“I am!” Jamie exclaimed at once.
“Excellent.” Miss Munroe beamed at Jamie.
“What shall I do with Puddles?” Abigail looked down at the sleeping puppy in her arms.
“We need to think of a better name for that dog,” Miss McDonald muttered.
“Has he a bed in the kitchen?” Miss Munroe asked.
“We’ve found an old coal box,” Jamie replied.
“Mmm. Best line it with some straw and a blanket if you have it,” Miss Munroe said.
“I’ll go look in the stables,” Abigail said.
“Good girl,” Miss Munroe said. “We’ll save a muffin for you in the sitting room.”
The others went inside the castle while Abigail continued around the side to the stables.
“Maybe we can find an old blanket or coat for you,” she whispered to the sleeping puppy in her arms. Puddles’s soft ear twitched as if he heard her even in his sleep.
The stables were dark compared to the sunshine outside. She stood quietly inside the door for a moment, letting her eyes get used to the dimness. There were several empty stalls at this end. Abigail started down the main aisle. Sir Alistair’s big horse, Griffin, and the little dogcart pony were stabled at the other end. That was probably where she’d find fresh straw. She heard a snort and the thump of a hoof as she neared the far end of the stable, and then she heard something else. A man muttering.
Abigail stopped. Puddles squirmed as she squeezed him too tightly to her chest. The horse snorted again, and then Mr. Wiggins backed out into the aisle from a stall, holding something in his arms. Abigail tensed to run, but before she could do so, the little man whirled and saw her.
“What’re you doin’?” he growled low. “Spyin’ on me? Are ye spyin’ on me?”
And she saw that the thing in his arms was a big silver platter. Abigail shook her head and stepped back, helplessly staring at the platter.
Mr. Wiggins’s eyes narrowed to evil slits. “You tell anyone—hisself included—and I’ll slit your throat, ye hear? I’ll slit your throat and your Mam’s and your wee little brother’s, too, ye hear me?”
Abigail could only nod frantically.
He took a step toward her, and suddenly her legs worked again. She turned and fled down the aisle of the stables, running as fast as she could. But behind her she could still hear Mr. Wiggins shout.
“Don’t you tell! You hear me? Don’t you tell!”
LISTER STARED MOODILY out his study window. “I should go north myself.”
Behind him, Henderson sighed. “Your Grace, it’s only been a few days. I doubt the men we sent have even reached Edinburgh yet.”
Lister swung on his secretary. “And by the time they do and send word, she’ll have had plenty of time to flee overseas.”
“We’ve done everything we can.”
“Which is why I should go north myself.”
“But, Your Grace…” Henderson seemed to search for words. “She’s only a demimondaine. I had not thought our emotions were this engaged.”
“She is mine and she left me.” Lister stared hard at the secretary. “She defied me. No one defies me.”
“Naturally not, Your Grace.”
“I’ve decided.” Lister went back to the window. “Make the arrangements. I leave for Scotland on the morrow.”
Chapter Ten
The next evening, Truth Teller again loosed the swallows, and once again the beautiful young man pursued them out of the courtyard. Truth Teller stood and watched as the sun set and the monster took the form of the fair princess.
Then he asked, “How has this been done to you?”
The lady sighed sadly. “The man you serve is a powerful sorcerer. He saw me one day as I rode in the forest with my court. That night he came to my father’s castle and demanded my hand in marriage. I refused him, for the sorcerer is an evil man and I wanted nothing to do with him. But the sorcerer became enraged. He stole me from my father’s house and brought me here. He put a spell on me so that by day I am that repulsive beast. Only by night am I myself again. Go now so that he does not find you talking to me.”
And again Truth Teller was forced to depart. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
The letter from France came late that afternoon. Alistair was so distracted by what had happened earlier with Helen and what might happen later that night with her that he nearly didn’t notice it among the papers the footman brought up. He subscribed to several journals and news sheets from London, Birmingham, and Edinburgh, and they had a tendency to arrive all at once in the week. But at the bottom of the pile lay a very battered missive, looking as if it had come by way of the Horn of Africa, which, considering England’s present relations with France, was entirely possible.
Alistair took up the letter and slit it open with a sharp knife he’d earlier used to dissect a meadow vole. He read the letter, pausing to carefully reread several passages, and then tossed it onto his crowded desk. He got up to pace restlessly to the windows and gaze out. Etienne phrased his words with circumspection, but his message was clear. He’d heard rumors from those in the French government that there had indeed been an English spy who’d given away the position of the 28th Regiment of Foot, leading to the slaughter at Spinner’s Falls. What was more, the rumors specified that the spy was a titled Englishman. Alistair drummed his fingers restlessly on the windowsill. That was new information.
Etienne wrote that he could commit no more to paper but that he could speak to Alistair in person. Even now, he was preparing to set sail on a ship that would dock in London in a fortnight’s time. If Alistair wished to meet the ship, Etienne could give more specific information at that time.
Alistair traced the scars on the left side of his face. To finally know that this was done apurpose by someone made his chest swell with a cold and determined rage. It made no logical sense. Catching a traitor wouldn’t heal his face. But even knowing it was illogical couldn’t stop the beast within. By God he wanted the Spinner’s Falls traitor to pay.
A knock came at the tower door, and he turned absently. “Yes?”
“Dinner is served, sir,” one of the maids called before clattering back down the stairs.
Alistair walked to his table and picked up Etienne’s letter. He stared at it a moment, muttered a curse, folded it, and stuck it in an already full drawer. He needed to think on this before he moved, perhaps inform Vale of the new information, but for now dinner awaited him.
As he neared the dining room, he could already hear Jamie’s high tones as he made some comment about fish. The mere sound sent his mouth to curving. Strange how the sound of a child’s voice—something that would’ve irritated him a fortnight ago—now made him smile. Was he really so mercurial? The thought made him uneasy, and he pushed it away. Why think about the future when the present held much better delights?
When he walked into the dining room, he found that the others had all sat down. Helen had unaccountably taken a seat as far away as possible from his own chair at the head of the table. She was pointedly not looking at him, and a faint flush tinged her cheeks. She would never be a great liar, and he had the contrary urge to kiss her right then and there in front of his sister and Helen’s children. Instead he strode to his own seat, avoiding Sophia’s speculative gaze, and sat. Sophia was to his right tonight with Miss McDonald on her other side. Jamie sat for some unknown reason to his left. Abigail sat on the far side of her brother, looking oddly subdued. Her mother was on the other side of Abigail, far enough away that he’d practically have to hoist a flag to communicate with her.
One of the footmen brought in a steaming platter of fish.
“Ah, lovely,” Alistair said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He’d not had fresh trout for several months, despite it being a favorite of his. “Here’s a nice big fish for you.” He forked up the largest of the trout and deposited it on Jamie’s plate.
“Thank you,” Jamie droned, his chin sinking onto his thin little chest as he sta
red at the fish on his plate.
Miss McDonald coughed into her napkin.
Alistair raised his eyebrows at his sister. “Something the matter?”
“No, nothing,” Sophia said, frowning at her companion. “But perhaps Jamie would prefer just a wee bit of fish to begin with.”
Alistair looked at Jamie. “Is that so?”
The boy nodded miserably.
“Then I shall eat your fish and you shall have my empty plate,” Alistair said, switching the plates. “Have some of the bread instead.”
Jamie perked up visibly at the suggestion.
“Bring in some marmalade or jam,” Alistair instructed the footman sotto voce. “What about you, Abigail? Do you care for fish?”
“Yes,” she whispered, and she did take a fish when the platter was offered, but then she merely poked it with a fork.
Alistair exchanged a glance with Helen. Helen shook her head, looking baffled.
Perhaps the chit was feeling unwell. Alistair frowned and sipped his wine. There was a surgeon in Glenlargo, but the man was more bloodletter than healer, and Alistair wouldn’t trust himself with the man, let alone a child. In fact, the nearest good doctor might not be any closer than Edinburgh. If Abigail was truly ill, he’d have to take her there himself. Childhood illnesses could be so debilitating—and so often fatal. Damn. Perhaps he shouldn’t have woken the children so early this morning. Had the stream been too cold? Had Abigail overexcited herself? It’d always struck him as a singularly silly theory that females could excite themselves into illness, but now, with a small female child under his roof, he realized how very inadequate his knowledge of children was.
“Are you ill?” he asked Abigail, perhaps a little sharply, as both Helen and Sophia turned to look at him.
But the child merely blinked and shook her head.
Alistair snapped his fingers at the footman. “Bring in a very small glass of wine, please.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman left the room, but Alistair never took his eye from Abigail.
Sophia cleared her throat. “We saw a hawk and two rabbits on our ramble, but no badgers. Are you sure that there is a sett nearby?”
“Yes,” Alistair said absently. Was Abigail paler than normal? She was such a fair-complexioned child to begin with; it was hard to tell.
“Well, we’ll have to wait for our next visit to look for it again.” Sophia sighed.
He glanced at her in surprise. “What?”
The footman returned with the glass of wine, and Alistair indicated the girl. She stared in surprise at the tiny glass filled with ruby liquid.
“Have some of that,” he said gruffly. “It’ll fortify your blood.” He turned and scowled at his sister. “What do you mean? Are you leaving so soon?”
“Early tomorrow,” his sister confirmed.
“Sophie has a meeting of the Edinburgh Philosophical Society tomorrow,” Miss McDonald said. “Mr. William Watson has traveled from London especially to demonstrate his Leyden electrical jar. If we are lucky, we’ll be able to experience the phenomenon of electricity ourselves.”
“Watson says that if a dozen people stand in a circle with linked hands, the electrical ether will travel around the circle equally,” Sophia said. “Sounds preposterous to me, but if it does happen, I don’t want to be the one to miss out.”
“But you just got here,” Alistair growled. When Sophia and Miss McDonald had first arrived, he’d been annoyed, but now he felt unaccountably put out at their sudden defection.
“You can always come with us, brother.” Sophia raised her eyebrows in challenge behind her spectacles.
Abigail suddenly grew very still.
“I think not,” Alistair muttered, eyeing the child. What ailed her?
“But you can at least come visit us next Christmas,” Miss McDonald ventured.
Alistair didn’t reply. Christmas was a long way away. He glanced at Helen, who inexplicably blushed. Why plan for the future when it held no joy for him? Better to stay here and enjoy Helen while she let him. His lonely dreary future could wait.
THAT NIGHT, HELEN found herself sneaking up the castle stairs like a thief. Or a woman intent on an assignation, which, as it happened, she was. It had seemed to take hours for the children to fall asleep, even after she’d read them all four of the fairy tales. Abigail in particular had tossed and turned. She’d also insisted on taking the puppy into bed with her and her brother, and nothing Helen said would dissuade her. When she’d fallen asleep, she’d been hugging the little animal to her cheek. Fortunately, the puppy hadn’t seemed to mind.
Helen frowned now as she tiptoed down the dark upper corridor. She’d thought that Abigail was beginning to relax at the castle. She’d seemed so happy that morning fishing. But now she was more morose than ever. The frustrating thing she’d learned about her daughter over the years was that it was no good badgering her to tell her what was the matter. Abigail needed to take her own time to reveal what was troubling her. Of course, that didn’t mitigate the motherly guilt Helen felt at not knowing what was bothering her child.
Sometimes she’d watched other little girls, pretty, carefree, talkative little girls, and wondered why her own child was so moody and sensitive. And then she would look into Abigail’s pale, worried little face and a wave of love would wash over her. This was her daughter, difficult or not. She could no more stop loving her than cut off her own arm.
Helen paused outside Alistair’s room.
Love—physical and emotional—had been her life’s downfall. Was she merely letting herself sink back into debauchery by seeking Alistair out? She knew most would certainly think so. But there was a fundamental difference between what she intended to do with Alistair and what she’d had with Lister. She’d never been in control with Lister. He’d been the one to set the pace, to make all the decisions. However arrogant and surly Alistair might seem, he wasn’t making any decisions for her.
This was her choice and hers alone.
Taking a deep breath, she gently knocked at the door. Silence. She fidgeted, rubbing one cold slippered foot over the other. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he wasn’t even here. Perhaps he’d gone to his tower for the night or forgotten her promise this afternoon or changed his mind. Good Lord! How embarrassing if—
The door suddenly swung open, and Alistair grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside his room.
She gave a startled squeak.
“Shh!” He frowned down at her even as he untied her wrapper.
The room was dim; only a few candles were lit, and the fire had died to embers. Alistair wore a blue and black striped banyan that was frayed about the cuffs. His dark hair was down, and she noticed that his cheeks were damp.
He’d shaved for her.
The realization sent a shiver of delight through her middle. She stood on tiptoe to run her fingers through his hair and found it just a little wet. He’d bathed for her as well.
“I love your hair,” she murmured.
He blinked. “You do?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s…” He frowned as if unable to think of what to say.
“And I love your throat.” She pressed a kiss right there, feeling the beat of his pulse beneath her lips. He wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath the banyan, and his chest was delightfully available.
“Would you, ah, like some wine?” he asked. His voice had deepened as she trailed kisses down the loose V of the banyan.
“No.”
“Ah.” He quickly stooped and picked her up in his arms. “Just as well, I suppose. I don’t want any, either.”
He took three giant strides and deposited her on his great bed. She sank a little, and then he made the bed dip more by setting his knee on the mattress.
She sat up and placed a restraining palm on his chest. “Take this off.”
His brows shot up.
“Please,” she said sweetly.
He huffed but rolled off the bed to discard the b
anyan. And there was his chest, as lovely as she remembered it. Broad and strong and hairy, but this time was better than the last time she’d glimpsed his chest—the night he’d brought home Puddles—because this time she could touch it as well.
And she intended to.
When he made to mount the bed again, she shook her head at him.
He paused. “No?”
She flicked her fingers imperiously at his lower anatomy. “The breeches as well, please.”
That made him scowl.
So she simply removed her wrap. Underneath she wore her chemise. She let her shoulder drop, and the sleeve slid down.
He stared hard at her half-revealed breast and hastily removed his breeches. He paused, his fingers at the waist of his smallclothes, to look at her.
She arched an eyebrow and slowly pulled the ribbon on the neckline of her chemise. The neck opened, fully revealing that one breast.
He inhaled and shucked his smallclothes, stockings, and shoes. Then he straightened, nude and gloriously engorged.
Helen swallowed, staring at that part of his anatomy. It was just as well that she hadn’t gotten a full view this afternoon, because he was larger than Lister—considerably larger. His penis stood proudly erect, magnificent veins vining about the shaft, the head gleaming and almost purple. Below, his balls were tight and heavy between muscled thighs.
She sighed.
He cleared his throat. “I believe it’s your turn.”
“Oh!” She’d quite forgot the game they’d been playing. She hastily knelt on the bed and drew her chemise over her head.
His gaze immediately dropped to her chest, and a wicked smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “There they are.”
She glanced down at herself. “Are you referring to my bosom?”
He strolled forward and placed a knee on the bed. “I am.”
She frowned a little. “You sound rather… possessive.”
“Indeed.” He leaned down and licked a nipple, making her inhale sharply. “You have the most splendid breasts I have ever seen.”
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