Untouched

by Anna Campbell

  “Arr.” She’d already noticed that the younger man never said much.

  The wagon juddered to a stop then shook as the two climbed down. She heard the older man’s voice fade as he walked away from the cart.

  Perhaps she should steal this chance to sneak out of the wagon. Very slowly, she raised one edge of the sheets so she could see. The drivers had their backs to her and faced the trees lining the road. Luckily, they were near the horses’ heads.

  With trembling hands, she grabbed her bundle and slid to the edge of the cart furthest from the men. Then she took a deep breath and climbed to the ground, keeping her head low so the wagon hid her.

  Thick trees beckoned on either side of the narrow track. It hardly justified the name road. But of course, Lord John had chosen the estate for its isolation, hadn’t he? He wouldn’t want a highway running past the front gate.

  She heard splashing on the ground and an acrid smell filled the air. She had to make a break while they concentrated on other things.

  Silently, she dashed into the woods and crouched behind a moss-covered rock well back from the road. Her stiff legs protested the sudden movement, but she ignored the discomfort.

  The older man turned and clapped the younger on the shoulder. “God, that Monks be a miserable bastard.”

  “Arr,” said the younger, taciturn as ever. He faced the wagon and did up his rough trousers. Now she could see them, it was clear they were father and son.

  “And speak of the Devil.”

  Through her heart’s terrified pounding, Grace heard a horse approach. Dear God, they knew of her escape. Why else would Monks gallop in such a lather after the supply cart? Thank heaven the drivers had stopped and she’d taken the chance to leave the wagon. Otherwise, her fate would be sealed. The horrible thought chilled her blood to ice.

  The wood burgeoned with late spring growth. She prayed it was thick enough to conceal her. Her fingers tensed into claws on the stone and she hunkered down on the leaf-strewn ground.

  “Have you seen owt of a lass?” Monks shouted, still yards away.

  The older man scratched his stubbly chin. “A woman? Nay, Mr. Monks. I seen nobody on this road. Never do. Why would we? It leads but one place and that’s to his lordship. No reason a woman would go there, I reckon.”

  “Bloody idiot,” Monks muttered and dug his spurs into the horse so it lurched up to the wagon. He reached over to pitch the laundry aside, casting sheets to the ground.

  “Hey, watch what ’ee do there, Mr. Monks!” the older man protested. “I be called to pick that up afore I go on.”

  “Shut your gob!” Monks wheeled his horse around and urged it so close to the men that it nearly trampled them. The frightened beast whinnied and danced but Monks sawed savagely on the bit and forced it back toward the drivers. “If you see a lass, hold her and send me a message. She’s a toothsome wench with black hair and tasty tits. Talks like the gentry but walks like a whore. There’s a right fat reward if you find her.”

  “Arr,” said the son and tugged his forelock as Monks cruelly forced the horse around and galloped back toward the estate in a cloud of dust.

  Grace’s pulse raced with a heady mixture of dread and relief as the pounding hooves faded into the distance. She’d been mere seconds from discovery. What if the drivers hadn’t been so prodigal with the cider?

  Monks hadn’t said anything about Matthew. Was her beloved alive or dead?

  Oh, not dead, not dead, her heart cried.

  “That Monks be puggle-headed. A woman on this track,” the older man said with a scornful snort as he lifted himself into the wagon. He’d quickly bundled the washing back onto the tray.

  “Arr,” said the boy, sitting next to his father.

  “We never see a soul on this road. Let alone a woman. No use reckoning on a reward. He be chasing a mare’s nest.” He flicked the reins. “Walk on.”

  The wagon rolled away with a creaking rumble. Grace sucked in a breath to combat her dizziness. What if Monks had searched the woods?

  But then, he didn’t know she’d gone with the drivers. She could have taken any direction once she’d left.

  Her lips curved in a triumphant smile. Monks was probably more terrified than she was. She’d hate to have to tell Lord John one of his captives had escaped.

  No wonder Monks had sounded so furious.

  Or was he furious because his other captive had died? She couldn’t countenance the possibility. It might be foolish superstition, but something in her would know if Matthew was no longer alive.

  Eventually, when she was sure Monks wasn’t likely to double back, she rose from her cramped position. It was uncomfortably warm and sweat prickled under her arms and at her nape. The woods clamored with birdsong. The wagon had long disappeared down the rutted trail.

  She took the bottle from her bundle and swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm water. Before night fell, she wanted the security of people around her. She could get lost in a crowd. Out here, alone, she was noticeable. And there was always the risk that Monks might come back.

  She began to walk briskly away along the deserted track.

  Chapter 24

  Matthew opened his eyes with excruciating slowness. His lids felt as though lead weights held them down. The first glimpse of light splintered his skull with jagged pain. He closed his eyes again on a long groan.

  He knew where he was now. As expected, he was strapped to the table in the garden room. Sunshine still streamed through the windows so it must be early afternoon.

  Before collapsing into a dead faint, he’d spewed copiously over Filey’s boots. After that, he only remembered dim snatches of lacerating pain and harsh voices and rough hands.

  He’d forgotten how extreme his reaction to comfrey was. His insides felt as though they’d been cleaned out with a rake. A rusty one. His skin was abnormally sensitive and the bands around his legs and wrists and chest were tight enough to hurt. He breathed as deeply as the strap over his torso allowed, then regretted it when his abused muscles protested.

  Agonizing as they were, his various discomforts only occupied a tiny space in his mind. Instead he focused on one burning question. Had Grace got away? He’d seen her dart across to the wagon before his physical crisis prevented him seeing anything at all.

  Was she still safe? What if his rash scheme only sent her into greater danger?

  He’d known when he came up with his plan that he’d likely never learn her fate. Only now did he realize how that ignorance would eat at him until the day he died.

  In six months.

  Although given how bloody foul he felt right now, he might die sooner. His head ached as if red hot metal wires circled it. His belly still cramped painfully. A sour taste filled his mouth and his lips were dry and cracked. He desperately wanted some water.

  Common sense and experience insisted his current miseries would pass. His animal self didn’t believe it. His animal self wanted to skulk off to some dark corner and lie there until he expired.

  Christ, he stank. Of rank sweat and stale vomit. His nostrils flared in distaste. He still wore his filth-encrusted clothing from this morning.

  Was it this morning? He could have been here for days. He wouldn’t know any better.

  His only comfort was the hope that Grace had made it. And that now she fled from anything to do with the estate, including his sorry self.

  “I know you’re awake, nephew.” Lord John’s voice dripped over him like bile.

  This time when Matthew opened his eyes, he kept them open in spite of how the glare shot blinding pain through his head.

  Had he slept? Or had his uncle watched him throughout? That thought made him shudder.

  “Uncle,” he croaked, surprised his voice worked at all. The rake that had scraped out his innards had been particularly busy in his throat. “Could I have a drink?”

  “Presently.” His uncle stood at the head of the table out of Matthew’s view. “First I want to talk to you.”

 
; Just talk? Matthew had expected a beating at the very least. Perhaps his uncle feared compromising his captive’s health. He wanted his prize capon in prime condition.

  The bitterness of this reflection leached away some of Matthew’s disorientation. He became aware of his surroundings. It must be late afternoon. Direct sunlight no longer poured into the room. But was it the afternoon of the day he’d first regained consciousness?

  While he struggled for clarity, his hands clenched in the straps that fastened his wrists to the table. His pride revolted at the repulsive picture he must present. His fetid rags were stained with illness and reminded him too vividly of his real madness. He’d much prefer to conduct this interview in clean clothes and when he didn’t feel as though a herd of elephants had trampled him.

  Still, what couldn’t be helped must be endured. He kept his face expressionless. “I don’t feel much like a chat.”

  It was a childish riposte, but it would annoy his uncle. He liked that. He liked that very much.

  He heard Lord John’s cane tap as he rounded the table. Then his uncle stood at his side, blocking the light. Matthew was grateful. His eyes stung like the devil.

  “Pity. I find myself in the mood for conversation.” Lord John theatrically produced a lace handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.

  Matthew hid a flinch of humiliation. Round one to his opponent.

  The room was shut against fresh air as every room his uncle entered was always shut. Even so, the older man wore a fur-lined coat. In the smothering warmth, Matthew was dizzy with the pervasive stench of his own dirt.

  “Actually, I hadn’t expected the pleasure of your company so soon,” Matthew said silkily, although it cost an effort. “You must have broken the speed record from London.”

  “I was in Bath when Monks’s message reached me. An annoying journey but not onerous. Yet again, you prove an irritation, nephew.” Then in a voice totally different from the smooth cadence he’d used so far. “Where is your slut?”

  “Mrs. Paget?”

  Matthew fought to conceal the savage joy that coursed through him. She had got away. Grace was free.

  Puzzlement was his safest response. After all, his illness and her escape mightn’t be connected. He kept his voice deliberately unconcerned. “Upstairs? Walking in the woods? Please find her. I’d like to see her.”

  “Oh, so would I. But I’ve got an army of men combing the grounds and so far, we’ve found no sign of the jade.”

  “I’d help you look, Uncle. But as you see, my circumstances are somewhat restricted.” Another childish crack. He almost enjoyed himself. The news about Grace worked better than a tonic on his assorted aches. “Perhaps she was so frightened by my seizure, she’s hiding.”

  “And perhaps this was a ruse to distract your keepers while your whore scarpered.”

  “Believe me, Uncle, I couldn’t feign what I went through. Ask Monks or Filey if you don’t think I was genuinely ill. If Mrs. Paget saw her opportunity, you can’t blame her.” Then the ultimate hypocrisy, “I’m devilish sorry. I’ll miss her.”

  “Tell me what you and the chit cooked up and I’ll be lenient. I’ll even bring her back to warm your bed after I’ve pointed her foolishness out to her.”

  “Uncle, you see conspiracy where none exists. You know I’m prone to fits. You know I wanted the lady to remain with me.”

  That at least was true. A scalding memory rose of the turbulent emotion in her face when she’d said goodbye. He’d nearly weakened and begged her to stay. Thank God she’d turned away before he could speak.

  His uncle still sounded unworried although Matthew knew he must be desperate to catch and silence Grace. “No matter. I’ve sent for the Bow Street Runners. They’ll track the troublesome jade. You’re familiar with their efficiency.”

  Matthew wasn’t the only one prone to making unworthy jibes. The Bow Street Runners had discovered him mortifyingly quickly after his second escape attempt.

  Now the Runners were involved, Grace’s ability to fade into a crowd was more crucial than ever. Foreboding filled him. Could a beauty like hers escape notice? Even when he’d first seen her, sick, frightened, and wearing shabby black, her loveliness had pierced him to the quick.

  Lord John just needed to describe a woman with a face that stopped your heart, a widow who dressed like a pauper and spoke like a duchess. The Runners would find her within days.

  Oh, Jesus, Grace. I’ve sent you to your death. At least here I could have tried to keep you safe.

  “I hope you do find her,” he said while his heart snarled, You’ll rot in hell, John Charles Merritt Lansdowne.

  “It shouldn’t be too hard. The trollop is quite distinctive, isn’t she? Not in the common way at all. No wonder you made such a fool of yourself. I find myself intrigued. If I can stomach the idea of using your leavings, I might sample her myself before I bring her back.”

  Matthew didn’t react although rage seethed under his skin like lava boiling in a volcano. The idea of his uncle’s cold white hands touching Grace made his belly contract with sick fury.

  His uncle lifted his stick to watch the light gleam off the lump of amber in the handle.

  Lord John had often struck him with that stick when he’d been a boy. The transgressions had always been minor, sometimes nonexistent. Matthew remembered the pain. He wondered if Lord John intended to hit him now. But his uncle just twirled the stick round and round and studied the fly trapped inside the gold.

  Eventually, Lord John broke the charged silence. “You always turn into a blasted fool when your protective instincts are engaged. You’re as bad as your damned useless father. Born to be a country doctor, not one of the kingdom’s greatest magnates. The title was wasted on both of you.”

  Lord John’s jealousy of his oldest brother was too familiar to rouse anything but weariness. “I honestly don’t know where Mrs. Paget is. My fit has passed, Uncle. As you so politely pointed out, I need a wash and change of clothing.”

  “You do at that.” His uncle’s lips stretched in a superior smile. “But I haven’t finished with you yet. Where is the slut?”

  “I told you—I don’t know.” Matthew’s hands fisted tighter.

  “Wrong answer.” His uncle raised his stick high then slammed it hard over Matthew’s ribs.

  The world shrank to a black tunnel illuminated by bright shards of excruciating pain. The breath left him in a great gasp that shredded his stinging throat. His body tensed against the blinding agony but escape was impossible. His bonds held him stretched out and helpless.

  He might have lost consciousness again for a few seconds. He didn’t know. When he opened his eyes, Lord John was studying him with the same dispassionate gaze that he had recently devoted to the dead fly suspended in amber.

  “Killing me won’t achieve your ends,” Matthew managed to say, even though every word hurt.

  His uncle’s lips curved up in a faint, chilly smile. “You know better than that. I am skilled at inflicting maximum pain with minimal permanent damage. You’ll have some bruising but you’ll mend quickly enough. Now, once again, where has the slut gone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  This time Matthew was prepared for the blow. Or he thought he was until the dizzying pain shot through him. He tightened every aching sinew against the scream that rose from his belly and battered against his closed lips. If the beating continued, he knew he didn’t have a hope in hell of keeping quiet. He’d screamed before on this table, he’d scream again. But he wanted to delay offering his uncle the satisfaction.

  “You know…” He paused to draw in enough breath to speak. After his collapse, he was in no fit state to withstand much more and he suspected his uncle realized that. Still he struggled to maintain the remnants of his defiance. “You know violence doesn’t work on me, Uncle. You’ve tried it before. Even if I knew where Mrs. Paget is, I’m less likely to tell you with every blow.”

  “Yes, you’re a dumb ox under torture.” His uncle h
it him again, harder.

  “I told you I don’t know where the bloody girl has gone!” Matthew shouted, writhing uselessly against his bonds. Although eleven years of captivity had taught him he’d never break their deathly grip, no matter how he struggled.

  “Yes, but I don’t believe you,” his uncle said in a quiet voice.

  “I don’t know where she is, you bastard!”

  “Temper, temper.” Lord John’s lips curved in a chilly smile.

  Matthew’s powerlessness was a physical pain in his gut. Every muscle coiled tight enough to snap. He gave up his futile attempts to break loose. A red hot rope of pain extended across his torso. Even the shallow breaths that were all he could manage threatened to hurtle him into unconsciousness.

  Through the scarlet haze, he heard his uncle continue speaking. “You’ll be easy enough to break, nephew. You’re soft. You’ve always been soft. You hate to see creatures suffer. Especially creatures you love.”

  “What do you mean?” Matthew gritted out through closed teeth.

  “I wonder how long your air of heroic and silent suffering will last once your dog is howling with pain.”

  Bitter nausea filled his mouth while his dazed mind tried to comprehend what his uncle said. Horror swamped even his physical distress.

  Over eleven years, he’d watched his guardian test the boundaries of evil but this, this was beyond anything Matthew had ever imagined. Lord John couldn’t mean to torture Wolfram. Not if he still claimed any trace of humanity.

  He injected every ounce of the contempt he felt into his voice. “Uncle, even you must shrink from abusing a dumb animal.”

  “I don’t cause the pain, you do.” Then more sharply, “Tell me where the jade is or face the consequences. I can smell a plot a mile away. This plot stinks worse than you do.”

  “You can’t do it,” Matthew said, even while he reluctantly accepted that his uncle would balk at nothing. “The dog has never harmed you.”

  “In war, the innocent always suffer, don’t they?”

  “Don’t do this, Uncle. For the love of Christ, don’t do this.” He hadn’t begged Lord John for anything in years, not since he was an ailing boy and unaware of the depths of his guardian’s evil.