“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.
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, strokin
g, 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—
“Oh! My line!” Abigail shrieked.
Alistair turned and saw her pole bent nearly at a right angle, her line taut and disappearing under the water. “Hold it, Abigail!”
“What should I do?” Her eyes were as big as saucers, her face gone white.
“Just hold it steady, don’t pull.”
He was by her side now. Abigail had both feet braced on the riverbank and was arching backward using all her slim strength to keep the pole in her hands.
“Steady,” he murmured. The line was jerking through the water in circles. “He’s wearing himself out, that fish of yours. You’re bigger, stronger, and smarter, too, than the fish. All you have to do is wait him out.”
“Shouldn’t you help her?” Mrs. Halifax asked.
“She hooked the fish,” Sophia said stoutly. “She can land it, too, never you fear.”
“Aye, she can,” Alistair said quietly. “She’s a brave lass.”
Abigail’s face was set in determined concentration. The line was moving more slowly now.
“Don’t let go your hold,” Alistair said. “Sometimes one fish is a wee bit smarter than the rest of his family and pretends to be tired, only to jerk the pole from your grasp.”
“I won’t let go,” the little girl declared.
Soon the movement slowed to nearly a stop. Alistair reached out and caught the line, swiftly lifting a sparkling fish from the water.
“Oh!” Abigail breathed.
Alistair held up the fish, flopping on the end of the line. It wasn’t the biggest fish he’d ever seen, nor was it the smallest. “A very fine trout indeed. Wouldn’t you agree, Sophia?”
Sophia solemnly inspected the catch. “The finest, I declare, that I’ve seen in quite some time.”
Abigail’s cheeks tinged a faint pink, and Alistair realized she was blushing. Pretending he hadn’t noticed, he caught the fish and, kneeling, showed her how to remove the hook from its mouth.
She watched intently and then nodded as he placed her fish with the others in the basket. “I’ll do it myself next time.”
And a strange emotion welled in his chest, so foreign that it took him several seconds to identify it: pride. Pride in this prickly, determined child.
“Yes, you will,” he said, and she grinned at him.
And over her head, her mother smiled at him as if he’d handed her an emerald necklace.
Chapter Nine
Truth Teller turned to the monster’s cage, and there already lay the woman.
He walked close to the bars and asked, “Who are you?”
The woman drew herself wearily to her feet and spoke. “I am the Princess Sympathy. My father is the king of a great city to the west. I lived in halls of crystal, wore clothes woven from gold and silver, and had my slightest wish granted.”
Truth Teller frowned. “Then why—?”
�
�Hush.” The lady leaned forward. “Your master is coming. He has caught the swallows, and if he finds you talking to me, it will anger him.”
And Truth Teller had no choice but to go inside the castle, leaving the lady caged. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
By that afternoon, Helen was wishing she could take a nap. Abigail and Jamie didn’t seem at all tired from their early morning adventure. In fact, they’d eagerly accompanied Miss Munroe and Miss McDonald on an expedition to go hunting for badgers. Helen, however, was yawning as she climbed the stairs to Sir Alistair’s lair.
She hadn’t seen him since morning. He’d been closeted in his tower all this time, and she’d just about run out of patience. What had he meant by those kisses? Had he simply been playing with her? Or—awful thought!—had he lost interest after tasting her twice? The questions had nagged her since that morning until she felt she must find the answers.
Which was perhaps why she carried some tea and scones to him now.
The tower door was partially ajar, and instead of knocking, she simply leaned her shoulder against it and pushed. It opened silently. Sir Alistair sat at his accustomed table, oblivious to her presence. She stood and stared. He was drawing something, his head bent to the paper in front of him, but that wasn’t what had caught her attention.
He drew with his maimed right hand.
He held the pencil between his thumb and the two middle fingers of his right hand, the hand itself held in an awkward hook. Just looking at him, Helen’s hand ached in sympathy, but he continued to make small, precise movements. He’d obviously been using his hand thus for many years. She thought about what it must’ve been like, returning maimed from the Colonies and having to relearn how to draw. How to write. Had he been humiliated at having to practice a craft every schoolboy had mastered? Had he been frustrated?
Well, of course he’d been frustrated. Her mouth curved in a tiny smile. She knew something about Sir Alistair now. He would’ve broken pencils, torn up paper, been angered beyond bearing, and somehow he would’ve stubbornly kept at it until he could once again reproduce the fine drawings she’d seen in his book. He must’ve done so because she saw the result in front of her now—a scholar working on his manuscript.
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