To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(4)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

But then two weeks ago, she’d still been the Duke of Lister’s mistress.

Chapter Two

Truth Teller stopped and stood before the black castle. Four towers loomed, one at each corner, rising high and ominous to the night sky. He was about to turn away when the great wooden doors creaked open. A beautiful young man stood there, clad in robes of gold and white and wearing a ring with a milky-white stone upon his forefinger.

“Good evening, traveler,” said the man. “Won’t you come in out of the cold and wind?”

Well, the castle was foreboding, but snow was blowing around him, and Truth Teller didn’t mind the thought of a hot fire. He nodded and entered the black castle….

—from TRUTH TELLER

It was dark. Very, very dark.

Abigail lay in the big bed and listened to the darkness in the castle. Beside her, Jamie was snoring in his sleep. He was right up against her, squishing himself as close as possible, his head shoved into her shoulder, his hot breath blowing on her neck. She was nearly at the edge of the bed. Mama breathed softly on her side of the bed. The rain had stopped, but she could hear a steady drip from the eaves. It sounded like a little man walking up the wall, each measured step growing closer. Abigail shivered.

She had to pee.

Perhaps if she lay still, she’d go back to sleep. But then there was the fear of waking to a wet bed. It’d been a very long while since she’d wet the bed, but she still remembered the shame the last time it had happened. Miss Cummings, their nurse, had made her tell Mama what she’d done. Abigail had nearly thrown up her breakfast before she could make her confession. In the end, Mama hadn’t been cross, but she’d looked at her with worry and pity, and that had almost been worse.

Abigail hated to disappoint Mama.

Sometimes Mama looked at her with a sad expression, and Abigail knew: She wasn’t quite right. She didn’t laugh like other girls, didn’t play with dolls and have lots of friends. She liked to be by herself. Liked to think about things. And sometimes she worried about the things she thought about; she simply couldn’t help herself. No matter how much it disappointed Mama.

She sighed now. There was no use for it. She’d have to use the commode. She shifted quietly and peered over the edge of the great bed, but it was too dark to see the floor. Poking out a foot from the covers, she slowly slid until she could touch the floor with just one toe.

Nothing happened.

The wood floor was cold, but there were no mice or spiders or other horrible insects. At least, not nearby. Abigail took a breath and slid fully from the bed. Her night rail caught and hiked up, baring her legs to the cold. Above, Jamie mumbled and rolled toward Mama.

She stood and shook down her night rail, then crouched and pulled the commode out from under the bed. She scooped up her skirts and squatted over the commode. The sound of her water hitting the commode was loud in the room, drowning out the dripping footsteps from the eaves.

She sighed in relief.

Something creaked outside the bedroom door. Abigail froze, her stream still trickling into the tin commode. Flickering light crept under the door. Someone stood in the hallway. She remembered Sir Alistair’s horribly scarred face. He’d been so tall—taller, even, than the duke. What if he’d decided to toss them from his castle?

Or worse?

Abigail held her breath, waiting, her thighs burning from crouching over the commode, her bottom growing cold in the night air. Outside the door, someone hawked—a long, scratching, liquid gurgle that turned Abigail’s stomach—and spat. Then boots scraped against the floor as he moved away.

She waited until she could no longer hear the footsteps, and then she leapt up from the commode. She shoved it away and scrambled into the bed, yanking the covers over her and Jamie’s head.

“Wassit?” Jamie muttered, slumping against her again.

“Shh!” Abigail hissed.

She held her breath, but all she heard was the sucking sounds Jamie made as he jammed his thumb into his mouth. He wasn’t supposed to do that anymore, but Miss Cummings wasn’t here to scold him. Abigail wrapped her arms tightly around her little brother.

Mama had said that they’d had to leave London. That they could no longer stay in their tall town house with Miss Cummings and the other servants she’d known all her life. That they had to leave pretty dresses and picture books and lovely sponge cake with lemon curd behind. Leave everything Abigail knew, in fact. But surely Mama hadn’t realized how awful this castle would be? How dark and dirty the halls or how scary the master? And if the duke knew how terrible this place was, wouldn’t he let them come home?

Wouldn’t he?

Abigail lay in the dark listening to the little man climbing the walls and wished she were safe at home in London.

HELEN WOKE THE next morning to the sun shining dimly through the window. She’d made sure to pull the curtains the night before so they wouldn’t sleep past first light. If one could call a single feeble ray struggling through a grimy windowpane first light. Helen sighed and scrubbed at the pane with a corner of the curtain, but she only managed to make the dust swirl greasily on the glass.

“This is the dirtiest place I’ve ever seen,” Abigail observed critically as she watched her brother.

There were several stuffed chairs crowded into the far end of the room, as if a long-ago chatelaine had stored them there and then forgotten them. Jamie was leaping from chair to chair. Each time he landed, a small cloud of dust puffed from the cushion. Already a film of dirt covered his little face.

Oh, God, how was she to do this? The castle was filthy, its master a nasty, rude beast of a man, and she hadn’t a clue what to do first.

But then, it wasn’t as if she had any choice. Helen had known what kind of man the Duke of Lister was when she left him. The kind who didn’t let go of anything that belonged to him. He may not have lain with her for years, and he may’ve taken other mistresses in that time, but Lister still considered her his mistress. His possession. And the children were his possessions as well. He had fathered them. Never mind that he’d hardly said two words to the children over the years or that he’d never formally acknowledged them.

Lister kept what was his. Had he any suspicion that she was going to flee with Abigail and Jamie, he would’ve taken them from her; she had no doubt at all. Once, nearly eight years ago, when Abigail was only an infant, Helen had talked about leaving him. She’d returned to her town house from an afternoon’s shopping expedition to find Abigail gone and the nursemaid in tears. Lister had kept the baby until the next morning—a night that still haunted Helen in her dreams. By the time he’d come to her door in the morning, Helen had been nearly ill with worry. And Lister? He’d sauntered in, the baby on his arm, and explained quite clearly that if she hoped to keep her daughter by her side, she must resign herself to their relationship. She was his, and nothing and no one could alter that.