Untouched (34 page)

control, although her nearness made control nigh impossible. Still he tried. He’d need all his wits to bring her out of this

disaster.

Oh, Grace, why did you come back? Why did you risk everything? Why? Why? Why?

She pressed into his side and even through his anger, he felt life spark inside him for the first time since she’d gone. “I’m

here to rescue you,” she said softly. “Look.”

Dazedly, he opened his eyes. All he could see was her beloved face, pale beneath the mask. He wrenched his attention

from her to take in the room. The suddenly crowded room.

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Against one wall, Monks and Filey stood in the custody of four brawny men armed with horse pistols. Monks was

disheveled and shackled, and drying blood smeared his mouth. He’d clearly put up a fight. Filey must have been as

spineless as usual because he wasn’t chained like his crony. Four other men in livery ranged around the walls.

Now Matthew’s bewilderment receded, he realized that the long-faced, gray-haired man who demanded his release was

vaguely familiar. Next to him stood an equally authoritative-looking man who bore a strong resemblance to Grace. Two

middle-aged men of great self-importance stood to one side. After eleven years of acquaintance with the breed, he had no

trouble identifying them as doctors.

“Your Grace?” Lord John surged to his feet, shock eating into his usual sangfroid. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Unshackle Lord Sheene,” the first man, apparently a duke, said.

Lord John’s self-possession revived. “You have no rights here. Your Grace, Lord Wyndhurst, I protest this intrusion.”

Matthew’s bewilderment mounted. Why was the Earl of Wyndhurst here? Was he some relative of Grace’s? Was the

duke? She’d said she came from a wealthy family but these men were among the greatest in the land.

“Protest all you like.” The duke made a lordly gesture toward the men who held Filey and Monks. “I said I wish this man

released.”

Filey drew out a key and shuffled toward Grace and Matthew. The stench of his sour breath and stale sweat briefly

suffocated Matthew as the brute stretched up to unlock his irons. Grace huddled closer and he felt her tremble with anger

or revulsion or fear. Probably all three. He couldn’t read her expression under the damned mask.

None of this made sense. Why had these people come to his aid? He stifled a groan as blood rushed painfully back into

his numbed arms. The piercing agony made him lightheaded and he swayed against Grace.

He felt stiff and ungainly after standing so long. Without his chains to hold him vertical, he was humiliated to discover

his legs wouldn’t support him. Grace staggered under his weight, then suddenly Wyndhurst shored up his other side.

“Courage, man,” he muttered. “We’ll see you safely out of this.”

He’d never met the earl. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done to deserve the almost affectionate encouragement.

Nonetheless, he nodded and fought to regain his balance.

“Oh, Matthew,” Grace said in a choked voice. “What have they done to you?”

“My lady, you promised silence,” the duke said curtly.

Matthew watched delicate color wash over her face. The lush mouth he’d dreamed about for four long months flattened.

He wanted to kiss her more than he wanted to take his next breath but their audience made that impossible.

Why must she be silent? Why was she masked? What were these men to her?

Surely she wasn’t the duke’s mistress. Call him a fool but he was convinced she still loved him. He heard it in her voice.

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He saw it in her eyes. He felt it in the hands she laid with such tender strength on his body.

“We need to examine the patient, Your Grace, my lord,” one of the doctors said in an officious voice.

The earl helped Matthew to an upright position. At least this time his legs didn’t buckle. He gingerly rolled his knotted

shoulders and stretched his tingling arms as feeling and movement returned.

“The marquess is a raving madman,” Lord John snapped.

The earl shot him a contemptuous glance and released Matthew. “Nonsense. I can already see he’s as sane as I am.”

“Wyndhurst, you’re hardly qualified to judge,” Lord John protested, his chin taking on a belligerent jut. “I insist this

dangerous maniac is constrained.”

“My lord, you may insist upon nothing,” the unknown duke snapped, his tawny eyebrows drawing together in aristocratic

displeasure. “I am here on the king’s business. That business includes your arrest.”

Lord John’s response was no less haughty. “I find myself at a loss, sir. Upon what charges?”

“Abduction, deprivation of liberty, fraud, larceny, assault. I could continue.”

“On the word of this slut?” Lord John was clearly in no doubt of Grace’s identity, despite the mask. “I don’t know how

she enlisted such exalted interest in her lies but I stand prepared to prove my innocence. Should these absurd accusations

ever reach a court of law. Which I doubt.”

“This lady’s testimony will not be required,” the duke said coolly. “We have Dr. Granger and Dr. Boyd in custody. We

have concrete proof of your dishonesty. We have Lord Sheene.”

“A certified lunatic,” Lord John snapped, although his complexion was waxy and the hands clasping his cane shone

white-knuckled with tension. For the first time ever, Matthew saw a line of sweat above his uncle’s lip.

The duke remained unimpressed. “A man who suffered a fever in youth and who has been unjustly imprisoned ever since.

These men are the king’s doctors. They will provide a true diagnosis of his sanity. But like Lord Wyndhurst, I see no

evidence of madness. Although I see much evidence of crime.”

“There is no crime, damn you! I’ve been a good and watchful guardian over my poor deranged nephew.”

Matthew was steadier on his feet but he kept his arm firmly around Grace. Who knew when she might be ripped away

from him? These men offered the astonishing promise of liberty but he couldn’t yet trust they’d prevail.

He straightened and squared his shoulders. It was time he became more than a spectator. “I’m not mad and you know it,

Uncle.” Matthew’s tone was caustic. “You’ve been a grasping and self-aggrandizing guardian to the Lansdowne fortune,

more like.”

“Don’t fight a hopeless battle, Lord John,” the duke said in a persuasive tone. “Come quietly for the sake of your family.

Believe me when I say the game’s well and truly up. I offer you my word I’ll do my best to help your wife and your girls

if you give yourself into custody.”

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“Damn you, I will not be tried as a common felon.” Lord John’s cheeks were bloodless now and his hands trembled so

violently that the amber-topped stick clattered to the ground.

The duke studied the cane as it rolled across the flagged floor, then smiled at Lord John with a hint of pity. “Yes, you will.

Because you are a common felon.”

“I’ll see you in hell first.” Still facing the duke, he backed toward Matthew. He fumbled at his pocket and pulled out a

beautiful little pistol with a pearl handle.

With rough urgency, Matthew shoved Grace behind him although his uncle wasn’t aiming in her direction. Over Lord

John’s shoulder, he noticed the armed escort was ready to intervene. The men had the bearing of trained soldiers and were

obviously used to dealing with trouble. But in this small space, violence could spiral out of control and in the fracas,

Grace might be hurt.

“You can’t win, Lansdowne. You must know that,” the duke said calmly without shifting.

“I can win! I’ve always won!” Wildly, he lunged toward Matthew. “I should have been Marquess of Sheene, not you, you

rotting stump of useless lunacy!”

No trace of the assured tyrant remained in this shaking, desperate man. The conscienceless beast who had always

inhabited his uncle’s body under the social polish was at last naked to the world. Spittle marked his lips and spattered

Matthew. Without shifting his eyes from the gun, Matthew wiped one hand across his face.

The scent of impending bloodshed sharpened the atmosphere. Matthew heard Grace’s low sound of distress and his

protective grip on her tightened.

“Put down your weapon!” the duke barked.

“For pity’s sake, Lansdowne!” Lord Wyndhurst approached Lord John, keeping a careful eye on the pistol. “This has

gone far enough!”

“Be careful!” Grace cried out, lurching forward. “Be careful!”

Matthew thrust her out of the way. “Uncle, it’s over,” he said quietly, trying to stem the building crisis. “What use to

cause further pain? Think of your daughters. Your wife.”

Lord John cocked the pistol, the sound echoing eerily in the quiet room, and waved it in the air. “Don’t preach and prate,

nephew. You’ve always been a bloody parson at heart. What do you know about what a real man wants?”

Matthew ignored the jibe, as he’d ignored so many of his uncle’s jibes. He kept his voice steady, reassuring, as if he

spoke to an injured animal. “I know a real man doesn’t destroy his family just to save his vanity, Uncle. A real man

accepts the consequences of his actions. You reached high and came to disaster. There’s no one else to blame.”

His uncle sneered even as the gun swung in Matthew’s direction. “For God’s sake, spare me the lecture, you selfrighteous worm. You think you’ve defeated me. You haven’t. Nobody bests John Lansdowne. My one regret is I didn’t

fuck the bitch then kill her when I had the chance.’”

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Quickly, before anyone could stop him, he raised the gun to his temple and fired. The report resounded around the closed

room. A dull thud followed as his body hit the floor.

Behind Matthew, Grace inhaled on a shocked gasp. He felt her hide her face in his back. Nobody else moved as the hot

tang of gunpowder and the metallic stench of blood mingled in the stuffy room. The bluster of Lord John’s final words

jangled like untuned bells in the close air.

The man who had tormented Matthew for eleven years was dead. He should feel triumphant. He felt nothing. Numbly, he

stared at the still figure lying in its expanding pool of blood.

“Good God,” Lord Wyndhurst said eventually.

The doctor who hadn’t spoken knelt at Lord John’s side. He raised his head and said, “He’s dead.”

“A coward to the end,” Grace said shakily. She broke free of Matthew’s hold and stepped toward Lord Wyndhurst. “My

lord, are you all right?”

Matthew immediately missed her warmth. The absence reminded him too vividly of her absence during these long lonely

months. Longingly, he gazed after her.

His distraction lasted a fatal moment too long. Monks broke free of his captors and sprang forward.

“Matthew!” she screamed. She whirled back toward him. He dived to drag her to safety.

Too late.

Monks flung his beefy arms over her head. The chain of his shackles tightened brutally around Grace’s slender neck.

“I’ll break her neck easy as I’d wring a hen’s,” Monks snarled, jerking the chain to wrench Grace closer. Her terrified

eyes sought Matthew’s, silently pleading for help.

Matthew felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Cold creeping fear turned his blood to ice. How the hell had he

allowed this to happen? He should have foreseen that his jailers would snatch any chance to escape justice. What in

heaven’s name had possessed Grace to come here tonight? He cursed her gallant soul, even while his heart filled with

overwhelming love. And dread.

“Don’t mistake that he means it,” he snapped, gesturing everyone else in the room back. One false move and Grace

would be dead.

He assessed Monks for signs of weakness and as so often before, found none. He balled his fists against his sides as he

fought the urge to fling himself on the brute and strangle him with his bare hands.

“Stay where you are,” the duke said to his men who surrounded the room.

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“Aye, that’s right canny.” Roughly, Monks tugged Grace around so his back was to the French doors and she faced the

room like a living shield. “Nobody follows.”

“What about the lady?” the duke asked.

Monks laughed unpleasantly and Matthew saw Grace shudder at the sound. Her face was pallid with terror.

Monks sneered. “She’s no lady. She’s a poxy whore.”

“No!” Grace gasped.

“Button your lip, slut!” Monks grunted and tightened the chain so she coughed against the pressure. He glared at the

duke. “Do nowt to stop me getting away and I’ll let the lass go.”

That was a lie. Monks was in a towering fury and he’d vent that anger on Grace when he had her to himself. If he was

caught, a hanging already awaited. What difference another murder?

Against every instinct he possessed, Matthew steeled himself to say what he must. “Release the girl and you have my

word as Marquess of Sheene that you may leave unhindered.”

He ignored the duke’s movement of protest. Grace’s life was more important than revenge or punishment.

Monks edged toward the doors, forcing Grace into a stumbling backward walk. “Eh, and pigs might fly. I’m not daft.