Untouched

Anna Campbell

Untouched

Somerset, 1822

“This lass is nowt like any whore I ever seen.”

The man’s thick Yorkshire accent pierced Grace’s agonizing return to consciousness. Through the pounding ache in her

head, she recognized the sound of home.

If she was back on the farm in Ripon, why did her stomach cramp with pain? Why couldn’t she move her hands or feet?

Fear iced her blood, froze the voice in her throat.

Remember, Grace, remember.

When she tried, she met only a terrifying wall of blackness.

“No question she’s a whore!” a different man insisted from her other side. “What were she by the docks for if she’s not a

bloody whore? You heard her ask the way to the Cock and Crown. She’d want nowt there but to pull a gent with brass in

his pockets.”

A whore? They couldn’t possibly be talking about her. Confusion eddied through the fog in her mind. How could anyone

mistake respectable Grace Paget for a woman who sold herself on the streets?

Instinct stifled her protest. Something told her it was vital that these frightening strangers believe her still unconscious.

Keeping her eyes shut, she battled the throbbing headache and forced her sluggish mind to function.

Stray details, each more mystifying than the last, filtered into her awareness. It was day. Light penetrated her closed

eyelids. She was strapped to some sort of cushioned bench and she lay flat on her back, arms by her sides. Stout ties

fastened each wrist and ankle and a thicker band stretched across her chest, restricting breathing.

For one suffocating moment, the broad strap seemed crushingly tight. She felt faint for lack of air. Sweat broke out on her

skin, chilling her to the bone, although the room wasn’t cold.

And still she stayed as mute as a stone.

Bewildering memories of violence and duress swam up through her nausea and dizziness. Her head filled with chaos.

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Chaos and swirling, acrid dread.

Clawing back from smothering panic, she forced herself to breathe. Where was she? Without benefit of sight, she could

only collect jumbled impressions. No rumble of traffic. So a room in the country. Or at least in a quiet part of town. The

reek of unwashed males mingled with an incongruous hint of spring air heavy with blossom.

The first man made a doubtful sound deep in his throat. “No self-respecting ladybird would be seen dead in them black

rags. And she got a wedding ring.”

His cohort gave a scornful laugh. “Mebbe she’s new to the game, Filey lad. Mebbe the ring is part of the act like her ladi-da chitchat. Them toffs at the Cock and Crown go for that. If she’s fresh to the trade, all the better. Lord John said make

right sure we plucked a nice clean tart, not some clapped-out old jade.”

Appalled disbelief flooded her. She was a lady, even if a lady with threadbare clothes and holes in her shoes. People

treated her with respect, deference. Men didn’t accost the virtuous Mrs. Paget for a quick fumble in the hedgerows.

Except if these brutes had troubled to abduct her, they must want more than a brief tumble.

Had they already raped her in her sleep?

Oh, please, God, I couldn’t bear it if they touched me while I lay unaware.

The weight of her shabby dress was familiar. Hard to be certain without moving, but she seemed unharmed.So far.

But what now? A nightmare vision seized her of these thugs raping her again and again. Sour bile flooded her mouth.

Only with the greatest effort did she remain silent when every nerve screamed to shriek and struggle and fight.

As she’d struggled and fought when they’d kidnapped her in Bristol.

Oh, yes, she remembered now. Everything.

Cousin Vere had offered her a home to save her from destitution but he’d failed to collect her from the mail coach. After

hours of waiting, she’d gone out into the night to seek him. She’d never found her cousin. Instead, she’d met these two

devils in human flesh.

Monks and Filey.

They’d been brazen enough to introduce themselves.

Desperately, she strove to recall that short, terrifying encounter in the darkness. She’d asked the two hulking brutes for

directions. Lulled by their familiar Yorkshire accents, she’d accepted their escort back to the coaching inn. She’d been so

frightened, lost in the labyrinth of dockside streets, that any help had been welcome.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

They’d trapped her in a narrow alley. Filey had held her while Monks forced laudanum down her throat. Filey’s foul

stench, repulsive, unforgettable, lingered in her nostrils. Now the noxious odor grew stronger as he lumbered closer.

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“Aye, she looks right fresh. She’s bonny enow to catch the marquess’s fancy. But I still don’t reckon she looks owt like a

whore.”

Monks grunted. “Any road, she’ll play a whore’s part until his lordship tires of her. Hope she knows a trick or two to

keep a lad happy. Or she’ll not last out the month.”

“Happen we should have fucked her while we had the chance.” Filey’s regretful musings tested Grace’s tenuous control

on her roiling insides.

“The watch would have been on us. You’ll get your turn after his lordship’s had his fill. Let’s go. The laudanum’ll wear

off soon. If she comes to and sees your ugly mug, happen she’ll be in a right state for the marquess.”

“I care nowt,” Filey said. “She’s got a grand pair of tits. I lay a penny to a pound her slice is even sweeter.”

Stale gin-scented breath puffed into Grace’s face. Rough hands wrenched at the high neckline of her dress. Horror kept

her paralyzed as Filey ripped at her buttons. A meaty hand shoved under the edge of her stays to palm one breast with

bruising force. He was so intent he didn’t seem to notice that every muscle in her body tensed with revulsion.

Her heart raced like a half-broken horse given its head. A scream hovered behind her teeth.

Still she dared not make a sound.

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Not to her.

“Leave the slut, Filey,” Monks snapped. “If the marquess reckons you fucked her first, he’ll cut up rough.”

“He don’t need to know.” The encroaching, clammy hand tightened cruelly around her flesh.

Monks gave an unimpressed grunt. “He will if she blabs. I never seen a lass keep her gob buttoned.”

“Aye, happen you’re right,” Filey said regretfully. One last vicious pinch, then he withdrew his hand.

He’d pawed her only for a few seconds but it felt like his hands had violated her for hours. She felt dirty, contaminated.

After another revoltingly drawn-out moment, Filey shuffled away. Dimly through the pounding in her ears, Grace heard

the door shut.

Finally she was alone. She gave a great sobbing gasp and opened her eyes.

She was in a pleasant room with white walls and two doors. The first was closed and the other opened onto a sunlit

garden. Her sensation of unreality heightened. Surely she hadn’t been abducted off the public street and brought here to

service strangers.

The laudanum’s mind-dulling effects ebbed. Some dissolute aristocrat meant to use her before handing her to his

abhorrent henchmen.

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She needed to get away now, before her jailers returned. Before the mysterious Lord John who’d ordered a nice clean tart

—she cringed at the description—arrived to see what his minions produced for his delectation.

The opiate still clogged her senses and the vile taste filled her mouth. She desperately wanted a drink of water.

No, she desperately wanted to be back at the Cock and Crown waiting for Cousin Vere.

Panting and sobbing, she began to struggle against the leather ties.

“That won’t do you any good.” As if to confirm what she’d already guessed, a man spoke from the garden doorway. “I

should know. I’ve tried to break those bonds often enough.”

She whipped her head around in his direction. Light dazzled her. All she could make out was a tall figure with broad

shoulders.

But she heard the voice clearly.

A deep voice smooth and rich as the cream she scooped from the new milk on her farm in Yorkshire. That beautiful

cultured baritone frightened her more than all Monks and Filey’s ribald speculations.

Then she realized what he’d said. “They’ve tied you to this table too?”

The man stepped into the room. “Of course,” he said mildly as if the admission held no consequence.

The gold-limned shadow resolved into a gentleman in his middle twenties wearing a loose white shirt and buff breeches.

He was more than six feet tall and overly slender for his height, although she didn’t mistake his physical strength. He

might be lean, but it was sinewy leanness.

He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Even terrified as she was, she couldn’t help measuring each detail of his

appearance.

Fine dark hair grew back from his high forehead. A long straight nose. Sharply cut cheekbones, prominent because of his

thinness. His eyes remained downcast under his winged dark brows. He looked like one of God’s angels humbly awaiting

direction from the Deity.

Except no angel would study her prone body with quite that level of curiosity.

The heated inspection licked its way up her form with leisurely thoroughness. It lingered at her breasts, making her

burningly conscious of her gaping neckline. Every muscle contracted in fear and refusal.

Grace had lived with fear long enough to know facing it down was her only strategy. She glowered at the man. “Are you

Lord John?”

His mouth quirked in an unamused smile. “No. Lord John is my uncle.”

“If you’re not Lord John, will you help me? Your uncle has brought me here for…” Words failed her, although she

doubted any description she chose would shock this superb and lascivious angel.

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That ghost of a smile again. Like the rest of him, his mouth was perfect. Wide enough to be expressive. A sharply defined

upper lip. A generous sweep of lower lip.

“His amusement?” The deep voice darkened with irony as he chose the innocuous term for something they both knew

was anything but innocuous. He shifted closer so his shadow fell across her. She fought another wave of panic.

Her fingers curled beneath the restricting straps. “Yes. You must help me get away.”

“Must?” The young man stretched out one long-fingered hand to stroke her cheek. His touch was cool but she jerked

away as if scalded. He took her chin and held her for his scrutiny. “Hmm. Pretty.”

He terrified her. But he was her only chance of escape before the unknown Lord John arrived. She moderated her tone.

“Please, sir. Please help me.”

She’d closed her eyes. Although somehow she knew that fleeting smile flickered and vanished again.

“Better. Much better.”

The monster toyed with her. He’d toyed with her from the first. She swallowed nervously. “I appeal to your honor, sir.

You cannot…” No, insistence hadn’t worked. “I appeal for your help.”

“Ah, I knew you could manage the right note. I find myself moved, madam. That slight break in your voice is a

masterstroke. Well done.”

Her eyes snapped open. Strange to be both so annoyed and so scared at the same time. “I protest, sir. You speak like I’m

an…an actress trying out for a part.”

“Do I indeed?” He bit out the words. With a flick of his fingers, he released her as though touching her offended him.

“How remiss of me when it’s quite clear you’ve already been cast for this particular role.”

He swung away from her with a restlessness she noticed even through her fear. Knowing as she spoke that she’d fail,

Grace made one last try for this singular young man’s help. “Your uncle means to rape me. You cannot just abandon me.”

He turned back to her, his remarkable face a mask of well-bred contempt. “This confusion charms, madam. And almost

convinces. But we both know you’re here for my use, not my uncle’s. Unless one discounts your purpose as his cat’s

paw.”

She licked dry lips. “You must be mad.”

He gave a short huff of humorless laughter and met her gaze for the first time. He had rich brown eyes marked by a

sunburst of gold. Beautiful, unusual eyes, colder than anything she’d ever seen.