Untouched

Monks hammered at something in the shadow of the gatehouse. Filey was out of sight, although from hundreds of mornings watching them unload supplies, Matthew knew he wouldn’t be far away.

Grim prescience was a leaden weight in his gut. Grace didn’t know what she asked when she made him wait six months. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Christ, he could barely put the thoughts into words himself.

He’d steeled himself to what would happen once she was gone. Barely. His uncle had ordered him constrained after his last escape. Any pretense that it was for his own good or to keep a dangerous madman under control had disappeared. His wardens had tied him to that cursed table in the garden room and savagely beaten him as punishment. No other reason.

The chastisement had only lasted a few hours. Enough to remind him he’d rather die than resume life as a poor chained madman.

Now he deliberately put himself into their hands. They’d tie him down, mock him, torture him. This time, they’d do it because they believed him mad indeed. Which meant his ordeal would be longer, tougher, more agonizing.

God lend him strength. Every time his captors treated him like a madman, he was sick with terror that the madness would return in reality.

A twig snapped behind him and he turned to see Grace. She looked such a little Puritan in her black widow’s weeds and severe hairstyle. It was strange to see her like this again. As though she was no longer the woman who turned his nights to flame. This woman was beautiful—she could never be anything else—but already beyond his reach.

“Are you ready?” He itched to snatch her into his arms one last time but if he touched her now, he’d never let her go.

“Yes.” She nodded, her gaze unspeakably sad as it clung to his face. With one hand she clutched a bundle wrapped in a silk shawl. They’d spent a long time deciding what she’d take. In the end, they’d selected things she could barter for food or a ride in a cart. Handkerchiefs, a few bits of tawdry jewelry, shoe buckles. A little food. Water.

Actual cash was appallingly short. She only had the few coins she’d carried on arrival. Neither Filey nor Monks had thought it worthwhile to steal those. Just as they’d never thought to destroy her worn clothing.

“Has the supply cart turned up yet?” she whispered, crouching at his side.

“No. But it won’t be long.”

Matthew felt her hand slide around his. Her fingers were cold, although the day was warm and fine.

“It will be all right,” she murmured. How like Grace, to comfort others when she needed comfort herself.

“Yes.”

He suspected she knew he lied. He wasn’t angry anymore. The suffering that awaited was the price he paid for the rapture he’d found in her arms.

He’d pay any price for that.

For a brief span, he’d been allowed to feel human. More. Every time she told him she loved him, he’d felt like a god. Well, the god would come crashing down any moment. And gods, he was sure, were never as full of dread and regret as he was.

Jesus, where was the bloody cart?

The bell rang. As he’d suspected, Filey was nearby. He came around the house to help Monks lift the bar from the gate. The heavy doors opened with a rusty squeak and the laden wagon rattled in. These days, his uncle made sure two men drove the wagon. That made four men plus Mrs. Filey he needed to convince with his performance.

“Go, Grace. Go now,” he whispered, grief piercing his gut like a stake. “Godspeed.”

He pressed his mouth to hers in a brief but passionate kiss. He fought the urge to grab her close. What was one touch more when he craved a lifetime?

“Goodbye, my darling.” Pain throbbed in her farewell. One longing look from indigo eyes burning with anguish and love, then she was gone.

Without thinking he stretched his hand out after her, as if to wrest her back. He only grasped emptiness.

He watched her make her way through the underbrush to a point where she was still hidden but close to the gate. She paused under the shade and turned to smile at him. Strangely, it was a smile without darkness, the same smile she gave him when he brought her to climax.

Her bravery stunned him. Inspired him.

She disappeared into the trees. The black dress served wonderfully as camouflage.

“Follow,” he urged the huge wolfhound as he straightened. They’d decided Wolfram should go with Grace as protection.

The plan’s success hinged on the next seconds. Could he do what he had to?

For Grace, he could.