Untouched

She would free Matthew or she would die trying.

The sound of the hallway door opening woke Matthew from restless sleep. Darkness surrounded him. It must be the middle of the night.

“Have you found Wolfram? Is he all right?” Matthew asked groggily as his uncle came in.

He tried to sit up then subsided with a painful grunt when his bruised ribs met the leather bindings. For a moment, he’d forgotten he was tied down. He was stiff and sore and thirsty. Around sunset, his uncle had sent Mrs. Filey in to give him some water. The cool liquid had been sweeter than nectar on his throat and on his chapped and splitting lips. But that must have been hours ago.

His uncle didn’t answer but spoke to the servants who followed him into the room and began to light the lamps. “Release him but keep a close hold when you do.”

Matthew maintained an appearance of weary apathy while they untied him and brought him to his feet. The instant the hands on his arms loosened, he broke into a frenzy of fighting and punching and struggling.

He’d reached such a pitch of anger that if he got his hands on his uncle, he’d kill him. Then gladly face the consequences, whatever his promise to Grace. For the sake of his own manhood, he couldn’t stand docilely like a bullock awaiting the butcher’s ax.

He was weak after his bout of illness and the beating, and clumsy from lying strapped to the table so long in this stifling room. He managed to clout one thug over the face before they caught his arms with embarrassing ease and wrenched them behind his back. The damaged flesh over his ribs tightened in agony and a groan escaped him.

Chest heaving and convulsive shudders running through his aching muscles, he hung from the men’s grasp. Failure tasted sour in his mouth.

“There’s no point to this, nephew,” his uncle said frigidly, not looking remotely worried at the sudden violence.

“If I manage to kill you, there is indeed a point,” Matthew gasped, breath scraping in and out of his lungs.

“When I’ve come to reward you for your cooperation? Surely not. If you can restrain your madness for the nonce, I’ll allow you up to bathe and change your clothing. And Mrs. Filey already prepares a meal for you.”

Matthew refused to express surprise or curiosity. Even broken and defeated and weak, he wouldn’t surrender.

“Don’t you want to know why?”

Matthew remained silent.

After a pause, his uncle pursed his lips with disappointment. “The doxy was seen in a village on the road to Bristol. Filey returned to inform me while the others continued on. They’ll catch her before she reaches the city.”

No! Jesus, no!

He thought he’d screamed his anguished denial aloud. But he mustn’t have because his uncle still stared at him with a gentle expectation that didn’t fool him.

Was what Lord John said true? Or a trick to draw him out about Grace’s whereabouts? Bristol was in the opposite direction to Wells. Had she decided at the last minute that the larger city offered greater protection?

Oh, God, Grace, if they catch you, all hope is gone.

Chapter 25

Grace curtsied deeply as Francis Rutherford, Duke of Kermonde, swept into the library of Fallon Court. She hadn’t been inside this beautiful paneled room since she was a girl of eleven. She hadn’t seen the duke since she was fifteen, when she’d attended his fiftieth birthday at this house with her family.

Would he remember her? And if he did, would he deign to speak to her? He’d always been kind when she’d come to him as the spoiled daughter of his best friend. Now she was poor and desperate and needed his help. She ardently wished she had something other than her faded widow’s weeds to wear. They proclaimed her poverty and put her at immediate disadvantage.

Goodness, what did her appearance matter when Matthew’s fate hung in the balance? She stifled the stiff-necked pride that had forbidden her from seeking help from her family’s connections before.

At her side Vere bowed, clutching his document case close to his narrow chest. He’d requested this audience without telling the duke about Grace’s arrival at his vicarage yesterday.

She wasn’t sure surprising one of the nation’s most powerful men was a good idea. But she’d been too tired and frightened and sick with worry over Matthew to argue. And by the time she’d reached Purdy St. Margaret’s, Wolfram had been limping badly and he’d demanded her immediate attention.

Thank goodness his injuries weren’t serious, but he was exhausted and obviously fretting over his master’s absence. They’d locked the hound in the stable while they came to the manor. He’d been howling fit to break a window when she left.

“Reverend Marlow?” The duke paused before them. Grace felt him studying the crown of her bent head. “What’s this about?” Then she heard his sharply indrawn breath as she rose.

“Good morning, Uncle Francis,” she said calmly, holding her head up and daring him to scorn her. She was a Marlow. Her blood was as blue as his, however empty her purse.

“It’s…Good God, it’s little Grace! I’d know those eyes anywhere,” he said in astonishment. “Lord, I haven’t seen you in ten years. Bless me, you’ve become a beauty.”