To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(36)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

They made the copse of trees and turned to the stream bank, completely hidden from the children and Miss Munroe.

“I’m sorry,” Helen began.

But without saying a word—without any warning at all, in fact—he yanked her against his chest and captured her mouth with his. A great involuntary shudder shook her frame. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been waiting for this, unconsciously anticipating when he’d make his next move. Her breasts were mashed against the hard plane of his chest, and his hands grasped her arms as his mouth moved with fierce determination on hers. Oh, it was lovely.

So lovely.

She tilted her head, melting against him like warm custard over apple pie. Her skirt was a simple one, without panniers, and if she moved closer, maybe, just maybe, she might feel that most male part of him. It’d been so long since she’d been wanted. So long since she’d felt the flash of desire.

His hot lips parted over hers, and his tongue demanded entrance to her mouth. She opened willingly, eagerly even. To be wanted like this was intoxicating. He claimed her like a conquering knight, and she welcomed him. His hand moved, drifting over her laced stomach and up to where her breasts were covered only by the thin material of her dress. She waited, breathless with anticipation, distracted even from the heat of his mouth, for that hand to act. He didn’t disappoint. His fingers dipped tenderly beneath the edge of her gauzy fichu, stroking, probing, tickling, and teasing her flesh. Her nipples had tightened to almost painful arousal, and, oh, how she wished that she could fling aside her clothing and let his hot palms cover her breasts.

She must’ve made some sound, for his mouth broke from hers, and he murmured so low that she had to strain to hear, “Hush. They can’t see us, but they might hear.”

He stared at his hand, still inserted under her fichu. She couldn’t help it—she arched to his gaze. He shot a smoldering look at her. Then he closed his eye and bowed his head over her bosom. She felt his tongue, hot and wet, probe the edges of her dress.

Dear God.

From up the bank, Jamie’s high voice called, “Mama, come see this bug!”

Helen blinked. “Just a moment, darling.”

“I can’t get enough of you,” Sir Alistair muttered low.

A streak of desire shot through her.

“Mama!”

He straightened and swiftly smoothed her fichu, his hands sure and steady. “Stay here.”

He slid down the bank and deftly caught the fishing pole, which was indeed spinning lazily in a whirlpool. He mounted the bank again and took her elbow casually. “Come.”

And she wondered as they walked back to Jamie and the others, did he not feel the same incredible yearning when they kissed?

Madness, pure madness, Alistair thought as he resumed his fishing spot. Mrs. Halifax was dipping her line into the stream in an entirely ineffectual way downriver from him, but he didn’t trust himself to go and help her. What was he about, kissing his housekeeper? What must she think of him, a great, ugly beast of a man, forcing himself on her as he had? Surely she was appalled and distressed.

Except she hadn’t seemed particularly appalled or distressed as she’d opened her sweet mouth to his tongue and pressed her body against him. The memory had his cock rearing eagerly and nearly made him drop his fishing pole in the water. He caught Sophia’s suspicious gaze at that moment. God only knew what she’d say if he lost his pole. Something cutting, no doubt.

He cleared his throat. “Mrs. McCleod packed some bread and such for us, I believe.”

That got Jamie’s immediate attention. He came scampering over with the puppy, and Mrs. Halifax set aside her fishing pole only too eagerly to go digging in the basket. “Lovely! There’s a ham and some bread and fruit. Oh, and a meat pie and some small cakes.” She looked up at him. “What would you like?”

“Some of everything,” Alistair called back. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling at her son and chatting as she put together plates of food, and every once and a while, she’d dart a quick little glance at him when she thought he couldn’t see.

What was it about her? She was beautiful, yes, but that if anything would normally be a deterrent for him. Beautiful women merely made him more conscious of his own repulsiveness. She was different somehow. Not only had she seemed to have recovered from her shock at his appearance, but she also made him forget what he looked like. With her, he was simply a man flirting dangerously with a woman.

The feeling was intoxicating.

Abigail made a frustrated sound, and he moved to where she was trying to untangle her line. “Here, let me help you.”

“Thank you,” the girl said.

He glanced down at her solemn face. “You can go get some food if you wish.”

But she shook her head. “I like this. I like fishing.”

“You seem to have an aptitude for it.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Aptitude?”

He smiled. “You’re good at it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

She gripped her pole fiercely. “I’ve never been good at anything.”

It was his turn to eye her. Perhaps he should offer some platitude, wave away her self-doubt, but he couldn’t find it in him to make light of her distress.

She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. “I disappoint Mama. I’m not… not as right as other girls.”

Alistair frowned. Abigail was unusually solemn for a little girl, but he knew that Mrs. Halifax loved her daughter. “I think that you’re right enough.”

Abigail’s brows knit and he knew he hadn’t said quite the right thing. He opened his mouth to try again when he was called by the picnickers.

“Here’s your food, Sir Alistair,” Jamie said.

Mrs. Halifax held out a plate, carefully avoiding his gaze. Alistair nearly groaned. Her attempt at discretion drew more attention than outright flirtation would. He glanced over her head as he walked to where she sat and met Sophia’s gaze beneath raised eyebrows.

Alistair accepted the plate and sent a stern look at Sophia as he murmured to Mrs. Halifax, “Thank you. I did not mean for you to give up your fishing to serve the rest of us.”

“Oh, it isn’t any bother. I don’t believe I’m particularly clever at the pastime, anyway.”

“Ah, but practice makes perfect,” he drawled.

Her face jerked up at that, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

He felt his mouth quirk. If only they weren’t so public, they—