To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(28)

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 the 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.”

And he fell from the horse.

Helen screamed. Fortunately, the horse was well trained and didn’t start and trample him. He’d fallen to his back, and as she bent over his still form, something stirred under his coat. A small black nose and then a whimpering little head poked from the wet folds of material.

Sir Alistair sheltered a puppy under his coat.

Chapter Six

Every day Truth Teller guarded the monstrous thing at the center of the yew knot garden. It was monotonous work. The creature sulked in a corner of its cage, the swallows endlessly fluttered, and the statues merely stared dumbly.

In the evening, before the sun set, the beautiful young man would come and relieve Truth Teller, and he always asked the same question: “Have you seen aught to frighten you today?”

And every evening Truth Teller replied, “No.…”

—from TRUTH TELLER

“Mr. Wiggins!” Helen screamed into the blowing rain. “Mr. Wiggins, come help me!”

“Hush,” Sir Alistair moaned, having apparently recovered from his faint. “If Wiggins isn’t fast asleep, he’s dead drunk. Or both.”

She scowled at him. He was lying in a puddle, the puppy huddled against his chest, both man and beast shivering with cold. “I need help to get you inside.”

“No”—he heaved himself to a sitting position—“you don’t.”

She took his arm and pulled hard, trying to help him up. “Stubborn man.”

“Stubborn woman,” he muttered back. “Don’t hurt the pup. I paid a shilling for him.”

“And nearly died bringing the beast home,” she panted.

He lurched to his feet, and she wrapped her arms about his chilly chest to steady him. The position put her head under his arm, her cheek against his side. He laid a heavy arm over her shoulders. “You are a lunatic.”