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
