Untouched (2 page)

He spoke quite gently as those strange striated eyes stared into hers. “Of course I am, my dear. Unquestionably and

incurably mad.”

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Damn his uncle. Damn him to hell, Matthew silently cursed.

His heart flooded with despair as he looked down at the girl tied to the table like some blasted pagan offering. Somehow,

Lord John had invaded the secret corners of his soul and read the longing there. From that longing, he’d fashioned a

woman of moonlight and darkness. A woman who matched every lonely dream that had ever tormented Matthew.

How the hell had his uncle known?

And if he knew so much, did Matthew have a shred of a chance of defeating him?

The jade’s terrified gaze, dark blue shadowed under a thick fan of black lashes, hadn’t wavered from him. Whatever else

she feigned, he’d wager good coin—if he had any—she was genuinely frightened.

He wanted her frightened. Frightened, she’d be off balance. Off balance, she was likely to make mistakes. Too many

mistakes, Lord John would discard her.

If Matthew relied on anything, it was his uncle’s eternal ruthlessness.

She swallowed and, against his will, his attention snagged on the movement of that pale slender throat. Then inevitably

his focus slid lower. The top of her dress was artfully undone, showing mounded flesh and the white edge of her shift. His

fingers clenched into fists at his sides.

Oh, yes, he needed to get rid of her. And quickly.

“You…” Her husky voice faltered. The incongruous air of authority had vanished. “Surely you jest, sir.”

His lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Surely I don’t, madam.”

The smile didn’t reassure her. It wasn’t meant to.

“I assume it will do me no good to scream.” Like so much else about her, the sound of her voice was unexpected. It was

low, and soft enough to turn her clipped upper-class accent into music.

“Well, you can try,” he said idly. “I’ve never found it particularly effective. You’ve already gained my attention and

Monks and Filey will have orders to grant us privacy. I suspect, if anything, a clamor from you will only reward them

with a moment’s gratification.”

“In that case, I won’t scream.” The little color that remained in her face had leached away to pure ivory.

“I commend your wisdom.” He inclined his head slightly as if acknowledging a point in a fencing match.

She was a universe away from what he’d imagined when his uncle first broached this revolting scheme. Lord John had

offered to get him a tart to while away his hours. Matthew had pictured a much-used doxy hardened to her profession.

However desperate he was—and desperation near seeped from his skin—he’d been sure he could withstand the tired

blandishments of a painted harpy.

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His arrogant assurance had been misplaced. For, of course, Lord John was a subtle man and had eschewed the obvious.

Instead, his uncle had found…perfection.

God, he couldn’t stay, suspended by the power of pleading cobalt eyes. Almost blindly, he made for the door.

“Wait! Please.” He couldn’t misunderstand her frantic tone. “Don’t leave me here. Untie me at least, I beg of you.”

He swung his head back toward her. “I believe it to my advantage to have you constrained.”

To untie her, he must touch her. The memory of her satiny cheek under his hand still burned like acid, fleeting as the

mocking caress had been.

“Please. I…I think I’m going to be sick.”

She dragged in a shuddering breath that made her breasts rise, round and enticing, against the loosened front of her faded

black dress. He resented the fact that he noticed.

“Don’t practice your tricks on me,” he snarled.

“No. I mean it,” she said unsteadily.

In truth, the wench’s alabaster complexion showed an alarmingly green tinge. She’d closed her eyes and dark marks

beneath them stood out like bruises.

He paused. Perhaps this wasn’t a ruse.

Reluctantly, he strode across to that cursed table where he’d spent so many hideous hours. All the way, he derided himself

for a soft-headed fool. This slut was his enemy and in league with all his other enemies.

Even while the litany ran through his mind, he tugged swiftly at the tapes that held her. As soon as she was free, she

struggled into a sitting position.

“Sir, I’m afraid I…”

Yes, the ashen skin definitely held a sickly hue. While she lied about so much else, she was definitely ill. He scanned the

room and found what he wanted. Fortunately, just an arm’s length away.

“Here.” He shoved a large blue and white bowl into her shaking hands.

She mumbled something that might have been thanks then bent to retch miserably into the dish. Her physical discomfort

awoke grudging sympathy, despite what Matthew knew of her. When finally her stomach settled, he sat with his arm

around her to keep her from collapsing.

He tried to ignore the warm, womanly feel of her, but it was impossible. She fit against his side as if created to curve into

him. His hand automatically conformed to the sinuous shape of her body, so different from the hard masculine angles of

his. The deep V of her unbuttoned bodice revealed shadowy glimpses of her breasts. A clever touch, he thought bleakly,

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ABC Amber LIT Converter http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

trying to distance himself from the urge to see more.

She trembled and laid her head back on his shoulder in a gesture of absolute exhaustion. The braids circling her head

were untidy and soft tendrils of hair pleasurably tickled his jaw.

“Rest for a moment,” he murmured into that silky black mass of hair.

Gently, he reached across to disengage the bowl. He set it beside him on the table. She hadn’t brought up very much. He

guessed her stomach was empty. Certainly, the body he held so unwillingly was thin to the point of emaciation. She felt

fragile, as if the slightest pressure might shatter her.

“It must be the laudanum they gave me last night,” she whispered. “It’s never agreed with me.”

Laudanum?The word, with its hint of compulsion, hovered as a question on the edge of his mind. Then his concentration

returned to the woman lying bonelessly in his embrace. He angled himself so he could see the round smoothness of her

forehead and the straight, oddly aristocratic nose. She was beautiful. He’d recognized that immediately.

Recognized and railed against it.

The oval face with its exotically slanted cheekbones reminded him of etchings he’d seen of Italian Madonnas. His uncle

had been generous in giving him books to make up for the Grand Tour he’d never undertake.

His gaze fastened on where delicate color returned to her lush mouth. Its fullness belied the impression of purity. That

mouth made even such a sorry excuse for a man as Matthew dream of sin.

Oh, she was skilled at this game. In a matter of moments, she had him just where she wanted. His uncle had coached her

well. Although why a woman with her looks and acting talent should whore herself to a madman remained a puzzle.

If he didn’t know better, her show of vulnerability and hard-won courage against overwhelming fear would take him in.

Any theater management would vie for her services. Any predatory nobleman would vie for services of a more intimate

nature.

Abruptly, he felt sullied by his pity.

She fumbled in her skirts—for a handkerchief, he supposed. He suppressed another curse and thrust his own in her

direction. “Here.”

“Thank you.” She wiped her mouth with a trembling hand.

“Can you sit without help now?” he asked grimly, for once not caring if his genuine emotions emerged without

subterfuge. He’d determined to remain cool and uninvolved, but some things were beyond mere mortals. He’d been angry

for years, but this cruel charade honed his rage.

“Yes, I think so.” Gingerly, she drew away.

Immediately, he missed her warmth and teasing female scent. She smelled of sunshine and dust and the faintest trace of

lavender soap. Another subtle touch. This whore didn’t use heady scents of the Orient to draw a man’s attention. Instead,

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she smelled fresh and natural and real.

Ironic, given she was nothing but falsehood.

She braced herself by hooking her fingers around the edge of the table. He was close enough to see the tremors that

racked her slim frame. With difficulty, he resisted the urge to lend her his hand.

He damned his uncle yet again. And just as fruitlessly.

Even in boyhood, Matthew couldn’t pass a sick or injured animal without trying to help. Lord John must have decided

the best way to destroy his nephew was through this weakness. That fatal sympathy for the brave, the hurt, the gentle was

meant to be his undoing.

The girl looked at him fully for the first time since he’d released her. The laudanum had shrunk her pupils to black

pinpoints, leaving her irises impossibly blue.

Nice touch, Uncle, he thought sourly. Drugging her makes her appear so much more the victim. He had to remember this

woman’s frail gallantry was an act.

“Forgive me, sir. I have inconvenienced you and embarrassed myself.”

Still that strange courtly demeanor. The discomfort over her loss of control befitted any fine lady. He could have told her

she wasted her time. He knew exactly what she was. His uncle had promised him a tart. A tart she most definitely was.

He shrugged, unfazed by her nausea. “It is of no importance.”

What right had he to be squeamish? In his fits, he’d lost control over his bodily functions. Why else should the bowl be

kept convenient to the table where they’d strapped him so often? Although, thank God, he hadn’t required that particular

treatment for a long time.

She cast him an uncertain glance under those wickedly luxuriant lashes. “Still, you were kind. Thank you.”

He had to shatter this damned enthrallment she so effortlessly exercised. Holding her had been too sweet. But then, it was

years since he’d either given or received comfort. The insidious pleasure was a purely animal reaction and nothing to do

with the actual woman in his arms.

Or so he tried to tell himself.

“I am many things, madam,” he said coldly as he stood. “Kind is not one of them.”

He saw her face change. Briefly, her physical crisis had swamped fear. Fear flooded back as she remembered she was

alone with a self-confessed madman. Her trembling fingers rose to clutch her loose neckline together.

What a masterly performance. Why was such an accomplished actress rusticating in darkest Somerset? She should be

dazzling a packed house at Drury Lane.

“I have to get out of here,” she muttered, more to herself than him, he thought. She rose to unsteady feet and backed

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toward the door. His handkerchief fluttered onto the floor to lie like a lost banner of surrender.

“There’s nowhere to run,” he said mildly. Oh, she was good, but he was on to her deception. “The estate is walled. Filey

and Monks guard the only gate. And I doubt my uncle will release you from your engagement so early in the play’s

season.”

She frowned as if she didn’t understand. Her beautiful eyes were glassy. Her unsteadiness developed a distinct sway. An

alarming sway.

“Christ!” he bit out as she began to crumple.

He dived across the short distance and caught her before she crashed. Immediately, the heady and jarringly innocent

scents of sunshine and soap flooded his senses.

“Sir, would you kindly restrain your language?” she whispered against his throat. Her breath on his skin set his blood

leaping with awareness and it took him a second to realize what she’d said.

He gave a disbelieving snort of laughter. For God’s sake, she had more important things to worry about than his manners.

But his hold was careful as he gathered her up and carried her through to the salon.

“I insist you put me down,” she said with a woeful lack of force.

“If I put you down, you’ll only fall at my feet.”

He waited for an argument but none was forthcoming. She was near the limit of her resources, he saw.

After this last year, he wasn’t as strong as he had been. But her slight weight posed no difficulty. Again, his attention

caught on the signs of deprivation. The outdated dress. The thinness. Even her shoes were worn and cracked.

He settled her more comfortably and stoically ignored the way her breasts brushed his chest. She might be insubstantial

as a wraith. But he’d immediately observed she was without doubt afemale wraith.

He laid her on the sofa near the empty grate, brushing the open book he’d left there to the floor. “Lie back,” he said

softly, sliding a red velvet cushion behind her tousled dark head.

She tried to draw away but weakness defeated her. Her perfect profile stood out in austere clarity against the rich

material. His breath hitched in his throat at her beauty.

“Don’t touch me.” She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her smooth cheek.

Her terror and unhappiness called so strongly to his compassion that it was an effort to speak with disdain. “You’re safe