To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(7)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

Then she opened her lush mouth and said, “You can afford a tin teapot, can’t you?”

Lady Grey sighed and turned back to the warmth of the fire.

“Aye, I can afford a tin teapot!” He closed his eye a moment, irritated that he’d let her draw him into her babble. Then he looked at her and took a breath. “But you’ll be leaving just as soon as I can—”

“Nonsense.”

“What did you say?” he rasped very gently.

She raised her impertinent chin. “I said nonsense. You obviously need me. Did you know that you have hardly any food in the castle? Well, of course you know, but really it will not do. It will not do at all. I shall do some shopping as well when I go to the village for the teapot.”

“I don’t need—”

“I do hope you don’t expect us to live on oats and streaky bacon?” She set her hands on her hips and glared at him in an entirely becoming manner.

He frowned. “Of course I—”

“And the children need some fresh vegetables. I expect you do as well.”

“Don’t you—”

“I’ll go to the village this afternoon, shall I?”

“Mrs. Halifax—”

“And that teapot, do you prefer ceramic or tin?”

“Ceramic, but—”

He was talking to an empty room. She’d already closed the door gently behind her.

Alistair stared at the door. He’d never been so completely routed in all his life—and by a pretty little slip of a woman he’d thought half-witted the night before.

Lady Grey had raised her head at Mrs. Halifax’s exit. Now she lay it back down on her paws and seemed to give him a pitying look.

“At least I got to choose the teapot,” Alistair muttered defensively.

Lady Grey groaned and turned over.

HELEN CLOSED THE tower door behind her and then couldn’t resist a small grin. Ha! She’d definitely won that round with Sir Beastly. She hurried down the tower stairs before he could come to the door and call her back. The stairs were old stone, worn and shallow, and the walls of the tower were bare stone as well until she came to a door at the bottom of the stairs. This led to a narrow hall that was dim and musty but at least paneled and carpeted.

She hoped that Sir Alistair’s breakfast wasn’t too cold, but if it was, it was his own fault. It’d taken her a while to find him this morning. She’d been all over the gloomy upper floors of the castle until it had finally occurred to her that she should try the towers. She should’ve thought he’d be lurking in an old tower like something out of a tale meant to terrify children. She’d braced herself before opening the door so that she wouldn’t react to his appearance. Fortunately, he’d worn an eye patch this morning. But he still let his black hair hang around his shoulders, and she didn’t think he’d shaved in a week or more. His jaw had been quite shadowed with stubble. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if he kept it that way to intimidate people.

And then there had been his hand.

Helen paused at the memory. She hadn’t noticed his hand last night, but this morning when she’d opened the door to the tower, he’d been holding a sheet of paper between his middle two fingers and thumb. His forefinger and little finger were missing on his right hand. What caused such a horrible mutilation? Had he been in some accident? And had this terrible accident also scarred his face and cost his eye? If so, he wouldn’t welcome her pity or even sympathy.

She bit her lip at the thought. Her last sight of Sir Alistair gave her a twinge of remorse. He’d been surly and unkempt. Rude and sarcastic. Everything she’d expected after the night before. But there was something else. He’d sat at that huge table, barricaded behind his books and papers and mess and he’d looked . . .

Lonely.

Helen blinked, gazing around the dim little passageway. Well, that was just silly. He’d make a terribly cutting remark if she told him her impression of him. She’d never met a man less likely to take kindly to the concern of another human being. And yet, there it was: He’d seemed lonely to her. He lived all alone, far from civilization in this great dirty castle, his only company a big dog. Could anyone, even a man who seemed to dislike people, be truly happy in such a circumstance?

She shook her head and began marching toward the kitchen again. There was no place in her life at the moment for such sentimental thoughts. She couldn’t afford to be swayed by soft emotions. She’d done that once and look where it’d gotten her—fleeing in fear with her children. No, better to be pragmatic about the castle and its master. She had Abigail and Jamie to consider.

Helen rounded the corner and heard shouting from the castle kitchen. Good Lord! What if a tramp or some other villain had invaded the kitchen? Abigail and Jamie were in there alone! She picked up her skirts and ran the rest of the way, bursting into the kitchen quite out of breath.

The sight that met her didn’t do anything to calm her fears. A stubby little man was waving his arms and shouting at the children, who were arrayed before him. Abigail held an iron skillet in both hands, resolute, though her face was pale. Behind his sister, Jamie hopped from one foot to the other, his eyes wide and excited.

“—all of you! Thieves and murderers, a-stealin’ into places you don’t belong! Hangin’s too good for you!”

“Out!” Helen bellowed. She advanced on the creature haranguing her children. “Out, I say!”

The little man jumped and whirled at the sound of her voice. He wore a greasy waistcoat over too-big breeches and patched stockings. His hair was a graying ginger, and it stood out in a frizzy cloud on either side of his head.

He had bulging eyes, but he narrowed them at the sight of her. “Who’re you?”

Helen drew herself up. “I am Mrs. Halifax, Sir Alistair’s housekeeper. Now, you must remove yourself from this kitchen, or I shall be forced to call Sir Alistair himself.”

The little man gaped. “Dinna talk nonsense, woman. Sir Alistair doesn’t have a housekeeper. I’m his man. I’d know if he had one!”

For a moment, Helen stared at the repulsive creature, nonplussed. She’d begun to think Sir Alistair hadn’t any help at all. Indeed, that prospect, dim as it had been, was preferable to the nasty manservant in front of her.

“What is your name?” she finally asked.

The little man threw out his thin chest. “Wiggins.”

Helen nodded and folded her arms. The one thing she’d learned in her years in London was not to show fear before bullies. “Well, then, Mr. Wiggins, Sir Alistair may not’ve had a housekeeper in the past, but he has one now, and I am she.”