Untouched

by Anna Campbell

  “I love you, Matthew.”

  “It’s time.” He looked as somber as she’d ever seen him.

  “Yes.” She stretched up and kissed him once more. Quickly. Because if she lingered, she’d never leave. “God keep you, my darling.”

  She turned and ran blindly back toward the cottage.

  Matthew waited hidden in the trees near the main gate, Wolfram a silent, devoted sentinel at his side. Grace had left him half an hour ago.

  Monks hammered at something in the shadow of the gatehouse. Filey was out of sight, although from hundreds of mornings watching them unload supplies, Matthew knew he wouldn’t be far away.

  Grim prescience was a leaden weight in his gut. Grace didn’t know what she asked when she made him wait six months. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Christ, he could barely put the thoughts into words himself.

  He’d steeled himself to what would happen once she was gone. Barely. His uncle had ordered him constrained after his last escape. Any pretense that it was for his own good or to keep a dangerous madman under control had disappeared. His wardens had tied him to that cursed table in the garden room and savagely beaten him as punishment. No other reason.

  The chastisement had only lasted a few hours. Enough to remind him he’d rather die than resume life as a poor chained madman.

  Now he deliberately put himself into their hands. They’d tie him down, mock him, torture him. This time, they’d do it because they believed him mad indeed. Which meant his ordeal would be longer, tougher, more agonizing.

  God lend him strength. Every time his captors treated him like a madman, he was sick with terror that the madness would return in reality.

  A twig snapped behind him and he turned to see Grace. She looked such a little Puritan in her black widow’s weeds and severe hairstyle. It was strange to see her like this again. As though she was no longer the woman who turned his nights to flame. This woman was beautiful—she could never be anything else—but already beyond his reach.

  “Are you ready?” He itched to snatch her into his arms one last time but if he touched her now, he’d never let her go.

  “Yes.” She nodded, her gaze unspeakably sad as it clung to his face. With one hand she clutched a bundle wrapped in a silk shawl. They’d spent a long time deciding what she’d take. In the end, they’d selected things she could barter for food or a ride in a cart. Handkerchiefs, a few bits of tawdry jewelry, shoe buckles. A little food. Water.

  Actual cash was appallingly short. She only had the few coins she’d carried on arrival. Neither Filey nor Monks had thought it worthwhile to steal those. Just as they’d never thought to destroy her worn clothing.

  “Has the supply cart turned up yet?” she whispered, crouching at his side.

  “No. But it won’t be long.”

  Matthew felt her hand slide around his. Her fingers were cold, although the day was warm and fine.

  “It will be all right,” she murmured. How like Grace, to comfort others when she needed comfort herself.

  “Yes.”

  He suspected she knew he lied. He wasn’t angry anymore. The suffering that awaited was the price he paid for the rapture he’d found in her arms.

  He’d pay any price for that.

  For a brief span, he’d been allowed to feel human. More. Every time she told him she loved him, he’d felt like a god. Well, the god would come crashing down any moment. And gods, he was sure, were never as full of dread and regret as he was.

  Jesus, where was the bloody cart?

  The bell rang. As he’d suspected, Filey was nearby. He came around the house to help Monks lift the bar from the gate. The heavy doors opened with a rusty squeak and the laden wagon rattled in. These days, his uncle made sure two men drove the wagon. That made four men plus Mrs. Filey he needed to convince with his performance.

  “Go, Grace. Go now,” he whispered, grief piercing his gut like a stake. “Godspeed.”

  He pressed his mouth to hers in a brief but passionate kiss. He fought the urge to grab her close. What was one touch more when he craved a lifetime?

  “Goodbye, my darling.” Pain throbbed in her farewell. One longing look from indigo eyes burning with anguish and love, then she was gone.

  Without thinking he stretched his hand out after her, as if to wrest her back. He only grasped emptiness.

  He watched her make her way through the underbrush to a point where she was still hidden but close to the gate. She paused under the shade and turned to smile at him. Strangely, it was a smile without darkness, the same smile she gave him when he brought her to climax.

  Her bravery stunned him. Inspired him.

  She disappeared into the trees. The black dress served wonderfully as camouflage.

  “Follow,” he urged the huge wolfhound as he straightened. They’d decided Wolfram should go with Grace as protection.

  The plan’s success hinged on the next seconds. Could he do what he had to?

  For Grace, he could.

  He squared his shoulders and defied the ocean of fear that threatened to drown him. He took the pellet of herbs from his pocket and put it in his mouth. Immediately, a pungent taste filled his head.

  Grace lingered on what could be her last glimpse of the man she loved. When she’d first seen him, his lonely beauty had struck her like the pure true note of a hammer on brass. Her last impression was no different. Any joy he’d found in her arms had been fleeting.

  Breaking into her anxious distraction, Wolfram trotted up. She patted and praised him, knowing all the while that she took him from what he loved. They had that in common.

  She fumbled at her waist for the short rope she’d brought to tie to his collar. She’d protested when Matthew insisted she take the dog. Now she was glad. If things went wrong, he’d keep Monks and Filey away. And outside the gates, Wolfram was a link with Matthew.

  The dog stood obediently while she knotted the rope. She said a prayer of thanks that Matthew had trained him so well. At times, she thought Wolfram was almost human.

  “Courage, my friend,” she whispered. Even though it was she, not the dog, who needed courage. Fear made the breath stall in her throat. Fear not just for herself, but for Matthew too.

  What if he miscalculated the dosage of the herbal mixture? Too much might kill him.

  Dear God, don’t let her escape end in tragedy.

  She had to trust him. She’d seen firsthand his knowledge of plants. He’d said he’d only take enough herb to incapacitate himself.

  She wouldn’t think about what could go wrong. Instead, she had to watch for her opportunity to sneak out the gate.

  Her hand clenched in the thick hair on Wolfram’s neck. Very carefully, keeping her eyes fixed on the men, she rose.

  In the late spring heat, her widow’s weeds prickled uncomfortably. She’d become used to the light silks and satins of her risqué wardrobe. Now the thick black fabric scratched her sensitive skin and the high neck and long sleeves irritated her.

  She watched as the men began to unload. The two draft horses stood patiently in harness as the men worked around them. There was a lot of garbled shouting and it was clear the drivers were wary of Monks. Which spoke volumes for their intelligence.

  Matthew’s guttural groan made her jerk her head around. He staggered out of the line of trees, clutching his chest as if his heart pained him. She suppressed a horrified gasp. He looked so ill.

  For the first time, she really understood what he meant when he said he had a violent physical reaction to certain herbs. He doubled over and she heard his painful retching from where she hid.

  If she’d known what he’d go through, she wouldn’t have fallen in with his plan. She dug her nails into her palms to stop herself running to help him.

  This was a charade. He was doing this so she could escape.

  The words sounded hollow and unconvincing when she stood in impotent grief and watched her lover in such agony, he contorted with pain.

  Wolfram whined sof
tly. “Stay, Wolfram,” she said quietly.

  The big body under her restraining hand quivered with tension and his attention fixed on where Matthew struggled to stay upright. She couldn’t blame the dog. Her stomach lurched with revulsion that she left Matthew in this state.

  “Help me!” Matthew gasped, falling. Even at this distance, she saw he shook as though he suffered a fit. “Help me, for God’s sake!”

  “Shit!” Monks turned to see what was wrong. “Filey! His sodding lordship looks right to die!”

  All four men raced across to where Matthew writhed on the ground.

  It cut Grace to the bone to see that long, lean body twisting and trembling. Had his madness been like this? No wonder he lived in perpetual fear of his illness returning.

  He went through this for her. She owed it to him to see he didn’t suffer in vain. She owed it to him to escape so she could set him free. Inside these polished white walls, she could do nothing but share his burden.

  “Come on, Wolfram. Let’s go.”

  The dog whined and turned his head toward his master. He didn’t move when she pulled the rope.

  “Wolfram!” she said in her best imitation of Matthew.

  She tugged the rope again. All attention focused on Matthew. He sounded in excruciating pain. Each strangled groan froze the blood in her veins to ice.

  Wolfram barked sharply then bounded away through the trees.

  She just stopped herself calling after him. If she alerted Lord John’s henchmen to her location, the game was up before it started. Her heart thudded with foreboding. Already, the carefully plotted escape unraveled.

  The huge dog ran up and began licking Matthew about the face. Monks and Filey tried to shove the shaggy beast away but to no avail. Chaos reigned on the grass.

  She clutched her makeshift bundle tightly against her breast where her heart pounded like a crazy drum. She whispered a confused prayer for Matthew’s safety and dragged in a deep breath.

  Now, Grace. Now.

  She picked up her skirts in fingers that were stiff with terror and dashed across the cleared area. She was so frightened, she noticed nothing but the bulk of the wagon in front of her. Breathlessly, she dived into its shadow.

  Her chest heaving with fear, she crouched there. Had anyone noted her flight? She didn’t think so. Nobody paid any heed to the wagon. Monks swore loud and long. Filey fought off Wolfram. The only people who tried to help the sick man were the drivers.

  One had Matthew propped in his arms and the other wiped his face with the faded scarf he’d tugged from his neck. Yet again, guilt clawed at her that she left an ill man with brutes who had no idea how to treat him.

  Goodbye, my love, she whispered in her heart. God keep you safe until I return.

  Surely it was her imagination, but she thought she saw Matthew’s head tilt in her direction. Just for an instant. She was too far away to see the molten gold of his eyes. But in her heart she did. Then he groaned and collapsed upon the younger driver’s shoulder in shivering unconsciousness.

  There was nothing more she could do for him here. It was time to discover what she could do for him in the world outside.

  Slowly, she turned around to face the gates.

  And came face to face with Mrs. Filey.

  Chapter 23

  Grace staggered back against the rough wood of the wagon and stifled a scream. With trembling hands, she raised her bundle before her like a shield.

  How had she been so fatally stupid? Why hadn’t she checked where Mrs. Filey was?

  “Please…” she stammered. Then she remembered Mrs. Filey couldn’t hear.

  For a long appalled moment, Grace stared into Mrs. Filey’s dull brown eyes. The woman’s face was worn and wrinkled and impassive. She stood about a foot away, her arms full of household linen.

  Grace was lightheaded from lack of air. She dragged in a shuddering breath while blood thundered in her ears. She forced her terrified mind to work past her visions of what Monks and Filey would do when they discovered her.

  Still Mrs. Filey didn’t speak.

  Could Grace have found an unlikely ally? Mrs. Filey had never indicated she cared a jot about Grace’s plight. Why should she risk her husband’s wrath now?

  The woman gave a tiny jerk of her head toward the wagon. Grace frowned, not understanding.

  Again that gesture that almost wasn’t a movement.

  Grace looked at the tray of the cart. It was empty apart from a few handfuls of hay which had cushioned the more delicate goods in transit.

  Mrs. Filey shrugged as if she could do no more. She shoved the pile of dirty washing onto the wagon, then stumped inside to fetch more. She always walked as though life had defeated her, Grace thought, not for the first time.

  Then she realized what had just happened.

  Mrs. Filey must know what she and Matthew plotted. And she hadn’t raised the alarm.

  Grace considered the pile of laundry. It would cover her until she reached a village. Hurriedly, she flung her bundle onto the tray and scrambled up to hide herself under the sheets. They were the fine monogrammed linen from Matthew’s bed. Immediately, the scent of their lovemaking surrounded her. Stale but unmistakable.

  Her stomach still twisting with fear, she huddled down as Mrs. Filey pitched more laundry over her. Horses would take her further and faster than her own feet. Unless Monks and Filey realized she was missing before she got away. Unless they thought to check the wagon when it passed through the gates. Unless Mrs. Filey merely waited to point her husband to Grace’s hiding place.

  She held her breath while her heart hammered a terrified tattoo. She heard Mrs. Filey approach, then flinched as more washing covered her.

  How was Matthew? Dear Lord, let him come through this. Gaps between the wagon’s timbers allowed air to enter, but sounds from outside were muffled. Monks was still shouting. For once, she heard an uncertain note in his bluster. Usually he was imperturbable and confident. Matthew’s sudden attack must have rattled him. Filey made increasingly desperate suggestions about what to do.

  “Reckon we should take him to the house.” She didn’t recognize the slow, Somerset-accented voice.

  “Aye,” Monks said. “Aye, we’ll take him to the house.” Then more loudly, “Woman! Shift your scrawny arse. Filey, you grab his legs.”

  “He’s in a right taking,” Filey said. “I seen nowt like this since he was a lad.”

  “Shut your gob, man,” Monks snarled. “What is that halfwit bitch doing? Woman!”

  “Eh, you know she hears nowt.”

  “Aye, fucking useless cow. Go and fetch the dozy jade.”

  Grace held her breath as she waited for Filey to come for his wife. Another pile of washing landed over her and she barely managed to smother a gasp of terror.

  What if Filey became suspicious about the size of the load of laundry? What if he decided to check it?

  “Monks wants you, Maggie.” Filey spoke slowly so his wife could read his lips.

  Grace hadn’t been this close to him since he’d tried to rape her. The memory of Filey’s reeking body pinning her to the ground rose like a miasma and she closed her throat against the urge to gag. If he dangled one of those thick hands over the edge of the wagon, he’d touch her. And Matthew wouldn’t be able to save her this time.

  “Aye, I’m a-comin’,” Mrs. Filey said in a curiously flat voice. It was the first time Grace had ever heard her speak. “I got another lot of washing to get oot first.”

  “Eh, that’s nowt to worry about. His sodding lordship’s taken a right bad turn. Happen the laundry can bide till next time.”

  Grace struggled to stop herself shivering. Every muscle tensed to the edge of pain as she waited for them to go.

  Or for Filey to reach down and toss back the sheets.

  Filey and his wife moved away after what felt like an eternity. Only when they’d gone did Grace snatch a shallow breath into her air-starved lungs. The sick dizziness receded. Carefully, she rel
axed each cramped muscle.

  Could she chance one last look to see if Matthew was all right? No, the risk was too great. Every beat of her heart was a frantic prayer for him to live. To live so she could save him from this hell.

  “Should we stay and aid ’ee?” the unknown man, obviously one of the drivers, asked from near the front of the cart. “The nags don’t like to stand so long in the sun.”

  “No, there’s nowt more you can do,” Monks said. “Happen we’ll see you next week.”

  “Arr, well, I be off then. Is all loaded?”

  “Fuck the laundry. His lordship can sleep in dirty sheets for the nonce. Mad bugger won’t notice the difference.”

  “He don’t look mad to I,” the voice said. “Though he don’t look blooming ayther.”

  “Arr, he b’aint well,” another Somerset voice said very slowly.

  “Aye, well, you’re no sawbones, Banks,” Monks snapped. “I’ll take the quack’s word over yourn any day. Now be off. Lord John doesn’t pay you good brass to blather here.”

  Grace curled up in taut stillness as she heard the men approach the wagon. Would they check the laundry? She began to wish she’d followed the original plan and sneaked away to find cover in the surrounding area. But it was too late to change her reckless decision.

  Her heart skipped a beat as the wagon lurched. Then she realized the cart moved because the two men took their places on the bench. Someone clicked their tongue to the horses and the cart jolted into motion.

  She was on her way. Pray God next time she saw this cursed estate, she came to set her lover free.

  “I want a piss real bad, nipper. How ’bout ’ee?” The older, more talkative driver spoke in a slurred voice.

  Grace, who had fallen into a strange trance under the stifling weight of the laundry, stirred to full alertness. She wasn’t surprised their bladders needed emptying. They’d swigged steadily since leaving the estate hours ago. Even from her hiding place, she could smell the sickly cider fumes in the hot afternoon air. Thank goodness, the horses seemed to know where they went because the drivers became more intoxicated with every mile.