‘Oh, come on, Weir, you cannot tell me that she is not a beauty.’
‘She looks like a doxy.’
Guy smiled. ‘Aye, but a damnably attractive doxy.’ Indeed, she was quite the most beautiful woman Guy had seen, and Guy, Lord Varington, had seen a great many beautiful women.
‘All that hair, and that dress, and bare feet and those ankles.’
Guy put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. ‘Divine.’ He smiled. ‘But it is the sea we have to thank for her appearance. You judge her too soon, my friend. Perhaps she is the height of respectability.’
Weir snorted. ‘That is profoundly unlikely.’
Guy laughed. ‘I fear that her beauty has prejudiced you.’
‘Nonsense! Did any of the neighbours see her outside?’ He rubbed at his forehead with undisguised agitation. ‘Hell, they’re bound to draw only one conclusion.’
‘Which is?’ Guy raised an eyebrow.
Weir cleared his throat. ‘I don’t need to spell it out to you, of all people, Varington. She’ll have to be found some more suitable clothing.’
‘More is the pity.’
‘Will you not take this seriously?’ Weir poured himself a glass of whisky and topped up the one that Guy had previously emptied. ‘You must see my dilemma. I cannot have that sort of woman in this house, not with Annabel and the girls, nor can I ignore my Christian duty to help those in need. I cannot cast an unwell woman out into the street.’ He broke off to take a gulp of whisky and said, ‘Who is she anyway? Has she told you her name?’
Guy’s hesitation was small and unnoticeable. ‘We did not get to that.’ He had no real way of knowing, other than his gut instinct, of whether the words she had spoken upon the shore were the truth or just the ramblings of a confused and barely conscious mind.
‘One minute she’s out for the count in my guest bedchamber and the next she’s running down my blasted driveway dressed like a doxy!’ Weir’s mouth drew to a tight straight line. ‘Lord help us, Varington, what am I to do?’
‘Given her determination to leave Seamill Hall I do not think that you will have to do anything.’
‘I don’t like this one little bit. I think I should have the constable over to speak to her.’
Guy thought of the woman’s fear at the mention of the constable. ‘No need for that just yet.’ This was one mystery that Guy intended on solving by himself.
Weir took another sip of whisky. ‘And what the hell happened to her feet?’
‘She ran barefoot across the driveway, must be some glass still out there from the broken lantern. Never had a woman running away from me—well, not one outwith a bedchamber and that didn’t want chasing.’
Weir winced, but smiled all the same. ‘Dear God, Varington.’
‘Quite shocking,’ agreed Guy good-humouredly. ‘But there’s a first for everything.’
Weir’s eyes rolled. ‘I was referring to the woman’s feet.’
Guy laughed. ‘The cuts are not deep. She’ll recover quick enough.’
‘Good,’ said Weir. ‘The sooner that she’s gone, the better. It’s as I said before. There’s something about her that makes me uneasy and what with her trying to run off and our not even knowing who she is…’ Weir stopped and looked at Guy. ‘And she was trying to steal that blanket, was she not?’
‘She was indeed,’ said Guy, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Fortunately I managed to apprehend her before she could make off with the item.’
‘You see…’ Weir nodded sagely ‘…did I not say she could be a criminal?’ And then caught a glimpse of Guy’s face. ‘Will you not be serious? Would you see Annabel and the girls suffer over this woman?’
Guy knew his friend’s predisposition to worry and so he let something of the playful teasing drop away. ‘I shall make it my duty to ensure that neither Annabel nor the girls suffer in the slightest. As you said, the woman is here because of me and she is therefore my responsibility.’ His responsibility indeed, and for once Guy was being entirely serious.
Weir gave a nod. ‘Amen to that.’
‘Amen indeed,’ said Guy, and drained the whisky from his glass in a single gulp.
Sunlight lit the sky as Helena sat by the window, looking out at the stretch of sea that was calm and clear and so pale a blue as to be almost white, water that mirrored the colour of Lord Varington’s eyes. Seagulls called, circling in the sky and from the shore beyond came the rhythmic wash of waves against sand. She was dressed, as she had been since six o’clock that morning when she had given up watching the slow crawl of the hours on the clock.
She adjusted her legs, making herself more comfortable, and felt the press of the linen around her feet, bindings that Lord Varington had put in place. A wash of guilt swept over her, and yet she knew she could not allow guilt to stop her. Lord Varington would not understand. He did not know what it was to be so desperate that it was worth risking anything, even death, to escape. She thought of the words he had spoken yesterday, of his offer of help, of the kindness of his voice and the gentleness of his hands and the smile in his eyes, and Lord only knew how she wanted to believe him. Once upon a time she would have. Not now. Five years of Stephen had taught her better. And yet there was nothing of Stephen in Lord Varington.
She thought again of the tall dark-haired man, just as she had thought about him throughout the night. There was an attractiveness about him, both in his looks and his character. He was handsome and charming and flirtatious…and were it not for his interference she would not still be sitting here in Seamill Hall. Indeed, she reflected, she would never have been here in the first place; most likely she would have perished out upon the shore. It was a sobering thought.
She wondered why he was so concerned with her. The man Weir wasn’t. Mr Weir would not have chased her the length of the driveway in the pouring rain; judging from the look upon his face he would have let her go and been glad of it. But then Mr Weir hadn’t looked at her like he wanted her in his bed. Heaven help her, but she had troubles enough in her life without Lord Varington.
Helena sighed and let her gaze wander to the islands that lay beyond. St Vey was so clear that she could see the different shades of green and brown and purple grey, could see the glint of the sun picking out a brook that flowed over the rocks to the south, and in the north the dark outline of Dunleish Castle. It looked so close, close enough to swim the short stretch of sea that separated it from the mainland, as if she could reach across the water and touch it. St Vey lay only four miles off the coast, and that four miles had cost Agnes and Old Tam their lives. She felt the terrible stab of guilt and of grief. Helena stared for a long time at the island and the water and the sand, and mentally rehearsed her story.
She could go nowhere without owning an identity; that much was obvious. If she told the truth, her fate was sealed: a rapid return to Stephen and Dunleish Castle. She had thought long and hard about her problem, until, at last, in the wee small hours of the morning, came the seed of an idea. As a widow not from these parts, Helena could borrow some money,
