To Beguile a Beast (12 page)

“A puppy!” Jamie cried, and lunged for the poor creature.

“Careful,” Sir Alistair said. “He hasn’t…”

But his warning came too late. Jamie lifted the dog, and at the same time, a thin stream of yellow liquid poured onto the floor. Jamie stood there, mouth open, holding the puppy in front of him.

“Ah…” Sir Alistair stared blankly, his magnificent chest still bared. Helen sympathized with the man. Half killed by cold the night before, not even dressed this morning, and already invaded by incontinent dogs and running children.

She cleared her throat. “I think—”

But she was interrupted by a giggle. A sweet, high, girlish giggle that she hadn’t heard since they’d left London. Helen turned.

Abigail was still standing by the doorway, both hands clapped over her mouth, giggles spilling forth from between her fingers. She lowered her hands.

“He peed on you!” she crowed to her poor brother. “Peed and peed and peed! We ought to call him Puddles.”

For a moment, Helen was afraid that Jamie would burst into tears, but then the puppy wriggled and he drew the little animal to his chest, grinning. “He’s still a grand puppy. But we oughtn’t to call him Puddles.”

“Definitely not Puddles,” Sir Alistair rumbled, and both children started and looked at him as if they’d forgotten him.

Abigail sobered. “It’s not our dog, Jamie. We can’t name him.”

“No, he’s not your dog,” Sir Alistair said easily, “but I need help naming him. And at the moment, I need someone to take him out on the lawn and make sure he does the rest of his business there instead of the castle. Do I have any volunteers?”

The children jumped to the task, and Sir Alistair had barely nodded before they were out of the room. Suddenly she was alone again with the master of the castle.

Helen bent to wipe at the puddle on the floor with the cloth she’d brought from the kitchen along with the pap. She avoided his eyes. “Thank you.”

“What for?” His voice was careless as he flipped the sheets back on the bed.

“You know.” She looked up at him and realized her vision had blurred with tears. “Letting Abigail and Jamie take care of the puppy. They… they needed that right now. Thank you.”

He shrugged, looking a bit uncomfortable. “It’s little enough.”

“Little enough?” She stood, suddenly irritated. “You almost killed yourself getting that dog. It was more than little enough!”

“Who says I got the dog for the children?” he growled.

“Didn’t you?” she demanded. He liked to act the beast, but underneath she sensed a different man entirely.

“And if I did?” He stepped closer and gently grasped her shoulders. “Perhaps I deserve a reward.”

She had no time to think or debate or even anticipate. His lips were on hers, warm and slightly rasping from the stubble on his chin, and oh, they felt good. Masculine. Yearning. She hadn’t been wanted like this in so long. Hadn’t been kissed by a man since she couldn’t remember. She leaned into him, her hands on his bare upper arms, and that was wonderful, too, the feel of his hot, smooth skin beneath her fingers. He opened his mouth over hers and probed gently with his tongue, and she opened, welcoming him in. Happily. Wonderfully. Easily.

Perhaps too easily.

This was her one great fault: a tendency to act too soon. To fall in love too fast. Giving everything of herself only to regret her impulsive passion later. She’d thought Lister’s kisses lovely, too, once upon a time, and what had that led to?

Nothing but despair.

She drew away, panting, and looked at him. His eye was half-closed, his face flushed and sensuous with a darkened beard of whiskers.

She tried to think of something to say. “I…”

In the end, she merely pressed her fingers to her lips and ran from the room like the greenest virgin.

“Yes,” Jamie said, and then added, “Or perhaps Captain.”

Abigail carefully lifted her skirts and found a bit of dryish grass to sit in. Most everything was soaked from the storm the night before. “I think Tristan would be nice.”

“That’s a girl’s name.”

“Is not. Tristan was a great warrior.” Abigail frowned a little, not entirely sure of her facts. “Or something. Certainly not a girl, anyway.”

“Well, it sounds like a girl’s name,” Jamie said stoutly.

He picked up a twig and held it in front of the puppy’s nose. The puppy bit the twig and took it from him. He flopped on the ground, back legs splayed behind him, and started chewing the twig.

“Don’t let him eat it,” Abigail said.

“I’m not,” Jamie said. “And, anyway—”

“Oy!” a familiar voice called. “Wot have you there?”

Behind them stood Mr. Wiggins. His head blotted out the morning sun, and the red hair standing up around his face seemed to be on fire. He swayed just a little on his feet and frowned down at the puppy.

“He’s Sir Alistair’s dog,” she said quickly, afraid he’d try to take the dog. “We’re watching him for Sir Alistair.”

Mr. Wiggins squinted, his little eyes nearly disappearing into wrinkles in his face. “Lowly work for a duke’s daughter, innit?”

Abigail bit her lip. She’d so hoped that he had forgotten Jamie’s words from the day before.

But Mr. Wiggins was thinking about other matters. “Juss make sure it don’t piss in the kitchen. Have enough work about here as it is, don’t I?”

“He—” Jamie started, but Abigail interrupted him.

“We won’t,” she said sweetly.

“Huh.” Mr. Wiggins grunted and walked off again.

Abigail waited until he’d disappeared into the castle; then she rounded on her brother. “You mustn’t say anything to him again.”

“You’re not the master of me!” Jamie’s lower lip trembled, and his face was growing red.

Abigail knew that these were signs of an imminent fit of screaming or crying or both, but she pressed, anyway. “It’s important, Jamie. You mustn’t let him tease you into saying things.”

“I didn’t,” he muttered, which they both knew was a lie.

Abigail sighed. Jamie was still very young, and this was the best she’d get out of him. She held the puppy out. “Would you like to hold Puddles?”

“He’s not Puddles,” he said, but he took the puppy and squished it against his chest, hiding his face in its soft fur.

“I know.”

Abigail sat back on the grass and closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her face. She ought to tell Mama what Jamie’d said. She ought to go right now and find her. But then Mama would become cross and worried, and it’d spoil this new happiness. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, anyway.

“Puddles hasn’t seen the stables,” Jamie said beside her. He seemed to have recovered his good temper. “Let’s show him.”

“Very well.”

Abigail stood and trailed her brother across the wet grass toward the stables. The day was lovely, after all, and they had a sweet puppy to take care of. Something made her look back over her shoulder in the direction that Mr. Wiggins had gone. He was nowhere to be seen, but black clouds hovered in the distance, ominous and low, threatening the sunshine.

She shivered and ran to catch up with Jamie.

Lister contemplated the glass of brandy he held in his hand. They were in Hasselthorpe’s study, a pleasant enough room, even if it was done in purple and pink. Hasselthorpe was a sober man with a cool head on his shoulders and the ambition of obtaining the prime minister’s seat—perhaps very soon—but he had a nitwit for a wife. She’d probably done the decorating.

Lister looked at his host. “Wheaton’s bill is pure nonsense, of course. Think what a pension for every idiot who’s ever served in His Majesty’s army would cost this government. But there may be some popular support for the thing.”

“Come, sir, you don’t truly believe it might pass?” Blanchard looked aghast.

“Pass, no,” Lister said. “But there may be a fight. Have you read the pamphlets circulating on the street?”

“The rhetoric of pamphleteers is hardly sophisticated,” Hasselthorpe scoffed.

“No, but they do sway the coffeehouse regulars.” Lister frowned. “And recent events in the Colonies during the war with the French have brought the fate of the common soldier to the forefront of people’s minds. Atrocities such as the massacre at Spinner’s Falls make some wonder if our soldiers are paid enough.”

Hasselthorpe leaned slightly forward. “My brother was killed at Spinner’s Falls. The idea of the massacre being used as some bully point in a pamphleteer’s spouting makes me sick, sir.”

Lister shrugged. “I agree. I merely point out the opposition we will face to defeating this bill.”

Blanchard made his chair creak again as he went into a long ramble about drunken soldiers and thieves, but Lister was distracted. Henderson had cracked the door to the room and poked his head in.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Lister said, interrupting whatever Blanchard was babbling about.

He barely waited for the other gentlemen’s nods before rising and going to the door. “What?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, for disturbing you,” Henderson whispered nervously, “but I have news about a certain lady’s flight.”

Lister glanced over his shoulder. Hasselthorpe’s and Blanchard’s heads were together, and in any case, it was doubtful they could hear him. He turned back to his secretary. “Yes?”

“She and the children were sighted in Edinburgh, Your Grace, not much more than a week ago.”

Edinburgh? Interesting. He wasn’t aware that Helen knew anyone in Scotland. Had she found someplace in Edinburgh to stay, or was she traveling on from there?

He focused once more on Henderson. “Good. Send a dozen more men. I want them to scour Edinburgh, find out if she’s still there, and if she isn’t, where the hell she went.”

Henderson bowed. “Very well, Your Grace.”

And Lister allowed himself a very small smile. The distance between the hunter and the prey had narrowed. Soon, very soon, he’d hold Helen’s sweet neck between his hands.

“Are you come for luncheon?” Jamie asked, clutching the wiggling puppy to his chest. “We’re to feed Puddles a bowl of milk soon.”

“Mind you take him out afterward,” Alistair muttered. He started for the hearth. “And
do
think of another name for the pup.”

“Yes, sir,” Abigail called behind him.

Mrs. Halifax looked up as he neared, and her eyes widened as if startled by the sight of him. “Can I get you something, Sir Alistair?”

There was wariness in her gaze.
Or maybe she was simply appalled that she’d let such a disgusting beast near her,
a mocking voice taunted.

The thought made him frown as he said, “I came for my mail.”

The cook muttered something and bent over her pot. Mrs. Halifax glided to a nearby table, where a small bundle of letters lay. “I’m sorry. I should’ve had them sent up.” She held out the bundle.

He took it, his fingers brushing briefly against hers and then frowned down as he shuffled the letters. A reply from Etienne wasn’t there, of course—it was much too soon—but he’d hoped it would be nonetheless. Alistair had been brooding over the Spinner’s Falls traitor since Vale’s letter. Or perhaps it was Mrs. Halifax’s advent and the knowledge of all he’d lost along with his face in that terrible massacre.

“Were you expecting a letter?” Mrs. Halifax interrupted his dark thoughts.

He shrugged and tucked the letters in a pocket. “A missive from a colleague in another country. Nothing terribly important.”

“You correspond with gentlemen abroad?” She tilted her head as if intrigued.

He nodded. “I exchange findings and ideas with other naturalists in France, Norway, Italy, Russia, and the American Colonies. I have a friend exploring the wilds of China right now and another somewhere in deepest Africa.”

“How wonderful! And you must travel as well to visit these friends and explore yourself.”

He stared at her. Was she mocking him? “I never leave the castle.”

She stilled. “Truly? I know you like the castle, but surely you must travel sometimes. What of your work?”

“I haven’t traveled since returning from the Colonies.” He could no longer meet those wide blue eyes, and he glanced away, watching the children play with the puppy by the door. “You know what I look like. You know why I stay here.”

“But…” Her brows knit before she took a step toward him, forcing him to meet her solemn gaze once more. “I know it must be hard to go out. I know people must stare. It must be awful. But to shut yourself up here forever… you don’t deserve such a punishment.”

“Deserve?” He felt his mouth twist. “The men who died in the Colonies didn’t deserve their deaths. My fate has nothing to do with whether or not I
deserve
it. It’s simply fact: I am scarred. I frighten little children and the sensitive. Therefore, I stay in this castle.”

“How can you bear to live the rest of your life thus?”

He shrugged. “I don’t think of the rest of my life. This is simply my fate.”

“The past can’t be changed. I understand that,” she said. “But can’t one accept the past and still continue to hope?”

“Hope?” He stared at her. She argued her case too intensely for it not to be personal in some way—but in what way he wasn’t certain. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

She leaned toward him, her blue eyes serious. “Don’t you think about the future? Plan for happy times? Strive to better your life?”

He shook his head. Her philosophy was entirely foreign to his way of thinking. “What point in planning for a future when my past will never change? I am not unhappy.”

“But are you happy?”

He turned to the door. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.” He felt her small hand at his arm. He swiveled to look at her again, so bright, so pretty. “How can you live your life without happiness, or even the hope of happiness?”

“Now I know you mock me,” he growled, and wrest his arm free.

He strode from the kitchen, deaf to her protest. He knew she didn’t have it in her to be so cruel, but her very honesty was in some ways more harsh than mocking laughter. How could he think of a future when he had none, when he’d given up all faith of one nearly seven years ago? Even the thought of resurrecting that optimism filled him with a kind of horror. No, better to flee the kitchen and his too-perceptive housekeeper than to face his own weakness.