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Quickly she smoothed the bedcovers over the bed to give some semblance of tidiness. Then she moved to the large wooden box positioned at the bottom of the bed and removed a single neatly folded blanket. Her eyes scanned the room, alighting on the silver brush-and-comb set sitting upon the chest of drawers, knowing they would fetch a good price. But, for all of her desperation, Helena could not do that to whoever in this house had helped her. It was bad enough that she was stealing the blanket. She hurried to the door, then turned and glanced once more around the room. The fire burned within the fireplace. The room was warm and cheery in its yellow hues. For a moment she was almost tempted to stay; almost. But then she turned and, still clutching the blanket to her chest, opened the door to pass silently through.
‘It’s a fine piece.’ Lord Varington admired the rifle before him. ‘Well balanced.’ He weighed the weapon between his hands, set the butt of the handle against his shoulder and took aim.
John Weir laughed and looked pleased with his friend’s admiration. ‘It turns hunting into something else altogether. I can hit a rabbit at fifty paces and a grouse when the bird thinks it’s got clean away. Thought you might like to try out the Bakers. I’ve two of them; this one here and the other kept oil-skinned in my boat.’ He looked sheepish. ‘Seagulls make for good target practice, you see.’ Then his enthusiasm returned. ‘I can have it fetched for you. We could go up onto the moor. You could give me some pointers on improving my shooting, if you’ve no objection, that is.’ Then, remembering Guy’s dislike of the outdoors, Weir added, ‘Brown says the weather will clear tomorrow, that it might even be sunny.’
Guy’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to tempt me, would you? I’ve been here a week and there’s been no sight of the sun. Indeed, if memory serves me correctly, we’ve not yet had a day without rain.’
‘Mark my words, tomorrow will be different.’ Weir nodded his head sagely. ‘And I wouldn’t want to miss a few hours of rifle practice on a glorious sunny day. Besides, the views from the moor are magnificent. If the cloud clears, you’ll see all of the surrounding islands.’
‘I’ve not the least interest in “magnificent views”, as well you know. But, fill my hip flask with whisky and I’ll willingly accept your invitation.’
‘Done.’ Weir laughed. ‘I do have a rather fine Islay malt in the cellar, nice and peaty in flavour. I think you’ll like it.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ said Guy.
‘Does it take you back to your years in the Rifles?’ Weir jerked his head in the direction of the rifle. ‘The Baker, that is.’
Guy ran a finger along the barrel of the rifle. ‘Naturally.’
‘Do you miss it?’
Guy smiled in a devil-may-care fashion. ‘Sometimes, but it’s been years and there are…’ he threw his friend a raffish look ‘…other interests that fill my time now, and if I’ve time to waste, then I’d rather waste it on them. Even if you are a married man, I’m sure you’ll remember the fun that’s to be had in that.’
‘If you say so, Varington.’
Guy smiled a lazy arrogant smile. ‘Oh, but I do.’
Weir reached down and lifted the Baker rifle. ‘We’d best get back to preparing the guns.’
A comfortable silence ensued while the two men set about their task. Then Weir asked, ‘What are we going to do about that woman upstairs? She still shows no sign of wakening, despite Dr Milligan’s insistence that there’s nothing wrong with her.’
‘Save exhaustion and bruising.’
Weir nodded in agreement. ‘Even so, it has been three days…’
‘She’ll waken when she’s ready.’
‘But we don’t even know who she is yet.’
‘A lady of mystery.’ Guy crooked an eyebrow suggestively, making light of the matter. He did not want to think about what had happened on the shore, when the woman’s life had literally expired before him, and his stomach had clenched with the dread of it. It reminded him too much of the darkness from a past that he wished to forget.
Weir rolled his eyes. ‘You must admit that it is rather curious that a woman is washed up on a beach the morning after a storm and no one reports her missing?’
Guy shrugged. ‘Maybe she has no family to notice her absence, or they, too, perished in the storm. What did the constable say?’
‘That he would make his own enquiries into the matter.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’
‘Save a strange woman lying upstairs in one of my bedchambers.’
Guy gave a roguish smile. ‘If she was lying in one of my bedchambers, I wouldn’t be complaining.’
Weir snorted. ‘I doubt you would, but that’s not the point. We know nothing about her. She could be anyone. Annabel says that the maidservant who laundered the woman’s dress found a key sewn into a secret section in its hem.’ Weir dug in his pocket. ‘Here, take a look at it.’ He extended a hand towards Varington, a silver key upon the outstretched palm.
The key was of a medium size and had been roughly fashioned. Beneath Guy’s fingers the metal was cold and hard. ‘Looks like the key to an internal door.’
Weir gave a shake of his head. ‘Why on earth would she have a key in the hem of her dress? It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Maybe she was hiding it from someone.’ Guy shrugged his shoulders. ‘How should I know?’ Closing his fingers around the key, he placed it within his own pocket, patted the pocket and said, ‘I’ll see that it’s returned to the lady at a more appropriate time.’
Weir said nothing, just gave a sigh.
‘Has she spoken yet?’
‘Nothing of sense. Apparently she cries out in her sleep as if in fear, but that is little wonder given that she seems to have survived some kind of boating accident.’
‘To have survived the sea on a stormy November night, our mystery lady must have the luck of the devil.’
Weir gave a shudder. ‘Don’t say such things!’
Guy laughed.
‘It’s not funny,’ said Weir with indignation. ‘Not when the storm was on All Hallow’s Eve. I cannot rid myself of the notion that she’s a portend of bad things to come. Her very presence in the house leaves me with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wish you had not brought her here.’
‘I think you may have been reading too many gothic novels, my friend,’ teased Guy. ‘Would you rather I’d left her out on the sand to die?’
‘No, of course not!’ retorted his friend. ‘I could not, in truth, sentence anyone to such a death. And I would be failing in my Christian duty to do other than I’ve done. Yet even so…’ An uncomfortable expression beset Weir’s face. ‘I do have Annabel and the girls’ safety to think about.’
‘What do you think she is? A thief? A murderess?’ Guy’s eyes narrowed and he floated his fingers in the air and said in a sinister voice, ‘Or a witch, perhaps? She does have red hair.’
Weir frowned. ‘This is not some jest, Varington. Maybe she’s innocent enough, but I can’t shake this feeling that something has been unleashed, something that was held safe in check before she arrived.’
‘Weir, the woman is in no fit state to set about any mischief. Even were she conscious, I doubt she would have the strength to walk to the other side of the room, let alone anything else.’
‘Are you not concerned, even a little?’
‘No,’ replied Guy truthfully.
‘Well, you damn well should be. It was you who brought her here. If she turns out to be a criminal, the blame shall be on your head.’
‘Guilty as charged,’ said Guy cheerfully.
‘What are we going to do if she doesn’t wake up soon?’
‘We?’ questioned Guy in a teasing tone. And then, witnessing the rising irritation in his friend’s face, he repented, sighing and saying in a maddeningly nonchalant voice, ‘Well, as on first impression she seemed tolerable to look upon, I suppose I might be persuaded to take an interest in her.’
‘Varington! The devil only knows why I was so insistent on your coming to stay at Seamill.’
‘Something to do with my charming company I believe.’
Weir could not help but laugh.
A knock at the door preceded the manservant who moved silently to Weir’s side to whisper discreetly in his ear.
‘Can’t he come back later?’
More whisperings from the manservant.
Weir’s face pinched with annoyance. ‘Then I had better come and see him.’ The servant departed and Weir turned to Guy. ‘Trouble with one of the tenants. It seems it cannot wait for my attention. Please excuse me; I shall be back as soon as possible.’
Guy watched his friend leave before turning his attention back to the rifle in his hands.
Helena froze as she heard a door downstairs open and close again. Panic gripped her, so that she stood there unable to move, to speak, to breathe. Men’s voices—none that she recognised—footsteps and the opening and closing of more doors. Then only silence. Her heart was thudding fast and hard enough to leap clear of her chest. She forced herself to breathe, to calm her frenzied pulse, to listen through the hissing silence. She knew she had to move, to escape, before whoever was down there came back. Her bare feet made no noise as she trod towards the stairs.
Guy ceased what he was doing and listened. All was quiet except for the soft creaking coming from the main staircase. It was a normal everyday sound, yet for some reason his ears pricked and he became alert. He remembered that Annabel and the children had gone out for the day, and his sense of unease stirred stronger. Guy knew better than to ignore his instincts. Quietly he set the rifle down upon the table and turned towards the door.
Helena reached the bottom of the staircase and, with a nervous darting glance around, moved towards the heavy oak front door. The doorknob was round and made of brass. Her fingers closed around it, feeling the metal cold beneath her skin. She gripped harder, twisted, turning the handle as quietly as she could. The door began to open. She shivered as the wind rushed around her ankles and toes. She pulled the door a little wider, letting the wind drive the raindrops against her face. Up above, the sky was grey and dismal. Out in front, the gravel driveway was waterlogged with rain that still pelted with a ferocity. Helena made to step down on to the stone stair.
‘Not planning on leaving us so soon, are you?’
The voice made her jump. She let out a squeak, half-turned and saw a man in the shadows behind the staircase.
Helena reacted instinctively. She spun, wrenched the door open, and fled down across the two wide stone steps and up the driveway. The blanket was thrown aside in her haste. Gravel and something sharp cut into her feet; she barely noticed, just kept on running, towards the tall metal gate at the end of the driveway, unmindful of the rain that splashed up from puddles and poured down from the heavens. Running and running, ignoring the rawness in her throat from her gasping breath, ignoring the stitch of pain in her side, and the pounding in her head and the heavy slowness of her legs. She could feel her heart pumping fit to burst. And still, she ran and just ahead lay the road; she could see it through the iron railings of the gate. So close. And then she felt the grasp upon her shoulder, his hand slipping down to her arm, pulling her back. She fought against him, struggling to break his hold, lashing out at him.
He caught her flailing wrists. ‘Calm down, I mean you no harm.’
‘No!’ she cried, and struggled all the harder.
‘Ma’am, I beg of you!’ She found herself pulled hard against him, his arms restraining hers. ‘Look at me.’
She tried to wriggle away, but he was too strong.
‘Look at me,’ he said again. His voice was calm and not unkind. The panic that had seized her died away. She raised her eyes to his and saw that he was the pale-eyed angel from her dream. No angel, just a man, with hair as dark as ebony, and skin as white as snow and piercing ice-blue eyes filled with compassion.
‘What the—’ He caught the words back. ‘You are not yet recovered. Come back to the house.’
‘I will not.’ She began to struggle against him, but could do nothing to release his grip.
‘You have no shoes, no cloak, no money. How far do you think you will get in this weather?’ The rain ran in rivulets down his face. Even his coat was rapidly darkening beneath the downpour of rain. She was standing so close that she could see each individual ebony lash that framed the paleness of his eyes, so close that she could see the faint blue shadow of stubbled growth over his jaw…and the rain that dripped from his hair to run down the pallor of his cheeks. ‘Come back inside,’ he said, and his voice was gentle. ‘There is nothing to fear.’
She closed her eyes at that, almost laughed at it. Nothing to fear, indeed. He had no idea; none at all. ‘Release me, sir.’
He did not release her, nor did his eyes leave hers for a second, and she could see what his answer would be before he even said the words. ‘I cannot. You would not survive.’
‘I will take my chance.’ Better that than sit and wait for Stephen to find her.
‘We can discuss this inside.’
‘No!’
‘Then let us discuss it here, if it is your preference.’
A carriage rolled by on the road outside, its wheels splashing through the puddles. She glanced towards the gate, nervous that Stephen might arrive even as she stood here in this man’s arms. ‘You are getting wet, sir.’
‘As are you,’ came the reply.
She could see by the determined light in his eyes that he would not release her. He thought he was being a gentleman; he would be no gentleman if he knew the truth. She shivered.
‘And cold,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ And gently he began to steer her back up the driveway to where the front door lay open.
Chapter Two
Guy did not release the woman until they were standing before the roaring fire in Weir’s gunroom. He poured two glasses of whisky, pressed one into her hand and took the other himself. The amber liquid burned a path down through his chest and into his stomach. The woman stood there, the glass untouched in her hand.
‘Drink it,’ he instructed. ‘God knows, you need it after that soaking.’
She hesitated, then took a sip, coughing as the heat of the whisky hit the back of her throat.
He could feel the glow from the flames warming his legs and see the steam starting to rise from the dampness of the woman’s skirts. ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is about?’ They stood facing each other before the fireplace. He could see the rain droplets still glistening on her cheeks. His eye travelled down, following the thick snaking tendrils of hair that lay against her breast, their colour deep and dark with rain. The smell of wet wool surrounded them.
She was not looking at him; her focus was fixed on the whisky glass still in her hand, and he thought from her manner that she would give him no answer. A lump of coal cracked and hissed upon the fire. The clock ticked. The wind whistled against the windowpanes, causing the curtains at either side to sway. And then she spoke, quietly with a cautious tone for all that her face had become expressionless. ‘Who are you, sir, and where is this place?’
‘I forget my manners, ma’am.’ He gave the slightest of bows. ‘I am Viscount Varington and we are in Seamill Hall, the home of my good friend Mr Weir.’
He thought that she paled at his words. ‘Seamill Hall?’ Her eyes closed momentarily as if that revelation was in some way unwelcome news, and when they opened again she had wiped all emotion from them. ‘It was you that rescued me from the shore,’ she said.
He gave a small inclination of his head. ‘You were washed up near Portincross.’
‘Alone?’ She could not quite disguise the anxiety in her voice.
And then he remembered the companions that she had cried out for upon the shore, and understood what it was that she was asking. ‘Quite alone,’ he said gently.
She lowered her gaze and stood in silence.
He reached out his hand, intending to offer some small solace, but she stared up at him and there was something in her eyes that stopped him. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he offered instead.
‘My loss? What do you mean, sir?’ He saw the flash of wariness before she hid it.
‘The death of your companions. You alluded to them upon the shore.’
‘I cannot recall our conversing.’ She set the whisky glass down. Her hands slid together in a seemingly demure posture but he could see from the whiteness of her knuckles how tightly they gripped. ‘What did I tell you?’
Guy could feel the tension emanating from her and he wondered what it was that she feared so very much to have told. He gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. ‘Very little.’
There was the hint of relaxation in her stance, nothing else.
‘The boat’s other occupants are likely to have been lost. Had there been anyone else come ashore, we would have heard of it by now.’
