To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(15)

“I do have the money to hire servants if I wished to.” He smiled kindly. “I don’t.”

Actually, Alistair supposed he could be called rich, if the reports from his man of business were to be believed. Investments he’d made before he set off for the American Colonies had done very well. Then, too, his book describing the flora and fauna of New England had been a rather spectacular success. So, yes, he had money to hire a half dozen servants—or dozens more if he cared. Ironic, really, considering that he’d never set out to make a fortune.

“Why not hire servants if you have the money?” She seemed honestly perplexed.

Alistair leaned back in his ancient kitchen chair. “Why should I spend my money on servants that are useless to me?” He didn’t add, servants who would no doubt loiter in the halls to stare at him and his scars.

“Cooks aren’t useless,” Jamie objected.

Alistair raised his eyebrows at the lad. Jamie sat across from him, his elbows flat on the table, a slice of bread with jam between his hands.

“Indeed?”

“Not if they can make steak pie,” the boy pointed out. He had jam smeared on either side of his face. There was jam on the table in front of him as well. “Or custard.”

Alistair felt his mouth quirk. Warm custard, fresh from the oven, had been a favorite of his as well when he’d been Jamie’s age. “Can this cook make steak pie and custard?”

“I believe so,” Mrs. Halifax said primly.

“Pleeease may we keep the cook?” Jamie’s eyes were wide and earnest.

“Jamie!” Abigail chided. Her eyes weren’t pleading at all. Interesting.

“I don’t think Mama can make a steak pie. Do you?” Jamie whispered hoarsely to his sister. “At least not a proper one.”

Alistair glanced sideways at Mrs. Halifax. A pretty blush was creeping up her cheeks. It had spread down as well; disappearing under a gauze fichu she had wrapped about her neck and tucked into her elegant bodice. She caught his gaze, her eyes wide and blue and a little sad. The sight of those eyes, even more than the tender skin at her throat, caused him a sudden and altogether unwelcome jolt of desire.

Alistair pushed back from the table and surged to his feet. “I’ll give the cook—and you, Mrs. Halifax—a week in which to prove yourselves. One week. If I’m not convinced of the usefulness of cooks and housekeepers by then, you’ll all go. Understand?”

The housekeeper nodded, and for a moment he felt a tiny twinge of guilt when he saw her stricken look. Then his mouth twisted at his own idiocy. “If you’ll excuse me, madam, I have work to do. Come, Lady Grey.”

He slapped his thigh and the dog got slowly to her feet. He strode from the kitchen without a backward glance.

Damnable woman! Coming to his castle and questioning and demanding and taking his time when all he wanted was to be left alone. He took the tower stairs two at a time and then had to pause and wait for Lady Grey. She was climbing the stairs slowly and stiffly as if her legs pained her. The sight made him even angrier. Why? Why did everything have to change? Was it too much to ask to be left to write his books in peace?

He sighed and climbed back down the stairs to Lady Grey. “Come on, lass.” He bent and gently scooped her against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat under his hands and the trembling in her legs. She was heavy, but Alistair held the big dog in his arms as he ascended the tower stairs. Once in the tower, he knelt and set her in her favorite place on the rug before the fire.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he whispered as he stroked her ears. “You’re a brave lass, you are, and if you need a bit of help up the stairs, well, I’m glad to oblige.”

Lady Grey sighed and laid her head on the rug.

Alistair stood and walked to the tower window that overlooked the back of the castle grounds. There was an old garden there, terraced in steps that led down to a stream. Beyond, rolling purple and green hills met the horizon. Vegetation overgrew the garden, falling down the buttressing walls and crowding the paths. It hadn’t been tended in years. Not since he’d left for the Colonies.

He’d been born and raised in this castle. He didn’t remember his mother, who had died giving birth to a stillborn baby girl when he wasn’t quite three. His mother’s death might’ve infused the castle with gloom, but though she’d been well loved, it hadn’t. He’d grown up running wild over the hills, fishing with his father in the stream and arguing history and philosophy with Sophia, his older sister. Alistair smiled wryly. Sophia had usually won the arguments, not only because she was the older by five years, but also because she was the better scholar.

Back then, he’d thought that eventually he, too, would marry. He’d bring his bride to the castle and raise another generation of Munroes, just like all his ancestors. But that hadn’t happened. He’d been betrothed at three and twenty to a girl named Sarah, but she’d died of a fever before they could wed. Grief had kept him from forming another alliance for years, and then somehow his studies had taken precedence. He’d traveled to the Colonies when he was eight and twenty and had stayed there three years before returning, a prematurely aged one and thirty.

And after he’d returned from the Colonies . . .

He traced the eye patch on his cheek as he gazed out at his countryside. It’d been too late by then, hadn’t it? He’d lost not only his eye, but also his soul. What remained was not fit for civilized company, and he knew it. He stayed far from other people to protect himself and, perhaps more importantly, to protect them. He’d seen sorrow, smelled death’s rotting breath, and knew that savagery lurked close beneath the thin veil of society. His very face reminded others that the basic animal was very near. That it might pounce on them as well.