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.’
She stilled. It seemed to Guy that she was holding her breath. And all of the tension was back in an instant, for all that she stood there with her expression so guarded. ‘But it is only an hour or two since you found me.’
‘On the contrary…’ he gave a rueful smile ‘…you have lain upstairs for three days.’
‘Three days!’ There was no doubting her incredulity. The colour drained from her face, leaving her so pale that he was convinced that she would faint.
Guy set out a hand to steady her arm.
‘It cannot be,’ she whispered, as if to herself, and again there was the flicker of fear in her eyes, there, then gone. And then she seemed to remember just where she was, and that he was present, standing so close, supporting her arm. She backed away, increasing the distance, breaking the link between them. ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I did not realise.’
‘You have suffered a shock, ma’am. Sit down.’
‘No.’ She began to shake her head, then seemed to change her mind and stumbled back into the nearest chair.
‘To where were you running?’
She did not look at him, just said in a flat voice, ‘You have no right to keep me here against my will.’
‘Indeed I do not.’
Her eyes widened. He saw surprise and hope flash in them and wondered why she was so hell-bent on escape.
‘Then you will let me go?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then why…’ she hesitated and bit at her bottom lip ‘…why did you stop me?’
‘I didn’t save your life to have you throw it away again. You are not dressed for this weather.’ And what the hell kind of woman woke from her sickbed in a strange place and hightailed it down the driveway in a torrent of rain without so much as a by your leave to those who had cared for her? He looked at the woman sitting before him.
‘I must leave here as soon as possible.’
‘Why such haste?’
She shook her head. ‘I cannot tell you.’
‘Then I cannot help you.’
Her mouth twisted to an ironic smile, and he thought for a moment that she
