Untouched

“Forgive me, sir. I have inconvenienced you and embarrassed myself.”

Still that strange courtly demeanor. The discomfort over her loss of control befitted any fine lady. He could have told her she wasted her time. He knew exactly what she was. His uncle had promised him a tart. A tart she most definitely was.

He shrugged, unfazed by her nausea. “It is of no importance.”

What right had he to be squeamish? In his fits, he’d lost control over his bodily functions. Why else should the bowl be kept convenient to the table where they’d strapped him so often? Although, thank God, he hadn’t required that particular treatment for a long time.

She cast him an uncertain glance under those wickedly luxuriant lashes. “Still, you were kind. Thank you.”

He had to shatter this damned enthrallment she so effortlessly exercised. Holding her had been too sweet. But then, it was years since he’d either given or received comfort. The insidious pleasure was a purely animal reaction and nothing to do with the actual woman in his arms.

Or so he tried to tell himself.

“I am many things, madam,” he said coldly as he stood. “Kind is not one of them.”

He saw her face change. Briefly, her physical crisis had swamped fear. Fear flooded back as she remembered she was alone with a self-confessed madman. Her trembling fingers rose t

o clutch her loose neckline together.

What a masterly performance. Why was such an accomplished actress rusticating in darkest Somerset? She should be dazzling a packed house at Drury Lane.

“I have to get out of here,” she muttered, more to herself than him, he thought. She rose to unsteady feet and backed toward the door. His handkerchief fluttered onto the floor to lie like a lost banner of surrender.

“There’s nowhere to run,” he said mildly. Oh, she was good, but he was on to her deception. “The estate is walled. Filey and Monks guard the only gate. And I doubt my uncle will release you from your engagement so early in the play’s season.”

She frowned as if she didn’t understand. Her beautiful eyes were glassy. Her unsteadiness developed a distinct sway. An alarming sway.

“Christ!” he bit out as she began to crumple.

He dived across the short distance and caught her before she crashed. Immediately, the heady and jarringly innocent scents of sunshine and soap flooded his senses.

“Sir, would you kindly restrain your language?” she whispered against his throat. Her breath on his skin set his blood leaping with awareness and it took him a second to realize what she’d said.

He gave a disbelieving snort of laughter. For God’s sake, she had more important things to worry about than his manners. But his hold was careful as he gathered her up and carried her through to the salon.

“I insist you put me down,” she said with a woeful lack of force.

“If I put you down, you’ll only fall at my feet.”

He waited for an argument but none was forthcoming. She was near the limit of her resources, he saw.

After this last year, he wasn’t as strong as he had been. But her slight weight posed no difficulty. Again, his attention caught on the signs of deprivation. The outdated dress. The thinness. Even her shoes were worn and cracked.

He settled her more comfortably and stoically ignored the way her breasts brushed his chest. She might be insubstantial as a wraith. But he’d immediately observed she was without doubt a female wraith.

He laid her on the sofa near the empty grate, brushing the open book he’d left there to the floor. “Lie back,” he said softly, sliding a red velvet cushion behind her tousled dark head.

She tried to draw away but weakness defeated her. Her perfect profile stood out in austere clarity against the rich material. His breath hitched in his throat at her beauty.

“Don’t touch me.” She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her smooth cheek.

Her terror and unhappiness called so strongly to his compassion that it was an effort to speak with disdain. “You’re safe enough.” Then in a harder voice, because she was his enemy, however lovely and vulnerable she seemed, “You couldn’t fight me off now, even if you wanted to.”

A startled cobalt glance darted up to his face. He kept his expression implacable as he turned toward the sideboard to pour her a brandy.

He returned to the couch and extended the small crystal glass. She barely had strength to lift her head. She was shivering and he could hear each ragged breath she took.

“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered and leaned forward to support her as she drank.