To Beguile a Beast (17 page)

So free.

And then another wave hit, catching her by complete surprise and tossing her high, sailing on a crest of pure, exquisite pleasure. And at its peak she looked down and saw him, thrusting still faster into her, his broad shoulders bunched and tensed, his hairline gleaming with exertion. He arched back his head and shouted. And then he went still, trembling and jerking within her, his face gone curiously smooth.

She didn’t recognize the expression on his face at first, and then she realized: it was peace.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, that was… um…”

A grin tugged at his mouth. She sounded dazed.

“Wondrous?” he suggested, kissing the corner of her mouth.

She sighed. “Um…”

“Blissful?” He palmed a plump, heavy breast, sliding his fingers over the delicate rose nipple. Breasts were rather marvelous, all things considered, and Helen’s were particularly fascinating. Made one wonder why they couldn’t be uncovered and free all the time, civilized ideas of modesty be damned. Of course, then other men might ogle them, and
that
wouldn’t do at all. He palmed her other breast as well. No, best to keep them covered. That made the private unveiling all the more exciting.

His eye narrowed at the thought, and he looked at her speculatively. She’d let him couple with her again, wouldn’t she? If he was lucky. In fact, if she let him wait just a few minutes more, he was certain he could perform at least once more this afternoon.

As if she’d heard his thought, she suddenly straightened. “Oh, goodness! They’ll be back from their walk soon.”

“Who?” he demanded, loath to give up his handfuls of breast.

“Your sister and the children,” she said impatiently.

She wriggled again and his limp cock slipped rather ignominiously from her sheath. He sighed. Not right now, then. He bent and gave each breast a farewell kiss and then straightened and rapidly buttoned his breeches. When he finished, Helen was still trying to dress without much success.

“Let me,” he said, and gently nudged aside her fingers from her stays. He laced her, hiding those magnificent breasts, and then helped her don the rest of her clothes, all the while considering how to phrase the demand.

He smoothed the fichu at her bosom and inhaled. “Helen—”

“Where are my shoes?” She suddenly bent, searching under his table. “Do you see them?”

“Here.” He fished them out of his coat pockets where he’d absently stowed them before. “Helen—”

“Oh, thank you!” She sat in his chair to slip them on.

He frowned down at her impatiently. “Helen—”

“Does my hair look all right?”

“Lovely.”

“You’re not looking.”

“Yes, I am!” The words came out a good deal more forcefully than he’d meant. He closed his eye, damning himself for a fool. When he looked up, she was staring at him inquisitively.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he ground out, and then took a deep breath. “Helen, I want to see you again.”

Her brows knit as if in faint confusion. “Well, of course we’ll see each other again. I do live here, you know.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh.” Her harebell-blue eyes widened, and he briefly considered just taking her again on the table, good manners be damned. He didn’t have trouble communicating with her when they made love. “Ohhh.”

He suppressed his impatience. “Well?”

She took a step toward him until her breasts—those sweet breasts!—nearly touched his chest. Her face was still a little flushed, very prettily pink, and her eyes sparkled. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him chastely on the mouth, but when he moved to deepen the embrace, she darted away.

She walked to the tower door and paused to look back at him over her shoulder. “Perhaps later this evening?” She slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind her.

“But I didn’t catch them!” Jamie objected.

“Sad, isn’t it?” Miss McDonald said cheerfully. “How one is doomed to eat the catch even when one is completely innocent of the fishing?”

“Phoebe,” Miss Munroe grunted, “you’re demonstrating the wrong attitude.”

“Personally,” Miss McDonald whispered loudly to Jamie, “I make sure to fill up on bread and soup. Can’t stand fish myself.”

“Phoebe!”

“Now if only they could learn to hook a good Yorkshire pudding, I’d be quite content to dine on the catch,” Miss McDonald mused.

Jamie giggled and Abigail felt a small smile tug at her lips. They hadn’t found any badgers on their ramble, but it’d been quite fun, anyway. Miss Munroe was very stern, but she knew all kinds of interesting things, and Miss McDonald was funny.

“Ah, here we are,” Miss Munroe said as they came within sight of the castle. “I’m for tea and some muffins, I think. Who’s with me?”

“I am!” Jamie exclaimed at once.

“Excellent.” Miss Munroe beamed at Jamie.

“What shall I do with Puddles?” Abigail looked down at the sleeping puppy in her arms.

“We need to think of a better name for that dog,” Miss McDonald muttered.

“Has he a bed in the kitchen?” Miss Munroe asked.

“We’ve found an old coal box,” Jamie replied.

“Mmm. Best line it with some straw and a blanket if you have it,” Miss Munroe said.

“I’ll go look in the stables,” Abigail said.

“Good girl,” Miss Munroe said. “We’ll save a muffin for you in the sitting room.”

The others went inside the castle while Abigail continued around the side to the stables.

“Maybe we can find an old blanket or coat for you,” she whispered to the sleeping puppy in her arms. Puddles’s soft ear twitched as if he heard her even in his sleep.

The stables were dark compared to the sunshine outside. She stood quietly inside the door for a moment, letting her eyes get used to the dimness. There were several empty stalls at this end. Abigail started down the main aisle. Sir Alistair’s big horse, Griffin, and the little dogcart pony were stabled at the other end. That was probably where she’d find fresh straw. She heard a snort and the thump of a hoof as she neared the far end of the stable, and then she heard something else. A man muttering.

Abigail stopped. Puddles squirmed as she squeezed him too tightly to her chest. The horse snorted again, and then Mr. Wiggins backed out into the aisle from a stall, holding something in his arms. Abigail tensed to run, but before she could do so, the little man whirled and saw her.

“What’re you doin’?” he growled low. “Spyin’ on me? Are ye spyin’ on me?”

And she saw that the thing in his arms was a big silver platter. Abigail shook her head and stepped back, helplessly staring at the platter.

Mr. Wiggins’s eyes narrowed to evil slits. “You tell anyone—hisself included—and I’ll slit your throat, ye hear? I’ll slit your throat and your Mam’s and your wee little brother’s, too, ye hear me?”

Abigail could only nod frantically.

He took a step toward her, and suddenly her legs worked again. She turned and fled down the aisle of the stables, running as fast as she could. But behind her she could still hear Mr. Wiggins shout.

“Don’t you tell! You hear me? Don’t you tell!”

Lister swung on his secretary. “And by the time they do and send word, she’ll have had plenty of time to flee overseas.”

“We’ve done everything we can.”

“Which is why I should go north myself.”

“But, Your Grace…” Henderson seemed to search for words. “She’s only a demimondaine. I had not thought our emotions were this engaged.”

“She is mine and she left me.” Lister stared hard at the secretary. “She defied me. No one defies me.”

“Naturally not, Your Grace.”

“I’ve decided.” Lister went back to the window. “Make the arrangements. I leave for Scotland on the morrow.”

Etienne wrote that he could commit no more to paper but that he could speak to Alistair in person. Even now, he was preparing to set sail on a ship that would dock in London in a fortnight’s time. If Alistair wished to meet the ship, Etienne could give more specific information at that time.

Alistair traced the scars on the left side of his face. To finally know that this was done apurpose by someone made his chest swell with a cold and determined rage. It made no logical sense. Catching a traitor wouldn’t heal his face. But even knowing it was illogical couldn’t stop the beast within. By God he wanted the Spinner’s Falls traitor to pay.

A knock came at the tower door, and he turned absently. “Yes?”

“Dinner is served, sir,” one of the maids called before clattering back down the stairs.

Alistair walked to his table and picked up Etienne’s letter. He stared at it a moment, muttered a curse, folded it, and stuck it in an already full drawer. He needed to think on this before he moved, perhaps inform Vale of the new information, but for now dinner awaited him.

As he neared the dining room, he could already hear Jamie’s high tones as he made some comment about fish. The mere sound sent his mouth to curving. Strange how the sound of a child’s voice—something that would’ve irritated him a fortnight ago—now made him smile. Was he really so mercurial? The thought made him uneasy, and he pushed it away. Why think about the future when the present held much better delights?

When he walked into the dining room, he found that the others had all sat down. Helen had unaccountably taken a seat as far away as possible from his own chair at the head of the table. She was pointedly not looking at him, and a faint flush tinged her cheeks. She would never be a great liar, and he had the contrary urge to kiss her right then and there in front of his sister and Helen’s children. Instead he strode to his own seat, avoiding Sophia’s speculative gaze, and sat. Sophia was to his right tonight with Miss McDonald on her other side. Jamie sat for some unknown reason to his left. Abigail sat on the far side of her brother, looking oddly subdued. Her mother was on the other side of Abigail, far enough away that he’d practically have to hoist a flag to communicate with her.

One of the footmen brought in a steaming platter of fish.

“Ah, lovely,” Alistair said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He’d not had fresh trout for several months, despite it being a favorite of his. “Here’s a nice big fish for you.” He forked up the largest of the trout and deposited it on Jamie’s plate.

“Thank you,” Jamie droned, his chin sinking onto his thin little chest as he stared at the fish on his plate.

Miss McDonald coughed into her napkin.

Alistair raised his eyebrows at his sister. “Something the matter?”

“No, nothing,” Sophia said, frowning at her companion. “But perhaps Jamie would prefer just a wee bit of fish to begin with.”

Alistair looked at Jamie. “Is that so?”

The boy nodded miserably.

“Then I shall eat your fish and you shall have my empty plate,” Alistair said, switching the plates. “Have some of the bread instead.”

Jamie perked up visibly at the suggestion.

“Bring in some marmalade or jam,” Alistair instructed the footman sotto voce. “What about you, Abigail? Do you care for fish?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and she did take a fish when the platter was offered, but then she merely poked it with a fork.

Alistair exchanged a glance with Helen. Helen shook her head, looking baffled.

Perhaps the chit was feeling unwell. Alistair frowned and sipped his wine. There was a surgeon in Glenlargo, but the man was more bloodletter than healer, and Alistair wouldn’t trust himself with the man, let alone a child. In fact, the nearest good doctor might not be any closer than Edinburgh. If Abigail was truly ill, he’d have to take her there himself. Childhood illnesses could be so debilitating—and so often fatal. Damn. Perhaps he shouldn’t have woken the children so early this morning. Had the stream been too cold? Had Abigail overexcited herself? It’d always struck him as a singularly silly theory that females could excite themselves into illness, but now, with a small female child under his roof, he realized how very inadequate his knowledge of children was.

“Are you ill?” he asked Abigail, perhaps a little sharply, as both Helen and Sophia turned to look at him.

But the child merely blinked and shook her head.

Alistair snapped his fingers at the footman. “Bring in a
very
small glass of wine, please.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman left the room, but Alistair never took his eye from Abigail.

Sophia cleared her throat. “We saw a hawk and two rabbits on our ramble, but no badgers. Are you sure that there is a sett nearby?”

“Yes,” Alistair said absently. Was Abigail paler than normal? She was such a fair-complexioned child to begin with; it was hard to tell.

“Well, we’ll have to wait for our next visit to look for it again.” Sophia sighed.

He glanced at her in surprise. “What?”

The footman returned with the glass of wine, and Alistair indicated the girl. She stared in surprise at the tiny glass filled with ruby liquid.

“Have some of that,” he said gruffly. “It’ll fortify your blood.” He turned and scowled at his sister. “What do you mean? Are you leaving so soon?”

“Early tomorrow,” his sister confirmed.

“Sophie has a meeting of the Edinburgh Philosophical Society tomorrow,” Miss McDonald said. “Mr. William Watson has traveled from London especially to demonstrate his Leyden electrical jar. If we are lucky, we’ll be able to experience the phenomenon of electricity ourselves.”

“Watson says that if a dozen people stand in a circle with linked hands, the electrical ether will travel around the circle equally,” Sophia said. “Sounds preposterous to me, but if it does happen, I don’t want to be the one to miss out.”

“But you just got here,” Alistair growled. When Sophia and Miss McDonald had first arrived, he’d been annoyed, but now he felt unaccountably put out at their sudden defection.

“You can always come with us, brother.” Sophia raised her eyebrows in challenge behind her spectacles.

Abigail suddenly grew very still.

“I think not,” Alistair muttered, eyeing the child. What ailed her?

“But you can at least come visit us next Christmas,” Miss McDonald ventured.

Alistair didn’t reply. Christmas was a long way away. He glanced at Helen, who inexplicably blushed. Why plan for the future when it held no joy for him? Better to stay here and enjoy Helen while she let him. His lonely dreary future could wait.