To Beguile a Beast (8 page)

“Fetch dishes and silverware for myself and the children,” she ordered.

Tom hurried out of the room.

“Mrs. McCleod’s made meat pie,” Jamie confided to Sir Alistair.

“Indeed?” Sir Beastly replied to her son as gravely as if he spoke with a bishop.

Helen frowned at the polished table in front of her. Lister had never been interested in anything Jamie or Abigail had ever said.

“Yes, and it smells won-
der
-ful.” Jamie drew the last word out to emphasize the ambrosia that awaited them.

Despite working all afternoon, Jamie was bouncing with energy. Helen couldn’t help but smile at him, though she worried whether his exhaustion was merely waiting for bedtime. There had been several times on the ride north when Jamie had fallen apart with tiredness at the end of the day. It made putting him to bed rather wearying. Nursemaids, too, were something she’d never take for granted again.

Sir Alistair sat at the head of the rectangular table as was proper. Jamie was to his right, Abigail to his left, and Helen was at the foot, blessedly as far away from the master of the castle as she could be. Jamie’s face barely cleared the table. If they were to do this every night, Helen would have to find something he could sit on to make him higher.

“Mama said we weren’t to eat with you.” Abigail’s blue eyes were shadowed by worry.

“Ah, but this is my castle, and I set the rules within it,” Sir Alistair replied. “And I wish for you and your brother and your lovely mother to dine with me. Is that to your liking?”

Abigail knit her brow in thought before answering. “Yes. I like eating in the dining room. We polished the table and beat the carpet today. You wouldn’t believe the cloud of dust that came out of it. Nellie, the maid, coughed so hard I thought she’d choke.”

“And there was a bird in the chimney!” Jamie said.

Sir Alistair looked toward the fireplace. It was surrounded by old carved stone with a painted wood mantel. “What color was the bird?”

“It was black, but its belly was pale and it was ever so fast,” Jamie replied.

Sir Alistair nodded as Tom returned with more plates and silverware. “Probably a swallow. They nest in chimneys sometimes.”

Meg and Nellie bustled in carrying trays of food. Meg cast quick curious glances as she handled the food while Nellie gaped at Sir Alistair’s scarred face until Helen caught her eye and frowned. Then Nellie ducked her head and went about her work. Besides the meat pie, there were new peas, carrots, fresh bread, and stewed fruit. For a minute, there was silence as the maids retreated.

Sir Alistair looked at the table. The dishes of food steamed, and the glasses sparkled in the candlelight. He raised his glass of wine and nodded at her. “I commend you, madam. You’ve set a feast out of thin air and managed to clean this dining room as well. I would think it impossible if the result were not here before my eyes.”

Helen found herself smiling foolishly. For some reason, his words warmed her far more than the practiced flowery rhetoric she’d once received in London ballrooms.

He watched her over the rim of his glass as he drank, and she didn’t know where to look.

“Why?” Jamie asked.

Sir Alistair’s gaze was diverted to her son, and Helen took a deep breath, wishing she could fan herself.

“Why what?” the castle’s master asked.

“Why do swallows sometimes nest in chimneys?” Jamie asked.

“That’s a silly question,” Abigail stated.

“Ah, but no question is silly to a naturalist,” Sir Alistair said, and for a moment Abigail looked crushed.

Helen opened her mouth to defend her child.

Then Sir Alistair smiled at Abigail. It was only a quirk at the corner of his mouth, but the child relaxed and Helen closed her mouth.

“Why should a swallow nest in a chimney?” Sir Alistair asked. “Why there and not somewhere else?”

“She wants to escape the cat?” Abigail guessed.

“She’s warmed by the fire,” Jamie said.

“But there hadn’t been a fire in that chimney in ages,” Abigail objected.

“Then I don’t know why.” Jamie gave up the question and forked up a piece of meat pie instead.

But Abigail still frowned. “Why should a swallow nest in the chimney? It seems a silly thing to do—and dirty.”

“Your idea that the swallow wants to bring up its young where the cat can’t get them is a good one,” Sir Alistair said. “Perhaps also the swallow nests where no other bird is nesting.”

Abigail stared hard at Sir Alistair. “I don’t understand.”

“Birds—and animals—must eat and drink just like us. They must have space to live and grow. But if another bird, particularly one of its own kind, is nearby, that bird might wish to fight it. The bird guards its own manor.”

“But some birds like to live together,” Abigail said. Her brows were drawn together stubbornly. “Sparrows are always together in a flock, pecking at the ground.”

“Always?” Sir Alistair buttered a piece of bread. “Do they nest together as well?”

Abigail hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen a sparrow’s nest.”

“Never?” Sir Alistair darted a look at Helen, his brows slightly raised. She shrugged. They’d always lived in London. The birds of the city must nest somewhere, but she didn’t recall seeing them. “Ah. Then I shall have to show you some nests.”

“Coo!” Jamie exclaimed—regrettably with his mouth full.

Sir Alistair tilted his head toward the boy, his eye gleaming. “Sparrows have solitary nests, but you are quite correct, lass. Some birds and animals do congregate together and even raise their young in a group. For instance, I am writing my findings on badgers at the moment, and they like to live all together in a mass of burrows called a
sett.
”

“Can you show us a badger, too?” Jamie asked.

“They’re quite shy,” Sir Alistair said as he cut into his slice of meat pie. “But I can show you a sett nearby, if you like.”

Jamie’s mouth was full of peas, but he nodded enthusiastically to show he’d like a trip to a badger sett.

“Is that what you do up in your tower?” Helen asked. “Write about badgers?”

He looked at her. “Yes, among other things. I’m writing a book about the animals, birds, and flowers of Scotland and England. I’m a naturalist. Didn’t Lady Vale tell you before she sent you to me?”

Helen shook her head, avoiding his gaze. The truth was, there hadn’t been much time for Lady Vale to tell her anything. When Helen had gone to Melisande, she’d been fleeing Lister and had feared she was being followed. Melisande had suggested Sir Alistair because he lived in Scotland—far away from London—and Helen had jumped at the idea. She’d been desperate.

“Have you written many books?” She felt foolish that she hadn’t thought about what he might be doing up in his cluttered study.

“Only one.” He sipped his wine, watching her. “
A Brief Survey of the Flora and Fauna of New England.
”

“But I’ve heard of that.” She looked up at him in surprise. “It’s all the rage in London. Why, I saw two fashionable ladies nearly come to blows over the last copy in a bookseller on Bond Street. It’s considered de rigueur for a complete library. You wrote that book?”

He inclined his head ironically. “I confess it.”

Helen felt strange. The book in question was very elegant, a portfolio-sized volume filled with full-page hand-colored illustrations. She would never have dreamed in a thousand years that Sir Alistair could write something so beautiful.

“Did you illustrate the book as well?”

“In a way—the engravings are based upon my sketches,” he said.

“It’s lovely,” she said truthfully.

He raised his glass but didn’t comment, his eye watching her.

“I want to see the book,” Jamie said.

Abigail had stopped eating. She didn’t echo Jamie’s plea, but it was quite obvious she was curious as well.

Sir Alistair inclined his head. “I suppose there must be a copy about somewhere in the library. Shall we go see?”

“Huzzah!” yelled Jamie again, this time fortunately having swallowed the food in his mouth.

Sir Alistair looked across the table at Helen, cocking the eyebrow over his eye patch at her. It looked very much like a challenge.

He cocked his head to better see her. She wasn’t getting away that easily. “Alas, I have no pressing matters at the moment, ma’am. Take a candle.”

She didn’t reply but merely nodded, though a small frown played about her mouth. She picked up one of the candles from a sideboard. Alistair led her toward the library, the children trailing behind. He was conscious of her fingers so lightly pressed against his arm and of her warmth as she walked beside him. Women, especially beautiful ones, didn’t often venture so near to him. He could smell the soap she’d used to wash her hair—a light lemon scent.

“Here we are,” he said as they made the library door.

He opened the door and went in. Mrs. Halifax immediately separated herself from him, not surprisingly really, but he felt the loss. Maudlin idiocy, that. He should be used by now to women running from him. He didn’t comment but took her candle and began lighting the ones in the room.

This had been his father’s library and his grandfather’s before him. Unlike many great house libraries, this one was actually used and the books read and reread. It was a rectangular room on an outside wall with some of the largest windows in the castle. The windows were hidden behind long, dusty curtains that hadn’t been drawn for years. All except the one curtain that had fallen, letting in Lady Grey’s afternoon ray of sunlight. The remaining walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves, each crammed to overflowing with volumes. At one end of the library was a small fireplace. Two decrepit chairs and a small table sat before it.

He finished lighting the candles and turned back. The children and Mrs. Halifax were still clustered by the door. A corner of his mouth kicked up. “Come in. I know it isn’t as beautifully clean as the dining room now is, but I don’t think you’ll come to actual harm.”

Mrs. Halifax muttered something under her breath and frowned at one of the chairs by the fireplace. The chair was lopsided; it had a broken leg and was propped up by two books. Abigail was running her finger along a bookshelf and inspecting the dust collected on her fingertip.

But Jamie ran to a globe of the world and peered at it. “I can’t see England.”

The globe was nearly obscured by dust.

“Ah.” Sir Alistair took out his handkerchief and wiped off the globe. “There. Now England’s revealed, and so is Scotland. Here we are.” He pointed to the area north of the Firth of Forth.

Jamie squinted at the globe and then looked up. “Where’s your book?”

Alistair glanced about the library, frowning. He hadn’t had occasion to look at his own writing in quite some time. “Over here, I think.”

He led the way to a corner in which several oversized volumes were piled on the floor.

“These ought to be put on a shelf,” Mrs. Halifax muttered. “I can’t believe you keep your own book on the floor.”

Alistair grunted before rummaging in the pile with Jamie. “Ah, here it is.”

He laid the book out on the floor and opened it. Jamie promptly threw himself down on his stomach to peer closely at the pages, and Abigail sat by his side to look.

“You must have spent many years in New England.” Mrs. Halifax was standing behind her children, looking at the book over their shoulders. “Mind the pages when you turn them, Jamie.”

Alistair strolled to her side. “Three years.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes startlingly bright in the candlelit room. “What?”

“Three years.” He cleared his throat. “I spent three years in New England recording the information in that book.”

“That’s a very long time. Did not the war interfere with your work?”

“On the contrary. I was attached to regiments in His Majesty’s army the entire time.”

“But wasn’t that dangerous?” Her brows were drawn together in concern.

For him.

He looked away. Her eyes were too beautiful for this dingy room, and he regretted the impulse to bring her and the children in here. Why lay himself open like this, let them see into his life, his past? This was a mistake.

“Sir Alistair?”

He didn’t know what to say. Yes, it’d been dangerous—so dangerous that he’d left behind an eye, two fingers, and his pride in the woods of North America—but he couldn’t tell her that. She was merely making conversation.

He was saved from having to reply by Jamie looking up suddenly from the book. “Where’s Lady Grey?”

The deerhound hadn’t followed them into the library.

Alistair shrugged. “Probably fell asleep by the fire in the dining room.”

“But she’ll miss us,” Jamie said. “I’ll go get her.”

And he hopped up before anyone could say a word and scurried from the room.

“Jamie!” Abigail called. “Jamie, don’t run!” And she was off as well.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Halifax said.

He frowned at her in surprise. “What for?”

“They can be so impetuous.”

Alistair shrugged. He wasn’t used to children, but these ones were rather interesting to have about.

“I—” she began, but she was interrupted by a single shrill scream.

Alistair was out the door without waiting for Mrs. Halifax. He ran down the hallway. The scream wasn’t repeated, but he was sure it’d come from the dining room. Perhaps Abigail had seen a spider. But when he rounded the dining room door, he knew it was something else entirely.

Lady Grey lay by the fireplace as he’d predicted, but Jamie knelt over her, frantically patting her side, and Abigail stood still and pale with her hands pressed to her mouth.

No.

He slowly walked to the fireplace, Mrs. Halifax trailing behind. Abigail simply stared at him, silent tears running down her face.

But Jamie looked up as he neared. “She’s hurt! Lady Grey is hurt. You must help her.”

Alistair knelt by the old dog and placed his palm on her side. She was already growing cold. It must’ve happened as she slept, while they ate supper, as he’d shown Mrs. Halifax his library, completely oblivious.

He had to clear his throat. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Yes!” the boy cried. His face was red, tears glittering in his eyes. “Yes! You must!”

“Jamie,” Mrs. Halifax murmured. She tried to grasp her son’s arm, but he wrenched it from her grasp and threw himself on the dog.

Abigail ran from the room.

Alistair placed a hand lightly on the boy’s head. It quivered under his palm as the child sobbed. Lady Grey had been a gift from Sophia, many, many years ago, before he’d left for the Colonies. He hadn’t taken her with him; she had been a young dog back then, and he feared that the long sea voyage would prove too cramped for her. But when he’d returned home, broken, his life no longer what he’d thought it would be, Lady Grey had been here. She’d galloped down the drive to greet him, had stood with her paws upon his shoulders as he’d rubbed her ears, and she’d grinned, tongue lolling. She’d walked by his side when he’d wandered the heath, lay by the fireside as he’d written his book. Come to nuzzle his hand when he’d woken in the dark of night, drenched in sweat from hideous dreams.

Alistair swallowed with difficulty. “Good dog,” he whispered huskily. “That’s a good lass.”

He stroked her side, feeling the rough, cooling fur.

“Help her!” Jamie reared up and hit at the hand that had touched his head. “
Help
her!”

“I cannot,” Alistair said, choking. “She’s dead.”