To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(35)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

They entered the dim stables and tramped to a door in the corner. Sir Alistair wrenched it open and rummaged about inside.

“Here we are,” he grunted, and brought out a pole longer than he was tall. He leaned it against the wall and bent to the little room again. “I think… Yes, these will do.” Four more poles appeared.

He backed from the storage room and held out an old basket with a leather handle and hinges. “Can you carry this, Abigail?”

“Yes,” she said stoutly, though the basket was heavier than it looked. She wrapped both hands around the handle and lifted it against her chest.

Sir Alistair nodded. “Good lass. And this one for Jamie.” He handed a smaller basket to her brother to carry. “All right, then.”

He shouldered the poles, and they tramped back toward the castle where Mama and Miss Munroe were waiting for them.

“Mama, did you know that King George fishes?” Jamie asked. He held the puppy under one arm and grasped the basket in the other hand.

“Does he?” Mama looked rather suspiciously at Sir Alistair.

“Indeed he does.” Sir Alistair took Mama’s arm with his free hand. “Every day and twice on Mondays.”

“Hmm,” was all Mama said, but she looked happy.

Happy for the first time since they’d left London, Abigail thought as she skipped her way across the dewy grass.

FISHING APPEARED TO be a pastime that involved a lot of waiting around, Helen mused a half hour later. One attached a small hook, cleverly disguised in feathers, to the end of a string and then pitched it into the water, hoping to trick a fish into biting the hook. One would not think that fish were so silly as to confuse feathers and a hook for a fly alighting on the water, but apparently fish were foolish creatures. Or perhaps they were simply very nearsighted.

“Think of your wrist,” Sir Alistair was saying. “Let it flick like the tail of a fish.”

Helen arched an eyebrow and looked over her shoulder at him. He stood farther up the bank, watching her critically, apparently quite serious in his instruction. She sighed, faced forward, and thought of her wrist as she flicked the tall pole in her hand. The end of her line bobbed up in the air, doubled back on itself, and became entangled in a branch overhead.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath.

Abigail, who’d successfully cast her line thrice already, giggled. Miss Munroe politely didn’t say anything, although Helen thought she saw the woman roll her eyes. And Jamie, who’d already lost interest in learning to “flick” and was now hunting dragonflies with the puppy, didn’t even notice.

“Here.” Sir Alistair was suddenly right beside her, his long arms reaching over her head.

His breath was warm against her cheek as he worked the line free of the branch. Helen stood very still. She was trembling inside, but he seemed not at all affected by their nearness.

“There,” he said as the fly came undone from the branch. He stood behind her and reached forward and around her to demonstrate how to hold the pole. The light touch of his hands was devastating as he positioned her to his liking.

Keep your mind on the task, Helen scolded herself, and tried to look intent. She’d realized very early on that whilst she didn’t mind standing on a stream bank for long moments on end, she would never be a great fisherwoman.

Abigail, surprisingly, was another story. She had listened to Sir Alistair’s instructions with all the gravity of an apprentice learning an ancient and mystical art. And when she had correctly flicked the line to the middle of the stream for the first time, her pale little face lit up with proud joy. That, if nothing else, was well worth rising before the crack of dawn and tramping about in the wet grass.

“Do you have it now?” Sir Alistair rasped in her ear.

“Yes, uh, quite.” Helen cleared her throat.

He turned his head slightly, and his good eye met hers from only inches away. “I can instruct you further, if you wish, on how to properly manipulate the pole.”

Her cheeks flamed even though his voice had been too low for anyone else to overhear. “I think I have a sufficient grasp of the concept.”

“Do you?” His eyebrow arched as his eye gleamed at her diabolically.

She slid her hand slowly up the pole and smiled sweetly. “I am a quick learner, sir.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you wish to become an expert. Proper practice is in order, I think.” He leaned fractionally closer, and for a wild moment she thought he meant to kiss her, here in the open, in front of the children and his sister.

“Alistair!” Miss Munroe shouted.

Helen started guiltily, but Sir Alistair merely murmured, “Perhaps later.”

“Alistair, I have a fish!”

He finally turned at that news and sauntered over to where his sister was wrestling with her line. Jamie, too, was attracted by the excitement, and for a few minutes no one paid attention to Helen as she got her breathing back under control.

When she looked about again, Sir Alistair was trading jibes with his sister over the size of her fish. He didn’t notice that Helen’s little feathered fly had drifted into the shallow water almost at the bank of the stream, where no doubt there were very few fish. The bright blue sky arched overhead, gauzy clouds drawn across its expanse. The stream bubbled along, the bright water revealing smooth rocks at the bottom. The banks were green with fresh grass, and on this side there was a small copse of trees where Lady Grey had been laid to rest. It was quite lovely, Sir Alistair’s stream, a magical spot where ordinary cares didn’t seem to have sway.

Sir Alistair gave a sudden shout, and a silver fish leapt out of the water, dangling from the string on his pole. Jamie came running to see, Abigail jumped up and down, and Miss Munroe exclaimed and helped catch the string. In the excitement, Helen dropped her pole into the stream.

“Oh, Mama,” Abigail said mournfully when the fish had been safely stowed inside a rather tatty-looking basket. “You’ve lost your pole.”

“Not to worry,” Sir Alistair said. “It’s probably caught on the bank just past the copse. There’s a bit of a whirlpool there. Sophia, mind the children, please, while Mrs. Halifax and I fetch her pole.”

Miss Munroe nodded, already watching her line intently, and Sir Alistair took Helen’s arm to help her up the bank. Even that small touch, his strong fingers wrapped around her upper arm, made her breath grow short. Silly, she chided herself. He’s only being polite. But he didn’t let go of her arm once they’d made the top of the bank, and she began to be suspicious. He led her swiftly along the grass, saying nothing. Perhaps he was cross that he’d had to leave his pole to help her fetch hers. She was foolish, she thought morosely, losing her pole like that.