To Beguile a Beast

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Abigail nodded and took a deep breath. “I woke up, but you and Jamie were asleep, so I took Puddles downstairs. I went with him outside so he could do his business, but then I saw Mr. Wiggins, and I ran back inside with Puddles and we hid.”

  She paused, and Helen set down the brush to divide the long flaxen hair into three parts. “And then?”

  “Mr. Wiggins came in the room,” Abigail said softly. “He… he shouted at me. He said I was spying on him.”

  Helen’s brows knit. “Why would he think that?”

  “I don’t know,” Abigail said evasively.

  Helen decided to let it drop. “Then what happened?”

  “And… and I cried. I didn’t want to—I tried not to, but I couldn’t seem to help myself,” she confessed miserably. “I hated crying in front of him.”

  Helen’s mouth tightened, and she concentrated on braiding Abigail’s hair. For a brief, fierce moment, she wished that Alistair had killed Mr. Wiggins.

  “Then Sir Alistair came in,” Abigail continued, “and he saw me and he saw Mr. Wiggins, and, Mama, he moved so fast! He took Mr. Wiggins by the neck and dragged him from the room, and I didn’t even know what was happening until I went into the hall, and then you and Jamie and Miss Munroe were there, and you told Sir Alistair that he must stop.” She took a deep breath at the end of this recitation.

  Helen was silent a moment, thinking. She finished the braid and set aside the brush.

  “Hold the pins,” she murmured, “while I do your crown.”

  She placed the hairpins in Abigail’s hand and began wrapping the braid high across her daughter’s head.

  “Thank you, darling.” She accepted a hairpin from Abigail and placed it carefully in the braid to anchor it. “I was wondering if anything else happened in the room where you hid with Puddles?”

  Abigail held very still while she did her coiffure, but her eyes were lowered to the pins in her hand.

  Helen’s heart missed a beat. Something seemed to be clogging her throat, and she had to clear it before going on. “Did Mr. Wiggins touch you at all?”

  Abigail blinked and looked up, her eyes puzzled. “Touch me?”

  Oh, God. Helen made her voice casual. “Did he put his hand on you, sweeting? Or… or try to kiss you?”

  “Ewww!” Abigail’s face screwed into a mask of appalled disgust. “No, Mama! He didn’t want to kiss me—he wanted to beat me.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.” Abigail looked away. “He said that he was going to, but then Sir Alistair came in and dragged him out.”

  The clog in her throat was abruptly gone. Helen swallowed and asked, to be completely sure, “Then he didn’t touch you at all?”

  “No, I told you. Sir Alistair came in before Mr. Wiggins could come near me. I don’t think he would want to kiss me when he was so angry, anyway.”

  Abigail looked at her as if she was rather dim.

  And Helen had never been so glad in all her life to be thought stupid. She placed the last pin, turned Abigail around to face her, and hugged her, careful not to squeeze as tightly as she really wanted.

  “Well, I’m glad that Sir Alistair came in when he did. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Mr. Wiggins again.”

  Abigail squirmed. “Can I look in the mirror?”

  “Of course.” Helen opened her arms and set her daughter free. Abigail ran to an old mirror over the dresser. She stood on tiptoe, turning her head first one way and then the other to see her crown of braided hair.

  “I’m hungry,” Jamie announced, bouncing off the bed.

  Helen nodded briskly and rose. “Let me dress and we’ll see what Mrs. McCleod has for breakfast.”

  She began her toilet with a considerably lighter heart, though a small part of her brain pondered over Abigail’s evasion. If Mr. Wiggins wanted to beat the girl, what was she hiding?

  “WE HAVE GOT to find a name for that dog,” Sir Alistair muttered to no one in particular later that afternoon. He hitched his old satchel over his shoulder.

  He’d paused at the crest of a small hill to watch Jamie and Abigail roll down the other side. Jamie threw himself to the ground and rolled with complete abandon, oblivious both to possible obstacles and the direction his little body rocketed in. Abigail, in contrast, carefully tucked her skirts about her legs before lying down, her arms over her head, and slowly rolled in a straight line down the hill.

  “You don’t like the name Puddles?” Helen asked. She’d tilted her face to the breeze and looked quite angelic.

  Nonetheless, he shot her a dark look. “The animal will die of humiliation once it’s old enough to understand its name.”

  She looked doubtfully at him. “Understand its name?”

  He ignored the look. “A dog—especially a male dog—needs a dignified name.”

  They both watched as the puppy, running excitedly down the hill after the children, tripped on its big paws and rolled to the bottom in a heap of long ears and muddy fur. The dog got up, shook itself, and started back up the hill again.

  Alistair winced. “This dog in particular needs a dignified name.”

  Helen giggled.

  He felt his mouth twisting in a reluctant smile. It was a lovely day, after all, and she and the children were safe. For the present, it was enough that Wiggins hadn’t touched Abigail with lecherous intent but had merely scared the wits out of her. When Helen had told him, shortly before they’d sat for breakfast, he’d felt an awful weight lift from his chest.

  Sophia, who’d also been part of the whispered conversation, had merely nodded and muttered, “Good,” before tucking into the porridge, bacon, and eggs that Mrs. McCleod had prepared. Shortly thereafter, she and Miss McDonald had departed for Edinburgh. He’d watched the carriage disappear down his drive with mixed feelings. He’d enjoyed sparring with his sister—he’d forgotten how much he liked her company—but he was glad to have the castle to himself and Helen again. Sophia’s eyes were far, far too perceptive.

  He’d spent the remainder of the morning in productive work, but during luncheon, Jamie had spoken rather wistfully about the badgers they’d been unable to find the day before. That had led to a suggestion of an afternoon ramble, and now Alistair found himself derelict from his work and hiking the countryside.

  “You did say that you’d let the children name him,” Helen said now.

  “Aye, but I also specified that Puddles was not a name.”

  “Hmm.” Her lips twitched and then firmed. “I haven’t thanked you for this morning.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “There’s no need.”

  At the bottom of the hill, Abigail got carefully to her feet and shook out her skirts. Miraculously, she had no grass stains on them, though she’d gone down the hill multiple times now.

  Helen was silent beside him a moment, and then she stepped closer and took his hand, the action hidden by her skirts. “I am so glad that you were there to protect her.”

  He glanced at her.

  She was watching Abigail with a wistful look in her eye. “She’s very special, you know, not at all what I expected in a daughter, but then I suppose we must all accept what God grants us.”

  He hesitated a moment. It really wasn’t any of his business, but then he said gruffly, “She fears that she doesn’t meet with your approval.”

  “My approval?” She looked at him, puzzled. “Abigail told you that?”

  He nodded.

  She sighed. “I love her terribly—of course I do; she’s my daughter—but I’ve never understood her. She has these moods, so dark for one so young. It’s not that I disapprove of her; it’s that I wish I knew how to make her happy.”

  “Perhaps you don’t need to.”

  She shook her head. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “I’m no authority, but perhaps there’s no need to try and ‘make’ her happy. After all, that chore is ultimately one that will lead to defeat. No one can make Abigail happy but herself. Per
haps you need only love her.” He looked down into her sad harebell-blue eyes. “And you already do.”

  “Yes.” Her eyes widened. “Yes, I do.”

  He looked away again and felt the squeeze of her fingers before she dropped her hand.

  “Come, children,” she called, and started down the hill.

  He watched her, her skirts swaying as she descended the hill, her hips moving in a smooth seductive rhythm, a lock of pale gold hair blowing from beneath the wide brim of her hat. He blinked as if waking from a dream and followed those slowly swaying hips.

  “Where’re the badgers?” Jamie asked. The boy caught his hand, seemingly without thinking.

  Alistair tilted his chin forward. “Just over the hill there.”

  They were surrounded by gently rolling hills covered in low gorse and heather, the horizon clear as far as the eye could see. Farther to the west, a flock of sheep grazed like dots of down on the green and purple hills.

  “But we went that way yesterday,” Abigail objected. “Miss Munroe couldn’t find the badgers anywhere.”

  “Ah, but that’s because she doesn’t know where to look.”

  Abigail gave him a dubious glance, and he was hard-pressed not to smile at her doubt.

  “Puddles doesn’t want to walk anymore,” Jamie announced.

  “How do you know?” Abigail frowned at the puppy, who, as far as Alistair could see, looked perfectly able to walk.

  “I just do,” Jamie retorted. He scooped the puppy into his arms. “Oof. He’s gotten big.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes. “That’s because you gave him the rest of your porridge this morning.”

  Jamie started to say something rather heatedly, but Alistair cleared his throat. “I found a puddle in the kitchen this morning that I suspect Puddles may have made. Mind you take him outside for his business, children.”

  “We will,” Abigail said.

  “Have you thought of a name for him? He can’t be Puddles for the rest of his life.”

  “Well, I thought of George, in honor of the king, but Jamie doesn’t like it.”

  “It’s a silly name,” Jamie muttered.

  “And what is your proposition?” Alistair asked.

  “Spot,” Jamie said.

  “Ah, well, that’s—”

  “Stu-pid!” Abigail interjected. “Besides, he’s more splotchy than spotty, and Splotch would be an even sillier name.”

  “Abigail,” Helen said. “Please apologize to Sir Alistair for interrupting him. A lady never interrupts a gentleman.”

  Alistair’s eyebrows shot up at this piece of information. He took two long steps, catching up with her and bending his head near hers. “Never?”

  “Not unless the gentleman is being extremely stubborn,” she replied serenely.

  “Ah.”

  “I’m sorry,” Abigail muttered.

  Alistair nodded. “Hold the puppy tight, now.”

  “Why?” Jamie looked up.

  “Because the badger sett is right over there.” Alistair pointed with his walking stick. The badgers lived in a low mound, covered in gorse. “See the freshly dug earth? That’s one of the tunnels.”

  “Ohhh.” Jamie squatted to look. “Will we see one?”

  “Probably not. They’re rather shy, but they can kill a dog, especially a small one, if they’re challenged.”

  Jamie hugged Puddles to his chest until the puppy squeaked, and whispered hoarsely, “Where do you think they are?”

  Alistair shrugged. “Perhaps in their den asleep. Maybe out hunting grubs.”

  “Grubs?” Jamie wrinkled his nose.

  He nodded. “That’s what they seem to like.”

  “Look at this!” Abigail very carefully squatted with her skirts tucked under her rear.

  Alistair went to where she pointed and saw a small black mound. “Oh, well done! You found a badger’s scat.”

  Behind him, Helen made a muffled sound, but he ignored her. He squatted next to Abigail and, taking a twig, poked at the mostly dry scat. “Notice these.”

  He scraped out a couple black flakes.

  Abigail peered closer. “What are they?”

  “The carapace of a beetle.” He shrugged off his satchel and opened a pocket, rummaging until he found a very small glass jar. He picked up the beetle parts and dropped them in the jar, stopping the top with a tiny cork.

  “What’s a carapace?” Jamie asked. He was squatting now, too, breathing anxiously through his mouth.

  “The hard outer shell.” Alistair poked some more and found a thin, pale bone.

  “Oh, what animal is that from?” Abigail asked with interest.

  “I’m not sure.” The bone was only a fragment. He held it up before placing it in another small glass jar. “Possibly a small mammal such as a mouse or mole.”

  “Huh,” Abigail said, and straightened. “Are there other clues to the badgers that we might find about?”

  “Sometimes there is debris in the earth dug up by the badger.” Alistair picked up his specimen satchel and strolled closer to the burrow hole. A movement in the dark depths made him stop and catch Abigail’s shoulder. “Look.”

  “A baby!” Abigail breathed.

  “Where? Where?” Jamie whispered loudly.

  “See there?” Alistair bent his head near the boy’s and pointed the direction.

  “Coo!”

  A small black and white striped face peered from the burrow with another jostling for position behind it. The badgers froze, staring for a moment, and then abruptly disappeared.

  “Oh, that was nice.” Helen’s voice came from behind them. Alistair turned to find her smiling at him. “Better anyway than the scat, I think. What shall we search for now?”

  And she looked at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world to spend an afternoon with him. To share her children with him.

  He shuddered and abruptly turned in the direction of Castle Greaves. “Nothing. I have work to do.”

  He strode away, not waiting for Helen or the children, aware that his movement looked like he was fleeing from them, when what he fled from was far more dangerous: hope for the future.

  AFTER THE WAY Alistair had so rudely cut short their afternoon ramble, Helen had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t go to him again. Yet as the hour struck midnight, she found herself stealing through the dim castle halls toward his room. She knew she was playing with a particularly hot fire, knew she was risking both herself and her children, and yet she couldn’t seem to stay away from him. Maybe, some rash, perpetually hopeful part of her whispered, maybe he’ll open himself to you. Maybe he’ll grow to love you. Maybe he’ll want you for his wife.

  Silly, childish whispers. She’d spent half her life with a man who’d never truly cared for her, and there was a practical, hard part of her that knew when this thing with Alistair ended, she would have to leave with her children.

  But it wouldn’t be tonight.

  Helen hesitated outside his door, but somehow he must’ve heard her, though she hadn’t knocked. He opened the door, grabbed her arm, and drew her inside.

  “Good evening,” she began, but he swallowed the last word with his mouth. His lips were hot and so demanding they were nearly desperate. She forgot everything around her.

  Then he raised his head and pulled her toward the bed. “I have something to show you.”

  She blinked. “What is it?”

  “Sit.” He didn’t wait for her to comply but turned to rummage in the drawer of his bedside table. “Ah. Here it is.”

  He held up a small lemon, no bigger than the tip of his thumb.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “I had Mrs. McCleod purchase it last time she bought groceries. I thought…” He cleared his throat. “Well, I thought you might wish to use a preventative.”

  “A preventative for… oh.” She felt heat invade her cheeks. Actually, since she was newly over her courses, she’d figured that she wasn’t fertile at the present mom
ent. But since this was now her third assignation with Alistair, she supposed she would’ve shortly have had to worry about preventing a pregnancy. It was oddly touching that he’d thought—and acted—on the worry first.

  “I’ve never… um, that is…” She belatedly remembered that she was supposed to be a respectable widow. Presumably she’d never have heard of preventatives, if so. In fact, the duke sometimes had used specially made sheaths, although not usually.

  Alistair’s cheekbones had tinged a dark red as well. “I can show you. Just lean back.”

  She realized what he meant to do and wanted to object. It was one thing to let him see her when they were intimate, but while he was still dressed and standing, it was… unseemly.

  “Helen,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, all right.” She lowered herself to the bed and stared at the ceiling. She lay horizontally across the bed, her legs hanging over the side.

  She felt him push up the skirts of her wrap and chemise, the slide of silk against her flesh a soft whisper in the quiet room. He bunched the fabric at her waist, and then his hands left her. She heard him rummage in the side table again and then she smelled the sharp scent of citrus. She craned her head up and saw him holding the halved lemon. His eyes met hers, and then he knelt on the carpet beside the bed. She drew in her breath. His warm hand touched her legs again, and she realized he was urging her thighs apart. She swallowed and parted her legs.

  “More,” he rasped.

  She closed her eyes. Oh, God, he was so close to her intimate parts. He’d be able to see everything. He’d be able to scent her. She bit her lip and parted her legs still farther.

  “Again,” he whispered.

  And she did, widening her legs until her thighs trembled. Until the flanges of her sex parted as well, exposing her utterly to his gaze. She felt his hand slowly stroke up her thigh.

  “When I was fifteen,” he said conversationally, “I found a book of anatomy that belonged to my father. It was most instructive, especially in regards to the female form.”

  She swallowed. His fingers were combing delicately through her hair.

  “This”—he spread his broad palm over her mound—“is called the mons veneris. The Mound of Venus.”