To Beguile a Beast
She’d made a ghastly mistake. Helen stroked Jamie’s sweaty head that night and berated herself. Jamie had cried himself to sleep, desolate over Lady Grey’s death. On the other side of the bed, Abigail was silent. She hadn’t made a sound since that single shrill scream in the dining room. Now she lay on her side, facing away from Jamie, her body a slight lump under the covers.
Helen closed her eyes. What had she done to her darlings? She’d taken her children from the safety of their home in London, from all they knew, all that was familiar to them, and brought them to this strange, dark place where sweet old dogs died. Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps she could’ve endured Lister and the hopeless, imprisoned life she’d led as his forgotten mistress, if only for the sake of her children.
But no. She’d known these last years that it was only a matter of time before she offended him in some way and she would wake up to find the children gone. If nothing else, that had been the primary driving reason to leave the duke: she could not live without Abigail and Jamie.
She opened her eyes and got up, drifting to the dark windows. The view was less than comforting, though. The ivy on the outside walls so overgrew the windows that the moon was but a glittering speck. There was a small table under the window that she’d made into a desk to transcribe Lady Vale’s fairy-tale book. She touched the papers there. She really ought to work on it some more, but she was too restless tonight.
She glanced back at the children. Jamie was in exhausted slumber, and Abigail hadn’t moved. Just in case she was still awake, Helen rounded the bed and bent over her daughter.
She touched her shoulder lightly—not enough to wake her if she slept—and whispered, “I’m going for a walk, darling. I’ll return before too long.”
Abigail’s closed eyelids didn’t move, but nonetheless Helen suspected she wasn’t asleep. She sighed and kissed her daughter’s cheek before leaving the room and shutting the door carefully behind her.
The corridor was dim, of course, and she really had no notion of where she could go. The castle didn’t lend itself to a meditative stroll. Still, she was restless and had to move somehow. Helen wandered down the hall, her single candle casting flickering light against the walls. The castle had five main floors. The bedroom she shared with the children was on the third, along with several rooms that once must’ve been quite nice bedrooms and sitting rooms. Helen trailed her fingers idly along the carved paneling of the hall. She’d have to have the maids dust and polish the old wood eventually, but this floor was low on her list of things to be put to rights.
She stopped suddenly and shuddered. She was making plans—future plans—for the castle when she might not even be here tomorrow. She had no doubt that Lister had men searching for her and the children at this very moment. The knowledge made her skin prickle in fear, made her want to flee at once. But she’d attended shooting parties in the country and knew what happened to the bird that flew when the beaters came close. They were shot from the sky. No. Better to keep her nerve and stay here at this hiding place she’d found.
She shivered and started down a staircase at the end of the hall. The treads were even and strong, but they were bare. Did Sir Alistair have the funds for a proper carpet? Perhaps she could hang a painting or two on the landing. She’d found quite a cache of paintings just today. They were all leaning on their sides and covered with a cloth in one of the closed rooms on the second floor.
The stair led to the back of the castle, quite near the kitchens. She hesitated when she made the ground floor. Light was coming from the kitchen. It couldn’t be any of the new servants. The maids and footmen made the journey to and from the village daily. Mrs. McCleod would eventually live in, but she’d taken one look at the cook’s quarters and stated that they’d need to be cleaned before she could move in. The light in the kitchen meant that either Sir Alistair was having a late snack or Mr. Wiggins was lurking there. Helen shivered. She hadn’t the fortitude to take on the nasty little man at the moment.
That decided, she turned to the front of the castle. The dining room was dark as she passed it, and for a moment she wondered what Sir Alistair had done with the big dog’s body. She’d left the castle’s master there in the dining room when she’d gone to take care of Jamie and Abigail. When she’d last glimpsed him, he’d been crouching silently over the dog. His eyes had been dry, but every bone in his body had projected grief.
Helen looked away from the dining room. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for Sir Alistair. He was a disagreeable man who’d gone out of his way to make it plain he didn’t want her here. She’d like to think that he didn’t care for anyone or anything. But that’d been clearly disproved, hadn’t it? He might wear the mask of an unfeeling ogre, but underneath he was a man. A man who could be hurt.
She was at the front of the castle now, by those great doors where first they’d entered. She had to set down the candle to pull back the heavy bolt and wrench the door open. Sir Alistair had performed these jobs without any sign of strain. Obviously he had some muscles under that old hunting coat he habitually wore. An image of the master of the castle without any clothing at all suddenly sprang up in her too-fertile mind, and Helen halted, startled and oddly warmed. Good Lord! Had she truly become a wanton? Because imagining Sir Alistair nude only aroused her curiosity: Did the man have hair on his chest? Was his belly as flat as it looked? And while she was standing here in the darkness, she might as well think it—was his manhood long or short? Thick or narrow?
A wanton, indeed.
Helen inhaled, shaking the crude thoughts away, and set her candle on the stone step of the castle. The moon was high enough to see a little in the dark as her eyes adjusted. The group of trees by the drive rustled softly in the wind, their tops waving against the night sky. Helen shivered. She should’ve brought a wrap.
There was a kind of path that led around the side of the castle, and Helen began picking her way. She rounded the back of the castle, and the moon shone, full and fat, on the hills in the distance. Its light was as nearly bright as day, and as she tore her eyes from it, Helen belatedly saw that she wasn’t alone. A tall male figure was silhouetted against the sky, like an ancient monolith, grim and still and lonely. He might’ve stood thus for centuries.
“I’m sorry,” Helen murmured. She could feel a flush start on her cheeks, and she was grateful for the dark, not only to hide her blush, but also to keep him from seeing the expression on her face. Her wayward imagination conjured up that same hazy picture of him nude. Oh, dear! “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
She turned to go back around the castle, but his voice halted her.
“Stop.”
She peered at him. He still faced the hills, but he’d turned his head toward her.
He cleared his throat. “Stay and talk with me, Mrs. Halifax.”
It was an order, spoken in commanding tones, but Helen thought perhaps there was a hint of a plea underneath the gravel in his voice, and that decided her.
She wandered closer to where he stood. “What would you like to talk about?”
He shrugged, his face averted again. “Don’t women always have something to babble about?”
“You mean fashion and gossip and other terribly unimportant things?” she asked sweetly.
He hesitated, perhaps thrown off balance by the iron underlying her tone. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked, sure she had misheard him. “What?”
He shrugged. “I’m not used to the company of civilized people, Mrs. Halifax. Please forgive me.”
It was her turn to feel uncomfortable. The man was obviously grieving the death of his loyal companion; it was unkind of her to snap at him. In fact, considering she’d made her living for the last fourteen years by catering to the needs of a man, it was rather out of character for her.
Helen pushed that strange thought aside and wandered a little closer to Sir Alistair, trying to think of a neutral topic of conversation. “I thought the meat pie at dinner was quite good.”
“Jamie.”
“His name is Jamie,” she said, but without any censor.
“Quite. Jamie, then.” He shifted a little. “How is Jamie?”
She looked blindly at her feet. “He cried himself to sleep.”
“Ah.”
Helen stared out at the moonlit landscape. “What a wilderness this is.”
“It wasn’t always.” His voice was low, the gravel making it rumble in a sort of comforting way. “There used to be gardens that led to the stream.”
“What happened to them?”
“The gardener died and another was never hired.”
She frowned. The ruined terrace gardens were silvered in the moonlight, but she could see that it was terribly overgrown. “When did the gardener die?”
He tilted his head back, gazing at the stars. “Seventeen… no, eighteen years ago?”
She stared. “And you’ve never hired a gardener since then?”
“There seemed no need.”
They stood in silence then. A cloud drifted across the moon. She wondered suddenly how many nights he had stood thus, alone and lonely, looking out over the ruin of his garden.
“Do you…”
He tilted his head. “Yes?”
“Forgive me.” She was glad the darkness masked her expression. “You’ve never married?”
“I’m sorry.”
He made a movement, perhaps a halfhearted shrug. He hardly needed her sympathy.
But she couldn’t leave it alone. “No family, either?”
“I have an older sister who lives in Edinburgh.”
“But that’s not too far away. You must see her often.”
She thought wistfully of her own family. She hadn’t seen any of them—her sisters, brother, mother, or Papa—since she’d gone to Lister. What a price she’d paid for her romantic dreams.
“I haven’t seen Sophia in years,” he replied, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked at his dark profile, trying to make out his expression. “You’re estranged?”
“Nothing so formal.” His voice had grown cold. “I simply don’t choose to travel much, Mrs. Halifax, and my sister sees no reason to visit me.”
“Oh.”
He pivoted slowly, facing her. His back was to the moon, and she couldn’t see his expression at all. He seemed suddenly bigger, looming over her more closely—and more ominously—than she’d realized.
“You’re very curious about me tonight, Mrs. Halifax,” he growled. “But I think I’d rather discuss you.”
THE MOONLIGHT CARESSED her face, highlighting a beauty that needed no additional ornamentation. But her loveliness didn’t distract him anymore. He saw it, admired it, but he could also see past the surface camouflage to the woman beneath. A vivacious woman who, he suspected, was not used to labor yet had spent the day cleaning his filthy dining room. A woman not used to fending for herself but who had still managed to push her way into his home and his life. Interesting. What motivated her? What life had she left behind? Who was the man she was hiding from? Alistair watched Mrs. Halifax, trying to see the expression in her harebell-blue eyes, but the night shielded them from him.
“What do you want to know about me?” she asked.
Her voice was even, almost masculine in its directness, and the contrast to her extremely feminine form was surprising. Fascinating, actually.