To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(14)

A corner of those wide sensuous lips twitched.

Helen leaned forward, on the verge of violence. “And don’t you dare laugh at me!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He reached for a knife in a drawer. “Abigail, can you put the kettle on for tea by yourself?” He began to slice the bread.

“Yes, sir.” Abigail jumped to help.

Helen let her arms fall, feeling a bit deflated. “I want to try it again. The housekeeping, I mean.”

“And I, as the master of the house, am to have no say in the matter, I see. No, don’t touch that.” This last was directed at her as she began to unwrap the ham. “It’ll have to be boiled, and that’ll take hours.”

“Well, really.”

“Yes, really, Mrs. Halifax.” He glanced at her with that light brown eye. “You can butter the bread. I’m assuming, of course, that you are capable of buttering bread?”

She didn’t bother replying to that insulting remark but merely took up a butter knife and began applying butter. His mood seemed to have lightened, but he still hadn’t indicated if he’d let her and the children stay. Helen bit her lip, darting a sideways glance at him. He looked perfectly content slicing bread. She blew out a breath. Easy for him to be at ease; he didn’t have to worry if he’d have a roof over his head tonight.

Sir Alistair didn’t speak again for a bit but sliced and handed her bread to butter. Abigail had brought out the tea, and now she rinsed the new teapot with hot water before filling it. Soon they all sat down to a meal of tea, buttered bread, jam, apples, and cheese. It wasn’t until Helen bit into her second slice of bread that she realized how very odd this might look to anyone walking in. The master of the castle eating with his housekeeper and her children in the kitchen.

She glanced at Sir Alistair and found him watching her. His long black hair fell over his brow and eye patch, giving him the appearance of a surly highwayman. He smiled—not very nicely—and she was put on the alert.

“I’ve been wondering something, Mrs. Halifax,” he rasped in his broken voice.

She swallowed. “Yes?”

“What, exactly, was your position in the dowager Viscountess Vale’s household?”

Damn. “Well, I did do some housekeeping.”

Technically true since Lister had set her up in her own house. Of course, she’d had a paid housekeeper. . . .

“But you weren’t the official housekeeper, I’m thinking, or Lady Vale would’ve said so in her letter.”

Helen hastily took another bite of bread so she could think.

Sir Alistair watched her in that disconcerting way, making her quite self-conscious. Other men had stared at her before, she was considered a beauty, and it was only false modesty not to admit the fact. And, of course, as the Duke of Lister’s mistress, she’d been an object of curiosity. So she was used to being stared at by men. But Sir Alistair’s gaze was different. Those other men had looked at her with lust or speculation or crass curiosity, but they hadn’t been looking at her really. They’d been looking at what she represented to them: physical love or a valuable prize or an object to be gawked at. When Sir Alistair stared at her, well, he was looking at her. Helen the woman. Which was rather disconcerting. It was almost as if she were naked before him.

“You certainly weren’t the cook,” he murmured now, interrupting her thoughts. “I think we’ve established that.”

She shook her head.

“Perhaps you were a type of paid companion?”

She swallowed. “Yes, I think you might call my position that.”

“And yet I’ve never heard tell of a companion who was allowed to keep her children with her.”

Helen glanced at the children across the table. Jamie was intent on devouring an apple, but Abigail looked back and forth between Helen and Sir Alistair with a worried expression.

Helen threw the abominable man her best smile along with a conversational bomb. “Have I told you about the two footmen, three maids, and the cook I hired in town today?”

MRS. HALIFAX was the most astonishing woman, Alistair reflected as he deliberately set down his teacup. She was bent on staying at Castle Greaves, despite his inhospitality; on buying teapots and food; on, in fact, becoming his housekeeper of all things; and now she’d hired an entire staff of servants.

She quite took his breath away.

“You’ve hired half a dozen servants,” he said slowly.

Her brows drew together, making two small lines in her otherwise smooth forehead. “Yes.”

“Servants I neither want nor need.”

“I think there can be no question that you need them,” she replied. “I’ve dealt with Mr. Wiggins. He seems unreliable.”

“Wiggins is unreliable. He’s also cheap. Your servants will expect to be paid well, won’t they?” Grown men had been known to flee when he spoke thus.

But not she. She tilted up her softly rounded chin. “Yes.”

Fascinating. She appeared to have no fear of him. “What if I don’t have the money?”

Her beautiful blue eyes widened. Had that thought never occurred to her? That a man who lived in a castle might not have servants because he couldn’t afford them?

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered.