyal to her original protector. Maybe she was unable to face bedding another man.

  His uncle was unprincipled enough to ruin an innocent and turn her to his purpose. Any enjoyment Lord John got from the woman would be a bonus. What became of the jade afterward wouldn’t worry him.

  The snag with this perfectly logical explanation was that Matthew found it even more unpalatable than the unpalatable alternatives. Hellish images hurtled through his mind. His uncle thrusting between the woman’s pale thighs. His uncle’s hands stroking her bare skin. His uncle’s mouth tasting that smooth white flesh.

  “Christ!” He crashed his clenched fist into the smooth gray bark of a beech.

  Pain wrenched him back to reality. He hadn’t suffered one of his fits for years. He couldn’t go on like this. He’d make himself ill. And he’d kill himself before he descended into that shuffling, mindless, quaking wretch again.

  Wolfram’s cold nose pressed into his dangling left hand. Matthew absently stroked the dog’s head, finding comfort in the animal’s steadfast affection.

  The woman was here until his uncle chose to remove her. All Matthew could do was avoid her. Difficult when they shared a house. Still, it counted as a strategy of sorts.

  Feeling more in control, he headed back to the cottage, only to watch his pathetic plan crumble before his eyes.

  Monks and Filey were in the yard behind the house. That in itself was nothing unusual. But when Matthew paused in the shade of the trees, he caught a glimpse of bright green satin against the bricks. His brawny jailers were ranged between the girl and Matthew so he could see no more of her.
/>   What was the fool woman up to?

  Matthew signaled Wolfram to stay. Monks and Filey closed in on their prey and didn’t notice as he edged up behind them. What he heard as he came within earshot froze his blood to ice.

  “Happen there’s only one way you’re leaving, lass. That’s dead as a doornail. Do it now or wait until his lordship has his fill. Any road, it’s up to you.” Monks spoke softly but clearly. Matthew could have told her the quieter the thug became, the more lethal he was.

  “And first, I’ll have my go.” Filey stepped to one side of the girl so they had her boxed against the brickwork. “I’ll not throw away such a grand chance.”

  “I’m trying to tell you you’ve made a mistake. I’m a respectable widow, not a…a whore.”

  Matthew still couldn’t see Mrs. Paget past the broad backs. But he heard how she struggled to maintain the sweet reasonableness of her tone. Good God, she spoke to these two unpredictable curs as if she invited them to tea.

  Monks snickered. “All lasses are whores. Any road, whatever you once were, you’ll learn to play a whore’s part right fast.”

  Her voice developed a pleading note. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done. You have my word.”

  Did she know the danger she courted? Anger at her recklessness tasted sour in Matthew’s mouth.

  Monks laughed again. Even Matthew, who knew his adversary of old, couldn’t restrain the shiver that ran down his spine at the pure evil of the sound. “Your word, eh? That’s worth nowt to me. No, you stay and keep his sodding lordship happy. He might be out of his head but he’s right pretty, I reckon.”

  “He doesn’t want me,” she said.

  Matthew closed his eyes in despair. Christ, what had she done? Whether she was a willing instrument in Lord John’s schemes or merely an innocent swept into this fiendish game—and at this precise moment he couldn’t say for sure—she’d just signed away her life.

  “Eh, the lad’s nowt but shy,” Filey said coaxingly. “He’ll get over that soon enow.”

  “No, I’m not to his taste,” she persisted, idiot girl.

  “Eh, then it’s daft to keep you,” Monks said in a businesslike tone. “Filey, use the wench until tomorrow then I’ll finish her off.”

  “No,” she protested frantically. “You don’t understand.”

  Filey chuckled with lascivious eagerness. “Oh, we understand right well, flower. It’s you who’s a mite confused. His lordship has you, then I do, then we shut you up good and proper with a hit on the head or a knife to the neck. If his lordship’s not interested, we skip the first step.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward him.

  “Let me go!” she cried out, writhing in her captor’s grip.

  Even if she was a lying trull, Matthew couldn’t help but pity her terror and helplessness. Terror and helplessness he’d felt often enough himself over the last eleven years. He resented but couldn’t stifle his swift empathy. It no longer mattered whether she conspired against him. All that mattered was that she was small and defenseless and the only champion she could call on was Matthew Lansdowne.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he snarled, stepping forward. He signaled to Wolfram and the dog loped up, his hackles rising.

  Monks turned toward him and sketched a bow. These days, his jailers preserved superficial respect for his rank. When they’d had him bound before them, they hadn’t been so careful. Perhaps they thought in his raving, he’d neither register nor remember their cruelty.

  “My lord. This slut hasn’t met with your approval. We’ll take her away and get you a new one.”

  “I’m not a toy,” the woman snapped, still trying to wriggle free of Filey’s bruising hold.

  “Shut your gob, bitch,” Monks said. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”

  “You have no right to speak to me like that,” she objected in her cut-glass accent, a perfect match for Matthew’s.

  “I warned you.” Monks raised a clenched fist.

  Matthew got there first, his arm upheld to fend off the blow. Staring fixedly into Monks’s small dirt-colored eyes, he stood like a barrier in front of the frightened girl.

  “Damn you, let her be.” He summoned every ounce of Lansdowne arrogance. And still knew it mightn’t be enough.

  It was enough for Filey. He released the chit and shifted away. “Beg pardon, your lordship,” he muttered, keeping a nervous eye on Wolfram.

  Matthew wasn’t so sure of Monks. For a long space, the brute stared with obstinate hatred into his face. Eventually something—fear of future consequences, unwillingness to break the fragile but long-held truce between them—made Monks’s eyes flicker away.

  The girl was still at Matthew’s back. He reached behind to snatch her arm and tug her forward to stand beside him. He didn’t look at her but he felt the convulsive tremors that ran through her. Thankfully, for once she’d decided silence was her best tactic.

  “This lady is under my protection. If harm comes to her, my uncle will hear. I promise you, he won’t be pleased.”

  Monks might be in retreat but he was far from defeated. His lips stretched in a leering smile. “So I take it the bitch is mistaken and you do want her, your lordship?”

  Matthew hesitated. Admitting he wanted the woman meant he enlisted in his uncle’s foul scheme.

  If he didn’t claim her, she would die.

  Triumph glowed in Monks’s eyes. He was far from stupid and he was party to many of Lord John’s plots. He knew the significance of this moment.

  Matthew couldn’t say it. To save his soul, he couldn’t.

  At his side, the girl choked back a terrified sob. She stood close enough for the scent of jasmine to lure his senses. She was warm against his body. Warm and alive.

  He looked steadily into his enemy’s eyes and spoke with calm certainty. “Yes, I want her. She is mine.”

  The words wouldn’t have been nearly so difficult to say if they hadn’t been the absolute truth.

  Chapter 5

  Grace heard the marquess speak from a great distance. The actual words hardly registered. Shaking with sick relief, she pressed against his side. He was all that shielded her from unimaginable horror. His ruthless grip on her arm anchored her to reality, stopped her screaming out her fear.

  Her disbelieving heart thundered two words over and over. I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.

  Monks grinned at Lord Sheene in a horribly knowing way that made cold sweat break out all over her body. “I wish your lordship good sport. Eh, I’ll be right glad to give you tips on pleasing a lass.”

  The marquess’s smooth baritone dripped ice. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Monks. Treat this lady with respect or by God, you’ll answer for it.”

  Lord Sheene’s arm slid around Grace’s shoulders and drew her into his body. Like an elixir against panic, the clean smell of his skin wafted out to tease her. It was familiar although she’d have thought herself too disoriented yesterday to notice his scent.

  “That goes for you too, Filey.” He sounded like a man who commanded armies, not a poor captive lunatic. “Now leave us.”

  The aura of authority must have convinced. Filey and Monks scuttled off in bowing confusion. Only when they were out of sight did Lord Sheene untangle himself and step away. Grace immediately missed his heat and strength.

  “Are you all right?” His hauteur had vanished. He sounded concerned, kind. The hostility for once was absent.

  Grace wrapped her arms around herself to control her shaking but they didn’t provide the warmth she’d found in Lord Sheene’s embrace. Her legs felt like they might collapse under her. She needed a couple of attempts before she could control her voice enough to reply. “They…they didn’t hurt me.”

  “They would have. It was foolhardy to confront them.” Intent golden eyes ranged over her. Eventually, he gave a nod as if he accepted she was unharmed. “I believe your story about the kidnap.”

  Well, hoorah for you. Good honest anger swamped her drea
d. Renewed energy made her straighten and glare at him. “I appreciate your condescension, my lord. Any man with eyes in his head could see I was telling the truth.”

  His lips curved in another of his wry smiles. “You forget you’re dealing with a poor mad fool, Mrs. Paget.”

  His show of charming self-derision made her angrier. Unless she got away, she’d pitch something at his handsome head.

  “I think you are precisely as mad as you wish to be, my lord.” She whirled around and marched toward the house, cursing every male born into this miserable world.

  By the time she came downstairs for dinner, Grace regretted her temper. It had been reaction to her paralyzing fear when Monks spoke so dispassionately of killing her. She shuddered anew at what could have happened if Lord Sheene hadn’t saved her.

  If Lord Sheene hadn’t claimed her as his. Of course, it meant nothing. He didn’t want her. If he wanted her, he could have her. What stopped him extending those elegant hands and taking her? He’d even come to her room last night, then hadn’t been able to stomach the act.

  When she quietly entered the salon and saw him standing at the window, her heart began to race. She told herself she trembled because she was scared. But years of endurance and unhappiness had taught her unflinching honesty. Along with fear, other emotions stirred. Her wariness of the marquess held none of the gagging revulsion Filey aroused.

  Lord Sheene kept his back to her as he looked out into the twilight. Yet again, his isolation struck her. His physical isolation. And also his spiritual isolation. Perhaps that alone constituted his madness. So far, she’d seen little other sign of his affliction.

  He spoke without turning. “Stay away from Monks and Filey. They don’t make idle threats.”

  Again, that instinctive animal awareness of what happened around him. Were all madmen so attuned to their surroundings?

  She wouldn’t have thought so.

  A sudden memory pierced her of his intense concentration on the spindly rose bush that morning. His hands had been so deft, their very sureness breathtakingly beautiful. Her wayward heart dipped into an unsteady dance at the thought of those hands on her skin.