Perhaps she had another reason for falling in with his uncle’s machinations. Perhaps she wasn’t here for money, but for love.
He swore under his breath and kicked discontentedly at the leaf litter on the path. If the woman were his uncle’s cast-off mistress, a great deal made sense.
Like her air of innocence. His uncle wasn’t above corrupting a respectable woman. His uncle, for all his public probity, wasn’t above much. Eleven years of captivity had taught Matthew that.
This could explain why she set out to diminish her beauty. In her heart, she remained loyal to her original protector. Maybe she was unable to face bedding another man.
His uncle was unprincipled enough to ruin an innocent and turn her to his purpose. Any enjoyment Lord John got from the woman would be a bonus. What became of the jade afterward wouldn’t worry him.
The snag with this perfectly logical explanation was that Matthew found it even more unpalatable than the unpalatable alternatives. Hellish images hurtled through his mind. His uncle thrusting between the woman’s pale thighs. His uncle’s hands stroking her bare skin. His uncle’s mouth tasting that smooth white flesh.
“Christ!” He crashed his clenched fist into the smooth gray bark of a beech.
Pain wrenched him back to reality. He hadn’t suffered one of his fits for years. He couldn’t go on like this. He’d make himself ill. And he’d kill himself before he descended into that shuffling, mindless, quaking wretch again.
Wolfram’s cold nose pressed into his dangling left hand. Matthew absently stroked the dog’s head, finding comfort in the animal’s steadfast affection.
The woman was here until his uncle chose to remove her. All Matthew could do was avoid her. Difficult when they shared a house. Still, it counted as a strategy of sorts.
Feeling more in control, he headed back to the cottage, only to watch his pathetic plan crumble before his eyes.
Monks and Filey were in the yard behind the house. That in itself was nothing unusual. But when Matthew paused in the shade of the trees, he caught a glimpse of bright green satin against the bricks. His brawny jailers were ranged between the girl and Matthew so he could see no more of her.
/> What was the fool woman up to?
Matthew signaled Wolfram to stay. Monks and Filey closed in on their prey and didn’t notice as he edged up behind them. What he heard as he came within earshot froze his blood to ice.
“Happen there’s only one way you’re leaving, lass. That’s dead as a doornail. Do it now or wait until his lordship has his fill. Any road, it’s up to you.” Monks spoke softly but clearly. Matthew could have told her the quieter the thug became, the more lethal he was.
“And first, I’ll have my go.” Filey stepped to one side of the girl so they had her boxed against the brickwork. “I’ll not throw away such a grand chance.”
“I’m trying to tell you you’ve made a mistake. I’m a respectable widow, not a…a whore.”
Matthew still couldn’t see Mrs. Paget past the broad backs. But he heard how she struggled to maintain the sweet reasonableness of her tone. Good God, she spoke to these two unpredictable curs as if she invited them to tea.
Monks snickered. “All lasses are whores. Any road, whatever you once were, you’ll learn to play a whore’s part right fast.”
Her voice developed a pleading note. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone what you’ve done. You have my word.”
Did she know the danger she courted? Anger at her recklessness tasted sour in Matthew’s mouth.
Monks laughed again. Even Matthew, who knew his adversary of old, couldn’t restrain the shiver that ran down his spine at the pure evil of the sound. “Your word, eh? That’s worth nowt to me. No, you stay and keep his sodding lordship happy. He might be out of his head but he’s right pretty, I reckon.”
“He doesn’t want me,” she said.
Matthew closed his eyes in despair. Christ, what had she done? Whether she was a willing instrument in Lord John’s schemes or merely an innocent swept into this fiendish game—and at this precise moment he couldn’t say for sure—she’d just signed away her life.
“Eh, the lad’s nowt but shy,” Filey said coaxingly. “He’ll get over that soon enow.”
“No, I’m not to his taste,” she persisted, idiot girl.
“Eh, then it’s daft to keep you,” Monks said in a businesslike tone. “Filey, use the wench until tomorrow then I’ll finish her off.”
“No,” she protested frantically. “You don’t understand.”
Filey chuckled with lascivious eagerness. “Oh, we understand right well, flower. It’s you who’s a mite confused. His lordship has you, then I do, then we shut you up good and proper with a hit on the head or a knife to the neck. If his lordship’s not interested, we skip the first step.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her toward him.
“Let me go!” she cried out, writhing in her captor’s grip.