Untouched Mistress

‘Mrs McLelland?’ he prompted, recalling her from her thoughts.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said calmly, ‘but that will not be necessary.’ She turned her face away to the open window and raised her hand in response to Mrs Weir’s waving. She waved until the carriage reached the bottom of the driveway and turned out on to the road, and the couple standing before the front door of the big house were no longer visible. Then the horses got into their rhythm, their hooves clipping against the stones and mud of the road surface.

Helena was sitting bolt upright, facing the direction of travel, her hands neatly folded together upon her lap. Across from her, Lord Varington seemed to be taking up the whole seat. His head was against the squabs, his legs stretched out so that the ankles of his long riding boots were crossed rather too close to Helena’s skirts. She made an infinitesimal motion to shift her feet away from him.

Varington saw it and smiled. ‘You might as well make yourself comfortable, Mrs McLelland. It’s going to be a very long day. Long enough for us to dispense with formalities.’

In Dunleish Castle on the island of St Vey, Sir Stephen Tayburn was standing at the top of the north-east tower, leaning on the crenellations looking out at the sea. The sky was a pale muted grey streaked with brush marks of deep charcoal and a wash of delicate pink. The sea was calm—for now. The calm would not last. Sir Stephen knew that. What more could be expected? They were already into November and slipping closer towards winter, to the time when days grew shorter and nights grew longer and darkness prevailed—just the way he liked it. The wind caught at his cape, swirling it up and out as if it were the wings of some great dark bird. Everything of Sir Stephen was black—his clothing, his eyes, his heart, everything excepting his hair, which was a stark white. He sipped from the goblet in his hand, relishing the slightly sour taste of the wine. The door behind him creaked open. A figure emerged, hesitated, cap in hand.

‘Sir.’

Stephen Tayburn did not look round, just continued surveying the scene before him.

There was the quiet shuffling of feet and a nervous cough.

‘You have news for me, Crauford?’ It was an imperious tone, a tone that barely concealed an underlying contempt. Still, he kept his face seaward, not deigning to look at the man.

‘Aye, sir. I made the enquires, discreet like you instructed. Nosed around in the taverns and howfs o’ the villages on the mainland.’

‘And?’ He moved at last, turning his dark terrifying gaze to the hook-nosed man standing so patiently by.

‘There was talk o’ a woman found washed up on the shore near Portincross. They tain her to Mr Weir’s house and had the doctor look at her.’

Nothing of emotion showed upon Tayburn’s face. ‘So she was still alive?’

‘Aye, sir, she was alive, all right. They’ve kept her there in the big house, on account of her bein’ in a swoon.’

‘How very convenient,’ he mused. ‘Has the woman a description? Was she seen by any of your…sources?’

‘Oh, aye, sir.’ Rab Crauford crept a little closer towards his master. ‘Ma source has a pal whose lassie works at Seamill Hall.’ His grin spread wider. ‘The woman frae the shore has red hair.’

Tayburn’s eyes narrowed and the set around his mouth hardened. ‘Has she indeed.’ His gaze raked the tall thin man before him. ‘Have McKenzie ready the boat. I’ve a mind to visit the mainland this morning, Kilbride, perhaps…’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Crauford. ‘I’ll see to it right away.’

Sir Stephen Tayburn did not wait for his servant to leave before presenting his back and turning once more to look out across the rolling waves below. He drained the rest of his wine and belched loudly. The door closed behind him, and he heard the sound of Crauford’s footsteps running down the winding stone stairs. Only then did he say beneath his breath, as if the words were a thought murmured aloud, ‘I have found you at last, my darling Helena. What a homecoming you shall have, my dear.’ A cruel smile spread across his mouth and over the sound of the waves and the wind was the dull crack of crystal as the grip of his fingers shattered the fine goblet within.

Helena’s back was beginning to ache and her right hand was growing numb from clinging so hard and so long to the securing strap. The bouncing and rocking of the carriage was threatening nausea and she had long since closed her eyes to block out the view of the countryside racing by in a blur of green and brown. And still, they had not made their first stop, aside from the rapid change of the horses. She was just gritting her teeth and wondering how much longer she could endure it when she heard a thump upon the roof and the carriage began to slow. Her eyes opened and as the carriage ground mercifully to a halt she could do nothing to contain the sigh of relief that escaped her. The door was open and Lord Varington was leaning out, shouting something up to his driver. He withdrew back inside, shutting first the door, then the window and sat back in his seat.