To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(51)

“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.

THAT NIGHT, HELEN found herself sneaking up the castle stairs like a thief. Or a woman intent on an assignation, which, as it happened, she was. It had seemed to take hours for the children to fall asleep, even after she’d read them all four of the fairy tales. Abigail in particular had tossed and turned. She’d also insisted on taking the puppy into bed with her and her brother, and nothing Helen said would dissuade her. When she’d fallen asleep, she’d been hugging the little animal to her cheek. Fortunately, the puppy hadn’t seemed to mind.

Helen frowned now as she tiptoed down the dark upper corridor. She’d thought that Abigail was beginning to relax at the castle. She’d seemed so happy that morning fishing. But now she was more morose than ever. The frustrating thing she’d learned about her daughter over the years was that it was no good badgering her to tell her what was the matter. Abigail needed to take her own time to reveal what was troubling her. Of course, that didn’t mitigate the motherly guilt Helen felt at not knowing what was bothering her child.

Sometimes she’d watched other little girls, pretty, carefree, talkative little girls, and wondered why her own child was so moody and sensitive. And then she would look into Abigail’s pale, worried little face and a wave of love would wash over her. This was her daughter, difficult or not. She could no more stop loving her than cut off her own arm.

Helen paused outside Alistair’s room.

Love—physical and emotional—had been her life’s downfall. Was she merely letting herself sink back into debauchery by seeking Alistair out? She knew most would certainly think so. But there was a fundamental difference between what she intended to do with Alistair and what she’d had with Lister. She’d never been in control with Lister. He’d been the one to set the pace, to make all the decisions. However arrogant and surly Alistair might seem, he wasn’t making any decisions for her.

This was her choice and hers alone.

Taking a deep breath, she gently knocked at the door. Silence. She fidgeted, rubbing one cold slippered foot over the other. Perhaps he hadn’t heard. Perhaps he wasn’t even here. Perhaps he’d gone to his tower for the night or forgotten her promise this afternoon or changed his mind. Good Lord! How embarrassing if—

The door suddenly swung open, and Alistair grabbed her by the arm and pulled her inside his room.

She gave a startled squeak.

“Shh!” He frowned down at her even as he untied her wrapper.

The room was dim; only a few candles were lit, and the fire had died to embers. Alistair wore a blue and black striped banyan that was frayed about the cuffs. His dark hair was down, and she noticed that his cheeks were damp.

He’d shaved for her.

The realization sent a shiver of delight through her middle. She stood on tiptoe to run her fingers through his hair and found it just a little wet. He’d bathed for her as well.

“I love your hair,” she murmured.

He blinked. “You do?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s…” He frowned as if unable to think of what to say.

“And I love your throat.” She pressed a kiss right there, feeling the beat of his pulse beneath her lips. He wasn’t wearing a shirt beneath the banyan, and his chest was delightfully available.

“Would you, ah, like some wine?” he asked. His voice had deepened as she trailed kisses down the loose V of the banyan.

“No.”

“Ah.” He quickly stooped and picked her up in his arms. “Just as well, I suppose. I don’t want any, either.”

He took three giant strides and deposited her on his great bed. She sank a little, and then he made the bed dip more by setting his knee on the mattress.

She sat up and placed a restraining palm on his chest. “Take this off.”

His brows shot up.

“Please,” she said sweetly.

He huffed but rolled off the bed to discard the banyan. And there was his chest, as lovely as she remembered it. Broad and strong and hairy, but this time was better than the last time she’d glimpsed his chest—the night he’d brought home Puddles—because this time she could touch it as well.

And she intended to.

When he made to mount the bed again, she shook her head at him.

He paused. “No?”

She flicked her fingers imperiously at his lower anatomy. “The breeches as well, please.”