To Beguile a Beast Page 9

  “Extremely happy.” Her voice was defiant, the lie transparent.

  “What did he look like?”

  “I…” She wrapped her arms about herself. “Please, might we change the subject?”

  “Certainly,” he drawled. “Where did you live in London?”

  “I’ve told you.” Her voice was steadier now. “I was in Lady Vale’s household.”

  “Of course,” he murmured. “My mistake. I keep forgetting your vast experience in running a household.”

  “It’s not vast,” she whispered. “You know that.”

  For a moment, they were silent and only the wind whistling around the corner of the castle gave voice.

  Then she said very quietly, with her face still turned away, “It’s just that I… I need a place to stay right now.”

  And something inside him surged in triumph. He had her. She couldn’t leave. It made no sense, this feeling of triumph. He’d been urging her to go ever since she’d arrived, but somehow the knowledge that she had to stay, and that as an honorable gentleman he had to let her stay, filled him with contentment.

  Not that he let it show. “I confess, Mrs. Halifax, that I am surprised by one thing.”

  “What is that?”

  He bent closer, his mouth nearly brushing her lemon-scented hair. “I would’ve thought a lady of your beauty would be besieged by suitors.”

  She turned her head, and their faces were suddenly only inches apart. He felt her breath brush across his lips as she spoke. “You find me beautiful.”

  Her voice was curiously flat.

  He cocked his head, eyeing the smooth brow, the lush mouth, and the fine wide eyes. “Devastatingly so.”

  “And you probably think beauty sufficient reason to marry a woman.” Her tone was bitter now.

  What had the mysterious Mr. Halifax done to his wife? “No doubt most men do.”

  “They never think of a woman’s disposition,” she muttered. “Her likes and dislikes, her fears and hopes, her very soul.”

  “Don’t they?”

  “No.” Her beautiful eyes had grown dark and tragic. The wind blew a curling lock of hair across her face.

  “Poor Mrs. Halifax,” he mocked softly. He gave in to impulse and raised his left hand—his unmaimed hand—and stroked the lock of hair back away from her face. Her skin was as fine as silk. “How terrible to be so lovely.”

  A frown creased her unblemished brow. “You said most men.”

  “Did I?” He let his hand drop.

  She looked up at him, her eyes were quite perceptive now. “Don’t you consider beauty to be the most important criteria in a wife?”

  “Ah, but you’ve forgotten my aspect, I’m afraid. It’s in the natural order of things that a lovely wife will either stray or come to hate an ugly husband. A man as revolting as I would be an idiot to attach himself to a beautiful woman.” He smiled into her mesmerizingly lovely eyes. “And I am many things, Mrs. Halifax, but an idiot is not one of them.”

  He bowed and turned to stride back into the castle, leaving Mrs. Halifax, a lonely, desperately tempting siren, behind him.

  “WHEN WILL WE go home?” Jamie asked the next afternoon. He picked up a rock and threw it.

  The rock didn’t go very far, but Abigail frowned, anyway. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Jamie whined.

  “Because you might hit someone. Or something.”

  Jamie looked about the old stable yard, empty except for themselves and a few sparrows. “Who?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Abigail wanted to throw a rock herself, but ladies didn’t do such things. And besides, they were supposed to be beating an old rug. Mama’d made one of the footmen put up a line across a corner of the yard, and a row of rugs now hung from it, all waiting to be beaten. Abigail’s arms were sore, but she took a swing at the rug anyway with the broom she held. It felt almost good to hit the rug. A great cloud of dust flew out.

  Jamie squatted to pick up another rock. “I want to go home.”

  “You’ve already said that over and over again,” Abigail said irritably.

  “But I do.” He stood and threw the rock. It hit the stable’s wall and clattered onto the gray stones that paved the stable yard. “We never had to beat rugs at our old house. And Miss Cummings took us to the park sometimes. There’s nothing to do here but work.”

  “Well, we can’t go home,” Abigail shot back. “And I told you—”

  “Oy!” The voice came from behind them.

  Abigail looked over her shoulder, still holding the broom.

  Mr. Wiggins was trundling toward them, his ginger hair waving in the breeze as his stumpy arms waved in the air. “Watcha doin’, throwin’ rocks about like that? Are you soft in the head?”

  Abigail straightened. “He’s not soft—”

  Mr. Wiggins snorted like a surprised horse. “If’n throwin’ rocks about that could hit anybody, includin’ me, isn’t soft in th’ head, I don’t know what is.”

  “You don’t talk that way!” Jamie said. He’d stood and his hands were balled by his sides.

  “Don’t tawk whot?” Mr. Wiggins mimicked their accent. “Whot’re yew, a soft-headed London ponce?”

  “My father’s a duke!” Jamie shouted, red-faced.

  Abigail froze, horrified.

  But Mr. Wiggins merely threw back his head and laughed. “A duke, eh? Then what does that make you? A dukeling? Ha! Well, dukeling or not, don’t throw them stones.”

  And he walked off, still chuckling.

  She waited, holding her breath until he was out of sight; then she swung on her brother, whispering furiously, “Jamie! You know we weren’t to say anything about the duke.”

  “He called me a ponce.” Jamie’s face was still red. “And the duke is our father.”

  “But Mama said we mustn’t let anyone know that.”

  “I hate it here!” Jamie put his head down like a bull and ran out of the stable yard.

  Or at least he started to. At the corner of the castle, he stumbled headlong into Sir Alistair coming the other way.

  “Whoa, there.” Sir Alistair caught Jamie easily in both hands.

  “Let me go!”

  “Certainly.”

  Sir Alistair raised his hands and Jamie was free. But having gained his freedom, he didn’t seem to know what to do next. He stood in front of the castle’s master, his head bowed, his lower lip protruding.

  Sir Alistair watched him for a moment, and then looked at Abigail with one eyebrow raised. His hair was about his face, his scars shone dully in the sunlight, and his jaw was still stubbled, but he wasn’t nearly as terrifying as Mr. Wiggins.

  Abigail shifted from one foot to the other, still holding the broom. “We were beating the rugs.” She gestured weakly to the line of rugs behind her.

  “So I see.” Sir Alistair looked back at Jamie. “I was going to the stable to fetch a shovel.”

  “What for?” Jamie grunted.

  “I’m going to bury Lady Grey.”

  Jamie hunched his shoulders and kicked at the cobblestones.

  Everyone was silent a moment.

  Until Abigail licked her lips and said, “I-I’m sorry.”

  Sir Alistair looked at her from his one eye, and his expression wasn’t friendly at all, but Abigail gathered all her courage and blurted it out before she let her fear and embarrassment freeze her. “I’m sorry about Lady Grey and I’m sorry that I screamed.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  She took a deep breath. “The first night when we came. I’m sorry I screamed at you. It wasn’t very nice of me.”

  “Oh. Well… thank you.” He glanced away then and cleared his throat, and there was another silence.

  “May we help you?” Abigail asked. “Bury Lady Grey, I mean.”

  Sir Alistair frowned, his brows drawn together over his eye patch. “Are you sure you want to?”

  “Yes,” Abigail said.

  Jamie nodded. />
  Sir Alistair looked at them a moment and then nodded. “Very well, then. Wait here.”

  He went into the stables and then came back out with a shovel. “Come on.”

  He set off toward the back of the castle without another glance toward them.

  Abigail put down her broom, and she and Jamie trailed him. She darted a look at Jamie. He had tears at the corners of his eyes. He’d cried for quite a long time the night before, and the sound had made her chest hurt. She frowned and watched the path. It was rocky and bumpy; Sir Alistair was leading them down through the old garden toward the stream. It was stupid because they hadn’t known Lady Grey all that long, but Abigail felt like crying, too. She didn’t even know why she’d asked to come along to help bury the dog.

  Below the gardens was a bit of a grassy meadow. Sir Alistair tramped through it and as they neared the stream, Abigail could hear the rush of water. Farther up, there were some rocks in the stream and the water boiled about them, frothing white. But below the garden, the water had calmed, pooling in the shade of some trees. At the base of one was a lump bundled in an old rug.

  Abigail looked away, feeling her throat ache.

  But Jamie went right up to the bundle. “Is this her?”

  Sir Alistair nodded.

  “It seems silly to waste a good rug,” Abigail muttered.

  Sir Alistair looked at her out of his one light brown eye. “She liked to lie on that rug before the fire in my tower.”

  Abigail glanced away, feeling ashamed. “Oh.”

  Jamie squatted and stroked the faded rug as if it were the fur of the dog beneath. Sir Alistair set his spade and began digging beneath the tree.

  Abigail wandered closer to the stream. The water was clear and cool. A few leaves floated lazily on the surface. She knelt carefully and looked at the rocks at the bottom. They seemed quite close, yet she knew they were a yard or more away.

  Behind her, Jamie asked, “Why’re you burying her here?”

  She could hear the sound of the spade scraping against earth. “She liked to ramble with me. I’d come here to fish, and she’d take a nap under that tree. She liked it here.”

  “Good,” Jamie said.

  Then there was only the sound of Sir Alistair digging. Abigail leaned over the pool and trailed her fingers in the water. It was shockingly cool.

  Behind her the digging stopped, and she could hear the rug sliding. Sir Alistair grunted. She put her face closer to the pool, watching a water weed waving below. If she were a mermaid, she’d sit on those rocks far below and tend a garden of water weeds. The stream would flow all about her, and she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing from the world above. She’d be safe. Happy.

  A fish flashed silver among the rocks and she straightened.

  When she turned around, Sir Alistair was smoothing a mound of earth over Lady Grey’s grave. Jamie had a tiny white flower he’d plucked from the meadow, and he laid it on the grave.

  Her brother turned to her, holding out another flower. “Do you want one, Abby?”

  And she didn’t know why, but her chest suddenly felt as if it would burst from within her. She’d die if that happened.

  So she turned and ran back up the hill to the castle, as fast as she could, with the wind against her face until it blew all the thoughts from her mind.

  IN THE EARLY years, when she’d still been naive and in love, Helen had sat up many nights waiting in case Lister should deign to visit her. And many nights she’d finally given up her vigil to retire alone and lonely. She was past those nights of waiting now—years past them. So it was particularly aggravating that she found herself that evening at midnight pacing the dim library in her chemise and wrap and waiting for Sir Alistair’s return.

  Where was the man?

  He hadn’t appeared for supper, and when she’d made the climb to his tower, she’d found it deserted. In the end, after waiting until the roast duck was completely cold, she’d had to eat without him, just her and the children in the now-clean dining room. When she’d questioned the children over the cold duck and congealed sauce, Jamie had told her about burying the dog earlier in the afternoon. Abigail had merely pushed her peas about her plate and then asked to be excused early, saying she had a migraine. Her daughter was too young to have migraines, but Helen had taken pity on the girl and let her retire in peace. That was another concern entirely—Abigail and her secretive, sad little face. Helen wished she knew what she could do to help her daughter.

  She’d spent the rest of the evening consulting with Mrs. McCleod about meals and refurbishing the kitchen. Then she’d made Jamie take a bath by the kitchen fire, which had resulted in a puddle that needed mopping up before she’d put him to bed. The entire time she’d done these chores, she’d kept an ear half-cocked, listening for Sir Alistair’s return. All she’d heard for her troubles was Mr. Wiggins stumbling to the stables drunk as a lord. Sometime after that, it’d begun raining.

  Where was he? And more to the point, why did she care? Helen halted by the pile of books where his great album of birds and animals and flowers of America still lay. She set her candle on a long table against the wall, bent, and hauled the big tome to the table’s surface. A small cloud of dust stirred and she sneezed. Then she moved the candle close enough to illuminate the pages without dripping wax on them and opened the book.

  The frontispiece was an elaborate hand-colored illustration of a classical arch. Through the arch, a lush forest, blue sky, and a pool of clear water could be seen. To one side of the arch stood a beautiful woman in classical drapery, obviously an allegory. She held out her hand, inviting the viewer to enter the arch. On the other side of the arch was a man in sturdy buckskin breeches and coat, on his head a floppy hat. He had a pack over one shoulder and carried a magnifying glass in one hand and a walking stick in the other. Beneath the picture was the caption, THE NEW WORLD WELCOMES HIS MAJESTY’S BOTANIST ALISTAIR MUNROE TO DISCOVER HER WONDERS.

  Was the little man supposed to be Sir Alistair? Helen peered closer. If so, it didn’t look a thing like him. The illustration had a cupid’s bow mouth and plump pink cheeks and looked rather like a woman in man’s clothing. She wrinkled her nose and turned the page. Here was the title page, which read in elaborate script A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE FLORA AND FAUNA OF NEW ENGLAND BY ALISTAIR MUNROE. On the next page were the words,

  The Dedication

  To His Most Serene Majesty

  GEORGE

  By the Grace of God

  KING OF GREAT BRITAIN, &c

  If it please him

  I dedicate this book and my work.

  yr humble servant, &c.

  Alistair Munroe

  1762

  She traced the letters. It must have indeed pleased the king, for she remembered hearing that the author had been knighted soon after the publication of this book. Helen turned several pages more and then stopped, inhaling sharply. When they’d looked at this book yesterday evening, she’d not paid it too much attention. The children’s eager heads had obscured the pages as she stood above. But now . . .

  Before her was a full-page illustration of a flower with long curving petals on a bare branch. The blooms were extravagant and multiple, clustered together, and they were exquisitely hand-colored a sort of lavender pink. Beneath the flower was a branch with a flower dissected to show the different parts. Beside that was a branch with leaves opening. On one leaf lay a gaudy black and yellow butterfly, each leg and antenna drawn in meticulous detail. Beneath the engraving were the words, RHODODENDRON CANADENSE.

  How could he be so surly, so uncivilized and yet be the artist who’d drawn the original pictures for this book? She shook her head and turned another page. The library was quiet, save for the sound of rain pelting against the windows. The lush illustrations drew her in, and she stood for what might’ve been minutes or hours, mesmerized by the illustrations and words, turning the pages slowly.

  Helen didn’t know what broke the spell—certainly not a sound, because th
e falling rain masked all sounds from without—but she looked up after a while and frowned. The candle had burned down to a sullen nub, and she picked it up carefully before going to the library door. The hall was deserted and dark, the rain drumming against the great front doors. There was no reason at all for what she did next.

  She set the candle on a table and wrenched at the doors. For a moment, they stubbornly held, and then they gave, groaning reluctantly. The rain immediately blew in, soaking her nearly from head to toe. Helen gasped at the cold shock and peered into the darkness of the drive.

  Nothing moved.

  What a silly fool she was! She’d gotten soaked for nothing. Helen began to push the doors closed again when she saw it: a long shadow emerging from the trees beside the drive. A man on horseback. She felt overwhelming relief, and then the sight drove her mad.

  She half stumbled down the step, her hair immediately flattened to her skull by the rain, and screamed all her hours of worry at him. “What are you doing? Do you think I scrub and dust and plan a meal all day long just so you can cavalierly miss it? Don’t you know that the children waited for you? Jamie was disappointed at your absence. And the duck was cold—quite, quite cold. I don’t know if I shall be able to apologize to Mrs. McCleod enough, and she the only cook for miles!”

  He was leaning a bit over the horse, his hat gone, and the shoulders of his old hacking coat were shining with wet. He must be entirely soaked through. He turned a deathly white face at her, and a corner of his mouth curved mockingly. “Your welcome home is most gracious, Mrs. Halifax.”

  She caught the horse’s bridle and stood blinking in the rain. “We made a deal, you and I. I would sit with you at your dining table and you—you!—would appear at the evening meal. How dare you make a pact with me and then break it? How dare you take me for granted?”

  His eyes closed for a moment, and she saw the lines of weariness incised into his face. “I must apologize yet again, Mrs. Halifax.”

  She scowled. He looked ill. How long had he been riding in this downpour? “But where have you been? What was so important that you must go gallivanting off in this storm?”

  “A whim,” he sighed, his eyes closing. “A whim merely.”