Untouched

by Anna Campbell

  “I’m so sorry, Grace,” he said softly.

  “I deserved it,” she said in a thick voice. Then with a sudden burst of passionate self-hatred, “How could I hurt my family like that? Somehow Josiah made me believe his cause was more important than the people who loved me. I soon regretted what I’d done. But I’d made my bed and had to sleep in it.” She paused and drew in a shuddering breath. She wasn’t far from tears. That last rancorous interview with her father in the library at Marlow Hall still haunted her.

  Lord Sheene helped her over a fallen branch. The touch of his hand was fleeting. Even so, it burned. To distract herself from the forbidden tingle in her blood, she pressed on with her story.

  “For the next year, the only contact I had with my family was when my mother sent me money. That stopped then, I suppose because my father found out and forbade her to have anything more to do with me. Josiah wasn’t just an ineffective prophet. He wasn’t a particularly good bookseller either. Without my mother, we’d have starved.”

  “You didn’t think to approach your father again?”

  She shook her head, slowing to a stop. “I honestly think Josiah would have beaten me if I had. He hated my father. I didn’t dare tell him my family’s money paid for what we ate. It never occurred to Josiah that the pittance he gave me wouldn’t feed a mouse.”

  “Still you tried to be a good wife.” He sounded so certain as he faced her. She returned from the wasteland of memory and looked at him fully. There was no contempt in the golden eyes. Compassion, sorrow, contained anger that she knew wasn’t aimed at her. But no contempt.

  “I tried. I didn’t succeed.” Her lips stretched in a humorless smile. For a man who preached freedom for the masses, Josiah had taken a dim view of liberty for his wife. “I was always too argumentative, disobedient, rebellious.”

  The marquess’s face contracted with outrage. “Dear God, he didn’t abuse you?”

  “No. Oh, heavens no,” she said aghast. “Never.” She didn’t add that she might have preferred a beating to Josiah’s endless self-righteousness.

  “So how did you end up on the farm?”

  “The bookshop failed after three years. We bought a sheep run with what remained of my mother’s money.”

  How furious Josiah had been. She believed he realized he hated her when she revealed her family’s secret support. It smacked too much of aristocratic patronage. Josiah had loathed the Marlows and everything they stood for.

  “And did you prosper?” The marquess bent to pick up a stick. Her eyes fixed on the way his hands savagely ripped the twig into tiny pieces. Yes, he was definitely angry.

  She gave a sour laugh. “Of course we didn’t. It was a catastrophe. Josiah was town-bred and hated the farm and hated me for trapping him there. Then he fell sick.”

  She paused. The ghost of the grim, relentless, hopeless misery of her last months in Yorkshire grabbed her by the throat. She couldn’t talk about those days even to so empathetic a listener as the marquess. He was so compassionate—and she deserved his compassion so little. If Josiah had ruined her life, she had surely ruined his in return. And she knew in her heart, it wasn’t Josiah but her own willfulness and stupidity that she must blame for her wretched history.

  “Wouldn’t neighbors help?” He scattered the last fragments of broken stick at his feet and looked up at her. The steadiness of his voice dispelled the choking miasma in her mind like a stiff breeze.

  “Josiah’s temper drove even the most well-meaning away. Only the vicar’s wife came at the end and then just to help with the house. Josiah had waited his whole life to be tried and illness tried him to the limit.”

  She lifted a shaking hand to swipe at the moisture that rushed unbidden to her eyes. Why was she crying? She’d long ago admitted she’d never loved Josiah. Yet his memory still filled her with a turbulent mixture of grief and guilt and regret.

  For nine years, he’d been the center of her life. Perhaps not beloved but just…there. Then he was no more.

  “And you lost your home.”

  “Yes.” She inhaled audibly and stood straighter. If she dwelled further on her sorry history, she’d make an utter fool of herself. And she’d done that too many times already in front of the marquess. He had an uncanny ability to probe her vulnerabilities. “You’re a good listener, my lord.”

  “Thank you,” he returned dryly. “It’s not something I’ve developed through practice.”

  He now knew more about her than anyone she’d met in the last nine years. She felt at a loss, unsure if that altered their lethal dilemma or the attraction simmering between them.

  Did her confession change things at all? Not in any concrete way, she guessed, although in her heart she felt differently.

  “You’re sorry you asked.” She managed an awkward laugh.

  He didn’t smile back. “No, never sorry.”

  Matthew studied her as she walked ahead. He remained behind. Partly because he knew she wanted privacy after her revelations. Partly because he was so angry, he was likely to lash out.

  Furious grief for her sorrow gripped him in claws of steel. She was young, close to his age, yet she’d seen so much unhappiness. He’d give his soul to ease her pain. But his soul, he knew to his regret, held no value for her.

  He clenched his fists at his sides as he watched her raise her hands to her face. He didn’t need to be close to her to know the tears that had threatened during her tale finally overflowed.

  Jesus, he hated it when she cried. Every tear ripped at his heart like a blunt butcher’s knife.

  She’d been determined to cast herself as the villainess in her recounting. He’d heard the shame throbbing in her voice. He could well believe she’d acted thoughtlessly. She’d been a mere chit of sixteen and she’d more than paid the price for her foolishness since. The loss of her family was a wound that still festered.

  His parents had loved him dearly. He could imagine no circumstance, however dire, that would make his mother or father repudiate him. Yet Grace had endured long, lonely banishment from her home and those she loved.

  Damn bloody Paget to the hottest hole in hell. He hoped the bastard fried forever in his own self-righteousness. How in God’s name could a man in his fifties remove a pampered girl from everything she knew and subject her to unrelieved hardship?

  It wasn’t hard to fill in the details. The misery of life with a man set on crushing her spirit. The unending drudgery on the farm. The despair when she was left destitute and friendless. The fortitude with which she’d faced her trials.

  Matthew’s outrage boiled up. She’d been reticent about the sordid details of her marriage but nonetheless, he had a vivid picture of the man. Dry, arrogant, sanctimonious, obsessive.

  Beautiful, warm Grace had been tied to that canting tyrant for nine joyless years.

  He knew already that she’d stuck to her vows to the sour, judgmental old fool. She’d put heart and soul into making the best of the situation. Even if it killed her, which, given her thinness, wasn’t far from the truth.

  Paget should never have married her. But Matthew could guess how irresistible she’d been in her passionate commitment to a better world. Hell, hadn’t she tried to mask her beauty and ardor in the last days? Still he wanted her so badly he couldn’t sleep or eat. Old Paget hadn’t stood a chance in that dusty old bookshop, God rot him.

  The bastard had won an exquisite treasure and he hadn’t deserved her.

  And Matthew finally faced the shameful truth that lurked in his heart. He was jealous. Jealous of a dead man. In his way, he was no better than that whoreson Paget. Both of them wanted Grace. Neither could do her any good.

  His longing gaze followed her as she slowly made her way along the path. While one triumphant chant rang over and over in his heart.

  She hadn’t loved her husband.

  It was late but Grace lay in watchful alertness in the dark bedchamber. Trusting the marquess with the details of her marriage had left her edgy, exhau
sted. But it wasn’t the strain of reliving her painful history that made sleep elusive.

  No, furtive lust kept her awake.

  Lust all those hours with Lord Sheene had built into a raging blaze. It now threatened to incinerate every principle.

  With a feeling of inevitability, she watched the door swing open. The marquess stood on the threshold as he had that first night. She shoved herself up against the headboard and tried to quash the drunken joy surging through her.

  “My lord?” The question in the soft rain-hushed darkness was an invitation.

  Chapter 12

  Holding her in his arms last night had heightened Matthew’s senses to an almost preternatural level. He heard her husky uncertainty. He heard the breath catch in her throat. Jesus, he even heard desire thrumming beneath the seemingly innocent words.

  Lingering in the doorway, he told himself he’d faced greater challenges than this exquisite dark-haired woman. He wished to Hades he believed it.

  Bedclothes rustled and bedsprings squeaked. Damnably suggestive sounds. Then he heard her fiddle with tinder and candle before an unsteady glow bloomed. Briefly he closed his eyes against what the golden light revealed. Grace, all great unfathomable eyes in a pale oval face. Her long plait fell over her shoulder and curved to caress one breast. His fingers curled at his sides as if they followed that sinuous line.

  “My lord, what are you doing here?” She leaned forward and the garish green satin nightgown slipped almost to her nipples. Before she hitched the neckline up, he glimpsed the soft pink of her areolas. Desire slammed through him and he bit back a groan.

  “We must share a bed,” he said curtly, too close to the limits of control to modulate his tone. He should have spoken about this in daylight, but he’d been reluctant to shatter the intimacy her confidences had created.

  Emotion flared in her eyes. Fear, certainly. And something else smoky and mysterious that tightened his need another agonizing notch.

  He plowed on. He had to. Her life hung upon this moment. He spoke as though drilling soldiers and not talking to the woman he craved above all others. “We have to convince Monks and Filey we’re lovers. I mean only to sleep here. You have my word you’re safe from my advances.”

  Surprisingly, that full mouth quirked into a wry smile. “So we lie like Tristan and Yseult with a sword between us?”

  Hard as it was, hard as he was, he couldn’t help smiling at the absurd image. “I find myself currently embarrassed of a sword.”

  He didn’t say that, in the legend, the sword had proven no barrier to passion. He was in enough trouble.

  She shook her head. “This won’t work.”

  He stalked across the threshold. The blasted night rail slipped again, revealing a smooth white shoulder.

  “Unless I spend my nights here, my uncle will kill you.” He watched the color drain from her face. He went on in a more measured tone. “And by here, I mean this bed. I’d offer to sleep on the floor or in a chair but there are no locks. Monks or Filey can check on us any time.”

  By now, she was pale as a new moon. She moistened her lips again. Jesus, he wished she’d stop doing that. His fists balled at his sides.

  “Grace, this is a ruse to save you, that’s all,” he said in a raw voice.

  Without waiting for assent, he headed toward the bed. She slid across, leaving him room. Her voice was subdued as she spoke. “As you wish.”

  “Christ,” he muttered and went on before she protested his language. “It isn’t as I wish. Nothing in my bloody life is as I wish. But I’m trying to keep you alive.”

  He sat on the mattress and tugged his boots off. He flung them with twin thuds against the wall. He ripped his shirt over his head and pitched it after his footwear.

  “Lord Sheene…”

  He wrenched his head around to look at her, although the picture of her stretched out against the sheets tempted him far too much. She stared aghast at his naked back.

  “Your scars,” she whispered in shock.

  He’d forgotten about his ruined back. It was years since the wounds had healed and he’d exercised like a demon to banish any residual stiffness. He hadn’t thought how the sight might affect Grace.

  Corrosive shame flooded his face with color. He lurched toward the floor to fumble for his shirt. “I’m sorry. This must offend you.”

  Her hand, warm, comforting, womanly, on his back turned him to stone. He closed his eyes and let her touch seep through to his bones, although he knew he should flinch away, hide the degrading evidence of his weakness.

  “No, I’m not offended.” She sounded like she fought back tears. He heard her suck in a shaky breath. “Tell me what happened.”

  He straightened slowly and opened his eyes to stare down at where his hands fisted on his knees. “One of the doctors attempted to beat the madness out. Monks continued the treatment when he left.”

  That was as much of a confession as he could manage. He couldn’t bear to tell her of other beatings or of the times Monks or Filey had blistered his skin with hot irons as he lay tethered like an animal. Although if she looked closely, the map of welts across his skin betrayed his humiliation.

  “I’m sorry.” Her hand gently stroked down to his waist. Her touch soothed the old pain even as the brush of her fingers on his skin made forbidden desire flare like a hungry flame.

  “It was a long time ago,” he said harshly.

  That was true, but his soul still suffered from those beatings as though they’d occurred yesterday.

  “You think I’m prying.” Her hand dropped away and he only just stopped himself begging her to touch him again. For comfort. And God help him, for pleasure.

  “I think we have enough difficulties in the present without worrying about past troubles,” he forced himself to say.

  “You’ve borne so much and I’ve brought you nothing but pain,” she said sadly from behind him. “How you must hate me.”

  “You know that’s far from true.”

  He turned and glared at her. She was flat on her back and tears glinted in her long lashes. His heart stumbled to a halt at the thought that he’d made her cry. He was a damned clumsy fool. And he couldn’t even trust himself to offer a solacing touch.

  Her warmth curled out to entice him nearer. It whispered to let Lord John, Monks, Filey, and the whole damned world go to hell.

  He couldn’t give in. Even while denial made every sinew ache.

  Very carefully, so he didn’t touch her, he stretched out and stared fixedly up at the ceiling. He drew the sheet up to hide the fact that he kept his breeches on. His loins ached like the very devil. It was going to be a very long night.

  Grace turned her head and studied the marquess. Even in profile, his expression was tense. Frustration and displeasure all but steamed from him. She longed to smooth the hair from his brow, calm the turmoil in his soul. She wanted to kiss every pale scar that marred the golden skin of his back. She wanted to take the agonies he’d suffered into herself and make him whole again. She wanted to save him from any pain to come.

  Futile wishes, all of them.

  With a stifled sigh, she leaned over to blow out the candle but Lord Sheene spoke first. “Leave the light.”

  She almost said as you wish, but the innocuous words had already provoked such fury, she stopped herself. Instead, she lay back and tried to pretend nothing out of the ordinary occurred. She’d shared a bed with Josiah. For most of her marriage, the sharing had been chaste. She was used to lying beside a male body with no expectation the body would roll over to claim hers. Where was the difference?

  The difference was desire.

  Even at the height of her girlish infatuation, she’d never wanted Josiah the way a woman wanted a man.

  She wanted Lord Sheene. She’d never experienced the pangs of sexual need. How cruel that they burgeoned in this impossible situation.

  Her heart caught as she remembered how he’d looked when he came in. Tall, powerful, commanding. The wh
ite shirt loose at the neck, hinting at the shadowy planes of his chest. She now knew the skin there was smooth, with a scattering of black hair. She knew how lean muscles tightened over his belly and ran in sinewy, vein-crossed strength down his arms. He already had more physical actuality for her than Josiah ever achieved.

  The marquess was close enough for her to feel his warmth and smell lemony soap mixed with the underlying essence that was purely him. He was close enough for her to sense each breath. His eyes were shut but he was no nearer sleep than she.

  As if to confirm that thought, he spoke. “I’m sorry my presence disturbs you.” He opened his eyes but didn’t look at her. Instead his gaze fixed again on the ceiling.

  Yes, his presence disturbed her. In ways he couldn’t even begin to guess.

  “You do this for my sake.” She watched that sculpted profile. The high-bridged blade of a nose. The mysterious eyes. The passionate mouth. She wanted that mouth on hers. She wanted that mouth on her body. The image was so graphic, every nerve tightened and she shifted uncomfortably.

  He said no more. Grace assumed he eventually slept. She stayed awake and restless until dawn stole into the room.

  The hurried thud of rough boots on the stairs outside woke Matthew. He barely had time to fling the sheet up to cover Grace before Monks loomed in the open doorway.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Matthew asked coldly, his grip firming protectively around her shoulders. He was already holding her. Somewhere in the night, he must have taken her in his arms.

  Lascivious appreciation replaced the furious consternation in Monks’s blockish face as he took in the couple entwined on the bed. “Beg pardon, your lordship,” he said out of habit while his pig-like eyes focused on what little he could see of Grace. “I was right worried when I saw nowt of you downstairs.”

  Worried because he feared his charge had escaped. The brutal facts of imprisonment never faded into the background. They oozed into the sunny room like a foul miasma.