Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee

      Guy did not see the woman calling herself Mary McLelland again until the next afternoon. She descended the staircase at exactly two o’clock, just as he had known that she would. There was a hint of colour in her cheeks that contrasted prettily with her clear creamy complexion. Several strands of her hair had escaped her pins and she swept them back with nervous fingers. Guy cast an appreciative eye over the image she presented.

      ‘Lord Varington,’ she said rather breathlessly, ‘I came as your note requested.’ He noticed that she surreptitiously kept her hands folded neatly behind her back…out of sight…and out of reach.

      ‘Mrs McLelland.’ He moved from where he had been lounging against the heavy stone mantel in the hallway, and walked to meet her. ‘I see you have had the foresight to have worn a cloak. You seem to be eminently practical; not a trait often observed in beautiful women.’

      She ignored his comment completely. ‘You said that a boat had been found, that it might be…’ Her words trailed off. ‘Where is it now?’

      ‘The remains have been carried to Weir’s boat shed, a mere five minutes’ walk from here.’ He waited for her protest at having to walk. None was forthcoming. She just gave a curt nod of her head and started to walk towards the back door. She had almost reached the door when he called softly, ‘Helena.’

      Her response was instinctive. She stopped and glanced back over her shoulder.

      He smiled, and watched as the realisation of what she had just betrayed registered.

      The blush bloomed in her cheeks, and something of fear and anger passed transiently across her features. ‘My name is Mary McLelland,’ she said quietly, but she did not meet his eye.

      ‘If you say so…Mary McLelland,’ he said, moving in a leisurely manner towards her.

      He offered his arm. She took it because she could not politely do otherwise. Together they walked down the back garden until they reached the start of the overgrown lane that led down to the shore and the boathouse.

      Guy looked down at her thin leather shoes. ‘Perhaps I should carry you,’ he suggested. ‘The grass is still wet from last night’s rain and I would not want you to spoil your shoes or dress. And, of course—’ he looked directly into her eyes ‘—there is the matter of your wounded feet.’

      She threw him an outraged look. ‘My feet are perfectly recovered, thank you.’ And she blushed again.

      And Guy knew very well that she was remembering, just as he was, the intimacy of that moment in her bedchamber. He smiled. ‘Or if you prefer, we can turn back.’ He waited with all the appearance of politeness, knowing full well what her answer would be.

      ‘I am perfectly capable of negotiating the pathway, Lord Varington.’

      ‘As you will, Mrs McLelland, but I must warn you that the surface is rather uneven.’ Having successfully goaded her, he smiled again and waited for her to set off.

      Wild bramble bushes seemed to have taken over on either side, their long thorny branches encroaching far into the path. Not only that, but the grass underfoot was wet, and peppered with jagged nettles, small rocks and shells and copious mounds of sheep droppings. Long riding boots protected Guy’s feet and legs. He sauntered nonchalantly over every obstacle. The same could not be said for Helena. Despite picking her way with the greatest of care, it was not long before her shoes and bandaged feet were soaking. And to make matters worse, water was wicking from the grass up and over the edge of her skirt. Three times a bramble branch managed to snag her skirt most viciously, and twice upon the cloak borrowed from Annabel, the last of which to her chagrin necessitated Guy’s assistance in freeing it. All around them was the smell of damp undergrowth, of earth and sea and fresh air.

      The path eventually led them out to the shore and a rather dilapidated-looking large hut. The wood was a faded ash colour, bleached and beaten into submission by years of hostile weather. Guy slipped the key from his pocket. It turned stiffly in the lock. The door creaked open under the weight of his hand. And they were in.

      It was a boathouse without a boat. The floor consisted of creaking wooden planks that were covered in a damp sugaring of sand. Over in one corner a pile of crates and lobster pots had been neatly stacked. In another was a sprawl of ropes and nets and in yet another a few barrels and casks. In the middle of the floor lay a small mound covered with a rumpled canvas sheet.

      ‘But where is the rowing boat?’ Helena peered around the hut.

      Guy saw her pull the cloak more tightly around her body. He had made no mention of the type of boat in his note to her. And having viewed a map of the exact location of the island of Islay, Guy was quite willing to bet that no boatman worth his salt would have attempted to row the distance single handed in so small a boat as the remains of which lay in this boat shed. ‘Here.’ He indicated the canvas.

      ‘But…’ Her words trailed off as he moved forward and pulled the sheet back to reveal the pile of broken timbers.

      He watched her face closely for any sign of reaction.

      ‘I thought…’

      ‘I should have warned you that it was badly shattered.’ He crouched and began to separate the remnants of the boat, laying them out across the floor with care. ‘Part of the bow is still intact.’ He placed it close to her feet.

      She dropped to her knees beside him, unmindful of the hardness of the wooden floor or the sand that now clung to the damp wool of her dress. She reached out a hand, caressed fingers against what had once been the bow of a small boat.

      ‘I do not know. I cannot tell if it is the same boat.’ She shook her head, a look of frustration crossing her brow.

      ‘And there is this,’ he said, uncovering a ripped piece of timber on which a string of bright letters had been painted.

      He sensed the sudden stillness in the figure by his side. It seemed that she did not so much as breathe, just leaned forward, taking the torn planking from his hand to trace the remnants of the name.