Untouched

She took the bottle from her bundle and swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm water. Before night fell, she wanted the security of people around her. She could get lost in a crowd. Out here, alone, she was noticeable. And there was always the risk that Monks might come back.

She began to walk briskly away along the deserted track.

Chapter 24

Matthew opened his eyes with excruciating slowness. His lids felt as though lead weights held them down. The first glimpse of light splintered his skull with jagged pain. He closed his eyes again on a long groan.

He knew where he was now. As expected, he was strapped to the table in the garden room. Sunshine still streamed through the windows so it must be early afternoon.

Before collapsing into a dead faint, he’d spewed copiously over Filey’s boots. After that, he only remembered dim snatches of lacerating pain and harsh voices and rough hands.

He’d forgotten how extreme his reaction to comfrey was. His insides felt as though they’d been cleaned out with a rake. A rusty one. His skin was abnormally sensitive and the bands around his legs and wrists and chest were tight enough to hurt. He breathed as deeply as the strap over his torso allowed, then regretted it when his abused muscles protested.

Agonizing as they were, his various discomforts only occupied a tiny space in his mind. Instead he focused on one burning question. Had Grace got away? He’d seen her dart across to the wagon before his physical crisis prevented him seeing anything at all.

Was she still safe? What if his rash scheme only sent her into greater danger?

He’d known when he came up with his plan that he’d likely never learn her fate. Only now did he realize how that ignorance would eat at him until the day he died.

In six months.

Although given how bloody foul he felt right now, he might die sooner. His head ached as if red hot metal wires circled it. His belly still cramped painfully. A sour taste filled his mouth and his lips were dry and cracked. He desperately wanted some water.

Common sense and experience insisted his current miseries would pass. His animal self didn’t believe it. His animal self wanted to skulk off to some dark corner and lie there until he expired.

Christ, he stank. Of rank sweat and stale vomit. His nostrils flared in distaste. He still wore his filth-encrusted clothing from this morning.

Was it this morning? He could have been here for days. He wouldn’t know any better.

His only comfort was the hope that Grace had made it. And that now she fled from anything to do with the estate, including his sorry self.

“I know you’re awake, nephew.” Lord John’s voice dripped over him like bile.

This time when Matthew opened his eyes, he kept them open in spite of how the glare shot blinding pain through his head.

Had he slept? Or had his uncle watched him throughout? That thought made him shudder.

“Uncle,” he croaked, surprised his voice worked at all. The rake that had scraped out his innards had been particularly busy in his throat. “Could I have a drink?”

“Presently.” His uncle stood at the head of the table out of Matthew’s view. “First I want to talk to you.”

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; Just talk? Matthew had expected a beating at the very least. Perhaps his uncle feared compromising his captive’s health. He wanted his prize capon in prime condition.

The bitterness of this reflection leached away some of Matthew’s disorientation. He became aware of his surroundings. It must be late afternoon. Direct sunlight no longer poured into the room. But was it the afternoon of the day he’d first regained consciousness?

While he struggled for clarity, his hands clenched in the straps that fastened his wrists to the table. His pride revolted at the repulsive picture he must present. His fetid rags were stained with illness and reminded him too vividly of his real madness. He’d much prefer to conduct this interview in clean clothes and when he didn’t feel as though a herd of elephants had trampled him.

Still, what couldn’t be helped must be endured. He kept his face expressionless. “I don’t feel much like a chat.”

It was a childish riposte, but it would annoy his uncle. He liked that. He liked that very much.

He heard Lord John’s cane tap as he rounded the table. Then his uncle stood at his side, blocking the light. Matthew was grateful. His eyes stung like the devil.

“Pity. I find myself in the mood for conversation.” Lord John theatrically produced a lace handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.

Matthew hid a flinch of humiliation. Round one to his opponent.