Untouched (13 page)

hand, then noticing she had.

“I don’t know.” For once, he sounded young and uncertain. Instead of rejecting her, he turned his fingers in hers and

gripped hard enough to hurt. The heat of his touch seared her to the core. “Sweet Jesus, I don’t know.”

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She realized the fear he constantly lived with. Fear not of his uncle’s cruelty, but that his mind might turn traitor, perhaps

this time forever. His strength overawed her. His pain broke her heart. How could she bring herself to destroy this

remarkable man?

He drew her down to the old wooden settle under the greenhouse eaves. “My uncle’s men caught me within three miles.

They thought I’d lost my mind again and tied me down for a few days. I was so angry, I probably was mad.” He rested

their linked hands on one muscled thigh. Grace tried desperately not to notice the heat and strength that radiated through

the buff breeches. “After that, my uncle had the walls treated. It’s like trying to clamber up glass.”

“I know.” She recalled her own futile attempts to climb out. “But you got away again.”

“Yes. Two years later, Monks cut himself on an ax so I only had Filey to worry about. I tricked him into the kitchen and

locked him in, then I just walked out. I got as far as Wells before the Bow Street Runners found me. There are no locks on

the estate now except for the gate.”

She’d found the lack of locks frightening until she realized that Lord Sheene would never beat at her bedroom door and

demand entrance. “Still you hoped.”

“Yes, foolish, stubborn hope. Perhaps madness persisted.”

“No,” she said with certainty. “What happened last year?”

“I learned the error of my ways,” he said bitterly. Pain and shame shadowed his face. “I stole a horse and made it to the

family seat at Chartington in Gloucestershire. I knew people there would hide me while I worked out how to prove my

sanity.”

“They turned you in?” she asked, aghast.

His fingers flexed hard on her hand. “I wish to God they had. My nurse had married one of the estate gardeners and they

were overjoyed to see me. But my uncle knew where I’d go.”

“You were punished again?”

“No, damn my uncle to hell.” Lord Sheene paused, visibly fighting for control. His voice was steadier as he went on,

although rage still roughened his tone. “He’s the local magistrate and he transported Mary and her husband to New South

Wales for harboring an absconded lunatic. My uncle made sure I saw their letters begging for mercy. He’s kept any other

news to himself. It’s possible they didn’t survive the journey. Mary was expecting a child and she hadn’t been well.”

He wrenched away and surged to his feet. The eyes he turned upon her were dark with guilt and self-hatred. “If I hadn’t

taken advantage of their kindness, they’d be safe. My uncle will use his power against anyone who aids me.”

As she looked into his tormented face, an old memory surfaced. When her brother was sixteen, he’d winged a wild hawk

with his gun and carried the wounded bird back to Marlow Hall. He’d had some idea of training it to hunt. But while the

bird’s injury healed readily enough, Philip could never tame its spirit. The hawk had starved in its cage.

Grace had begged Philip to release the bird but he was stubborn. The hawk had died, its fierce yellow eyes staring hatred

at her until the end. For a long time, that inimical obstinate gaze had haunted her.

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When she looked at Lord Sheene, she saw that same wild spirit. She saw the same will for freedom above all. And when

freedom became an impossible dream, life slowly faded.

He extended his arm. The gesture wouldn’t have looked out of place in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. “Walk

with me?”

She laid her hand on his forearm. Lord Sheene’s shirt was warm under her hand and hinted at the lean muscles beneath.

The marquess in full health would be a magnificently powerful man. “What about the gardening?”

“Later. Neither of us is going anywhere.”

Perhaps not. Although after Saturday, Grace might no longer be here. An ominous shiver chilled her blood.

He noticed her trembling. “Are you cold? Would you rather go inside?”

“No.” Back to the cottage which still reeked of his uncle’s overweening evil? Lord, anything but that. She’d rather stay

outdoors and freeze. “Why is your uncle so determined to keep you here?”

He gave a grim laugh as he led her under the archway and into the woods. Wolfram stood, stretched, and trotted after

them. “Greed. As basic and banal as that.”

After the gothic horrors she’d faced, she’d expected some convoluted history of family enmity. “Greed for what?”

“Money, of course. When my parents died, Lord John was named guardian. He’s run the Lansdowne interests ever since.

For a younger son whose fortune was only respectable, the sudden wealth was dazzling. When I reached my majority, he

was set to lose it all.”

“But you fell ill.” Her fingers tightened on his arm.

“No, I lost my mind,” he said with sudden harshness. He was tense under her touch. “When I was fourteen, I went mad.”

“You’re not mad now,” she insisted. “You haven’t suffered an episode in seven years.”

“Every year, my uncle sends two doctors to examine me. They confirm I’m unfit to govern myself and, more

significantly, my inheritance.”

“Lord John must pay them.”

The sourness left his expression and he gave a short but genuine laugh. The sound rustled through her like a warm wind.

“Mrs. Paget, your cynicism threatens to outstrip mine.”

She didn’t smile. “Your uncle took little trouble to hide his true nature.”

He sighed and turned onto a path Grace had followed just after she arrived. When she’d been terrified of the man with the

frightening eyes. How long ago that seemed. Yet it was only a few days.

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“While I’m alive and confined, my uncle plays the man of importance.”

The word alive struck her. “And if you die?”

“The title goes to my cousin Hector. If he meets his maker, a string of younger brothers line up for the marquessate. My

father produced one sickly descendant and Lord John has thrown only girls, four of them. Uncle Charles hatched a brood

of six husky boys before he broke his neck in a hunting accident.”

“And Lord John returns to being merely a younger son.” Her fingers clenched in his sleeve. How could he bear what his

uncle did to him? Her belly cramped on a surge of futile rage. “He wants you healthy but under his control? Like an

animal in a menagerie? It’s obscene.”

“Yes, Grace, it’s obscene,” he said in a flat tone.

“And he thought if he got you a woman…”

“I’d accept imprisonment.”

The ruthlessness stole her breath. She stopped and looked searchingly up into Lord Sheene’s face. She’d always found his

features compelling, even when she’d been half-unconscious with dread and laudanum.

Now she saw so much more. Courage that battled for health and competence. Strength to resist his uncle’s machinations.

Honor, so when his freedom brought harm to others, he resigned himself to imprisonment.

“My uncle thinks to use you to control me,” he said quietly.

At that moment, she realized he was determined never to take her. If he came to her bed, he betrayed his deepest

principles. She was safe.

And her safety meant she was lost.

What was she to do? Subvert the integrity that sustained him? Or save herself?

She abhorred the choice she must make.

He ran his hand through his hair. She fought the urge to reach up and smooth that silky darkness. The need to touch him

fermented in her blood but she couldn’t surrender to it. She bent her head so the brim of her hat concealed the lust she

knew must shine in her eyes.

“No more dark talk. Are you interested in plants, Grace?” He seemed to like saying her name. She wondered why. When

she looked up, he appeared boyish, diffident. It reminded her he wasn’t so very old. Neither was she, she acknowledged,

as wayward excitement fizzed through her veins.

“I’ve never had the chance to find out.” Growing up, she’d learned a lady’s arts, including floral illustration. Another

subject to master before she caught herself a husband. Well, she’d caught herself a husband but not the one she’d been

groomed for. Since her marriage, she’d been too busy keeping food in her stomach and a roof over her head to worry

about much else.

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“Orchids grow in the wood, if you’d like to see them.”

His smile for once contained no bitterness. Its sweetness surprised her, enticed her. She found herself agreeing to search

for wildflowers. He could ask her to paint the sky or dig for hen’s teeth and she’d say yes.

Grace left the marquess downstairs before dinner. Foolishly, she wished she had something of her own choosing to wear,

like the silks that had crowded her wardrobe at Marlow Hall. For nine years, she’d muffled her feminine vanity. Now she

wanted to look beautiful for a man.

Beautiful for a man….

Troubled eyes met her reflection in the cheval glass. Her life hung by a thread. The man she wanted was trapped,

tormented, and possibly insane. This wasn’t a bucolic flirtation. This was a nightmare of coercion and violence.

If she ever forgot that, she was doomed.

She was doomed anyway.

Her attention fell on the bed behind her and for the first time, she noticed the letter lying on the cover. She turned from

the mirror with a shiver and went across to pick it up. There was no name on it but it had to be for her, just as she already

knew it had to be from Lord John.

The seal was an eagle under a crown. That must be the Lansdowne badge. Yet again, the ghost of her brother’s dead hawk

worried at her.

The thick paper crackled as she tore the letter open. There was one word in slashing writing.

Saturday.

Lord John felt a need to confirm his threat. He underestimated how convincing he’d been. She’d never doubted he meant

every horrible promise.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, crumpling the message into a ball and flinging it to the floor. She smothered a sob and sank

down onto the bed, hiding her face in her hands.

There was no escape.

She couldn’t do this.

She had to do this.

She rose on trembling legs, hating Josiah for leaving her alone and vulnerable, hating Vere for letting her down, hating

Lord John for his greed and callousness.

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Above all, she hated herself.

Tonight, she’d betray the marquess. And force him to betray himself. She was no better than his grasping uncle.

She was worse. For she recognized how exceptional Lord Sheene was. The long afternoon with its confidences and

companionship had only confirmed his extraordinary quality. He was a man who in other circumstances and at another

time she might have loved.

Yet still she meant to ruin him.

Matthew woke instantly, then realized that to wake, he must have slept. In spite of the couch’s incommodious design. In

spite of unreliable sleep proving more elusive than ever over recent days. In spite of Grace Paget’s presence in the house

torturing him on a rack of endless desire.

The room was dark. The unusual run of fine weather had ended at sunset and rain spattered against the windows. It had

drummed on the roof during an unexpectedly silent dinner. Mrs. Paget—Grace—had been with him all day and her

presence had warmed his soul. But she’d remained withdrawn throughout the meal.

Who could blame her? His story must convince her she’d never escape. Yet he mourned her retreat from brief affinity.

For one day, she’d been everything he desired in a companion. Intelligent. Sympathetic. Knowledgeable.

Beautiful.

He couldn’t deceive himself that all he wanted was friendship. But friendship, by God, was something. If he could resign

himself to captivity, he could resign himself to keeping her at a distance.

One day. Maybe in a thousand years.

Never.

Now Grace hovered in the open doorway.

He was surprised to see her. And dismayed. The electric darkness whispered of all the things he wanted to do to her. He

prayed she stayed where she was. If she came any closer, he didn’t trust himself.

“What is it, Grace?” he asked in concern, sitting up. “Are you ill?”

“No.”

The almost inaudible syllable didn’t reassure. He stood and reached for his clothes, close to hand since last night. “Let me

light a candle,” he said, fumbling for his shirt.

“No.” This time with more force. He heard her inhale, the sound rasping like a file over his taut nerves.

“Grace?”

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“I’m sorry,” she said brokenly.

With a cracked sob, she launched herself in his direction. A warm fragrant bundle of femininity landed hard against him.

Automatically, his arms closed around her, his shirt dangling uselessly from one hand.