to his cheeks; pale skin and the most piercing eyes that she had ever seen—an ice blue filled with strength and concern. With him she had known she would be safe. Aside from that image, there was nothing.
She knew neither this place in which she now lay nor how she had come to be here. Knew only that she must leave before Stephen found her. Run as fast as she could. And keep on running. This was reality and there was no handsome angel to save her here. She had best get on with the task of saving herself. She pushed back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, took a deep breath and, rather unsteadily, got to her feet.
The entirety of her body ached and she felt unreal and dizzy. But Helena moved across the room all the same. Determination and fear spurred her on. She washed in the cold water from the pitcher and hastily dressed herself in her own clothes that had been cleaned, dried and mended and placed within the bedchamber. Unfortunately there was no sign of her shoes and stockings, nor of her hat or travelling bag.
The reflection in the looking-glass upon the dressing table showed a dark bruise on her temple. Her fingers trembled as she touched the tender spot, wondering as to how it had happened, for she had no recollection of having hit her head. Her face was paler than normal and there were shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes. She did not dally for long, but twisted her hair into a rope and tucked the ends back up on themselves, hoping that the make-do style would hold.
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,
