To Beguile a Beast (14 page)

“Ah.” Miss Munroe sat back and stirred her tea vigorously.

Helen turned to her own tea, somewhat disconcerted. It was hard to tell whether that “ah” had been approving, disapproving, or something else entirely. After dinner they had retired to the sitting room, now cleaned—well, at least cleaner than it had been before. The maids had labored over it all afternoon and even had a fire crackling in the old stone fireplace. The stuffed animals still stared down out of rather gruesome glass eyeballs, but they no longer had trails of cobwebs hanging from their ears. That was a definite improvement.

Jamie and Abigail had stayed in the sitting room only long enough to make their good nights. When Helen had put them to bed and returned, Sir Alistair had been in discussion with Miss McDonald at the far end of the room. Miss Munroe had sat waiting by the door. If Helen was a suspicious sort, she’d wonder if Miss Munroe had been lying in wait for her.

Now she cleared her throat. “Sir Alistair said he hadn’t seen you in quite some time?”

Miss Munroe scowled over her tea. “He hides himself away here like a leper.”

“Perhaps he feels self-conscious,” Helen murmured.

She glanced to where Sir Alistair and Miss McDonald were in conversation. Instead of tea, he drank brandy from a clear glass. He tilted his head toward the older lady, listening gravely to whatever she was saying. His clubbed hair exposed his scars, but it also civilized his countenance. Studying his profile, she realized that without the scars, he was a handsome man. Had he been used to female attention before he’d been maimed? The thought disconcerted her, and she looked away from him.

Only to find Miss Munroe watching her with an inscrutable expression. “It’s more than self-consciousness.”

“What do you mean?” Helen frowned into her tea, thinking. “Abigail screamed when she first saw him.”

Miss Munroe nodded once, sharply. “Exactly. Children who don’t know him fear him. Even grown men have been known to look askance at him.”

“He doesn’t like making
others
uncomfortable.” Helen looked into Miss Munroe’s eyes, seeing a spark of approval there.

“Can you imagine?” Miss Munroe mused softly. “Having a face that made you the center of attention wherever you went? Having people stop and stare and be afraid? He can’t just be himself, can’t just fade into a crowd. Wherever he goes, he’s made aware of himself. He never has a moment of respite.”

“It would be hellish.” Helen bit her lip, a wave of unwanted sympathy washing over her, threatening to drown her good sense. “Especially for him. He’s so gruff on the outside, but on the inside I think he’s more sensitive than he likes to let on.”

“Now you begin to understand.” Miss Munroe sat back in her seat and stared broodingly at her brother. “It was actually better when he first returned from the Colonies. Oh, his wounds were fresher then, more shocking, but he hadn’t yet realized, I think. It was a year or two before he knew that it would always be like this. That he was no longer an anonymous man but a freak.”

Helen made a small sound of dissent at the harsh word.

Miss Munroe looked at her sharply. “It’s true. It does him no good to gloss over it, to pretend that the scars aren’t there or that he’s a normal man. He is what he is.” She leaned forward, her gaze so intense that Helen wanted to look away. “And I love him more for it. Do you hear me? He was a good man when he went away to the Colonies. He came back an extraordinary man. So many think that bravery is a single act of valor in a field of battle—no forethought, no contemplation of the consequences. An act over in a second or a minute or two at most. What my brother has done, is doing now, is to live with his burden for
years.
He knows that he will spend the rest of his life with it. And he soldiers on.” She sat back in her chair, her gaze still locked with Helen’s. “
That
to my mind is what real bravery is.”

Helen tore her eyes away from the other woman and stared blindly down at the teacup, her hand trembling. Earlier, in the kitchen, she’d not fully understood his burden. To tell the truth, she’d thought him a bit of a coward for hiding in his dirty castle. But now… To live an outcast to humankind for years and to understand fully that damnation—as surely such an intelligent man as Sir Alistair must—yes, that would take real fortitude. Real bravery. She’d never thought before about what Sir Alistair endured, what he would endure for the rest of his natural life.

She looked up. He still talked to Miss McDonald, his face in profile to her. His scars were all hidden from this angle. His nose was straight and long, his chin firm and somewhat pronounced. His cheek was lean, his eye heavy-lidded. He looked like a handsome, clever man. Perhaps a bit weary this late in the evening. He must’ve felt her gaze. He turned, fully revealing his scars now, welted and red and ugly. His eye patch hid his missing eye, but the cheek under it sagged.

She stared at his face, at
him,
seeing both the handsome, clever man, and the scarred, sardonic recluse. The air felt thin in her lungs, and her chest labored to take in more, but still she stared, forcing herself to see all of him. All of Sir Alistair. What she saw should have repelled her, but instead she felt an attraction so intense it was all she could do not to rise and go to him at once.

He slowly raised his glass of brandy and saluted her before drinking, still watching her over the rim.

Only then could she tear her gaze away, gasping to fill her lungs with air. Something had happened in those few seconds when she’d held his eyes. It was as if she’d seen into his soul.

And perhaps as if he’d seen into hers.

The wayward thought crystallized, and he made for the stairs. On the floor below, no light shone beneath the door of the room of his sister and Miss MacDonald. Oh, it’d been years since he’d gotten the drop on Sophia. Alistair banged on the door.

“What is it?” she shouted from within. Like him, she woke at once, fully alert.

“Time to rise, sleepyhead,” he called.

“Alistair? Have you lost what mind you have?” She stumped to the door and flung it open. Sophia wore a voluminous gown, her graying hair in long braids.

He grinned at her grumpy expression. “It’s summer, the day is sunny, and the fish are running.”

Her eyes widened, and then narrowed in excited comprehension. “Give me half an hour.”

“Twenty minutes,” he called over his shoulder. He was already making for Mrs. Halifax’s room around the bend.

“Done!” Sophia shot back, and slammed her door.

Mrs. Halifax’s door was equally dark, but that didn’t stop Alistair from rapping loudly on the wood. From within came a muffled groan and a thump. Then all was quiet. He knocked again.

Bare feet pattered to the door and it cracked open. Abigail’s pale little face peered out.

Alistair looked at her. “Are you the only one awake?”

She nodded. “Mama and Jamie take forever to wake up.”

“Then you’ll have to help me.”

He gently nudged open the door and strode into the room. It was a big room, once used for storage, and he’d forgotten the great ugly bed it held. Jamie and Mrs. Halifax still lay there, a corner of the covers thrown back where Abigail had obviously slept. The puppy was in a ball on top of the sheets, but he rose at Alistair’s entrance and stretched, pink tongue curling. Alistair went to the head of the bed and reached to shake Mrs. Halifax awake, but then paused. Unlike his sister, the housekeeper slept with her hair unbraided and loose. It flowed in a mass of soft tangled silk over her pillows. Her cheeks were pink, her rosy lips parted as she breathed deeply. For a moment, he was mesmerized by her vulnerability and his own tightening groin.

“Are you going to shake her?” Abigail asked from behind him.

God! What a lecher he was to have these thoughts in front of a little girl. Alistair blinked and leaned forward to grasp his housekeeper’s shoulder, soft and warm beneath his hand. “Mrs. Halifax.”

“Mmm,” she sighed, and shrugged her shoulder.

“Mama!” Abigail called loudly.

“What?” Mrs. Halifax blinked, blue eyes staring, puzzled, into his. “What is it?”

“You have to get up,” Abigail said as if speaking to the hard of hearing. “We’re to go…” She turned and looked at Alistair. “
Why
are we waking so early?”

“We’re going fishing.”

“Huzzah!” Jamie yelled, popping up from the other side of his mother. Either he wasn’t as slow to wake as his sister thought or the mention of fishing had galvanized him.

Mrs. Halifax moaned and pushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “But why must we rise so early?”

“Because”—Alistair leaned close to whisper in her ear—“this is when the fish rise.”

She groaned, but Jamie was on his knees beside her now, bouncing on the bed and chanting, “Come on, come on, come on!”

“Very well,” his mother said, “but Sir Alistair must leave us so that we may dress.” The flush on her cheeks had deepened as if she’d finally realized her state of undress.

For a moment, Alistair’s gaze challenged hers. She appeared to be wearing a thin shift beneath the covers, and he was tempted to stay until she was forced to rise. To see her loose, quivering breasts beneath the delicate cloth, to watch her hair swing about her bare shoulders.

Madness, pure madness.

Instead he inclined his head, his eye never leaving hers. “Twenty minutes.” And he scooped up the puppy and left the room before any other insanity could detain him.

The puppy lay docilely in his arms as he ran down the stairs and to the kitchen. He surprised Mrs. McCleod stirring the morning fire. One of the maids sat at the kitchen table yawning when he entered. She squeaked at the sight of him.

Mrs. McCleod straightened. “Sir?”

“Can you pack some bread and butter and cheese?” He looked vaguely around the kitchen. “Maybe some fruit and cold meat? We’re going fishing.”

Mrs. McCleod nodded gravely, her broad, reddened face perfectly impassive at his sudden demands. “Aye, I can.”

“And a large breakfast when we return.” Alistair frowned. “Have you seen Wiggins?”

The maid snorted. “Probably still abed, that one.” She flushed and straightened when Alistair looked at her. “I-I’m sorry, sir.”

Alistair waved away her apology with the hand not holding the puppy. “Tell him that the stables need cleaning when you see him.”

Wiggins was a lazy bastard, he thought as he strode into the morning sunshine. How lazy he’d never quite realized until the other servants had appeared. No, that wasn’t right. He placed the puppy in the dew-spangled grass. He’d always known that Wiggins was a terrible worker; he’d just never given a damn before.

Alistair frowned as he watched the puppy yawn and tilt his nose to sniff the morning breeze. Wiggins was a problem that’d soon need to be dealt with, but not, thank God, this morning.

“Come on, lad, do your business,” he murmured to the pup. “Best to learn to do it out here right away. God only knows what Mrs. Halifax would do if you shat in the castle.”

As if understanding the command, the puppy squatted in the grass.

And Alistair threw back his head and laughed.