To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(55)

She shivered, aware that she was vulnerable right now—too vulnerable. She was awash in conflicting emotions, and they left her defenseless to him. She needed to get away, if only for a little while, and compose herself.

She swallowed, and taking Jamie’s hand, she held the other out for Abigail. “Come, my love. Let’s settle ourselves.”

Abigail placed her hand in hers, and Helen had to stop herself from squeezing too tightly. She wanted to run her fingers over her daughter’s head, look her in the eyes, and see for herself that Abigail was fine, but at the same time, she didn’t want to add to her daughter’s trauma. Better to calm down and question her gently.

“We’ll be back down in a few minutes,” she said to Alistair, her voice trembling just a little.

Then she led her children to their room. Jamie had apparently recovered from whatever worry had plagued him. He hurried into his clothes and then sat on the bed with the puppy.

Meanwhile, Helen poured water from the pitcher on the dresser into a basin. She took a cloth, wet it, and gently wiped Abigail’s face. It’d been years since she’d helped Abigail dress. Miss Cummings had done the chore in London, and on their journey north, Abigail had mostly been able to get herself ready. But this morning, Helen carefully washed the tearstains from her daughter’s face. She prompted Abigail to sit and then knelt at her feet to roll on her stockings, tying the garters over her knees carefully, each movement deliberate and calm. She drew on Abigail’s underskirt and skirt, fastening them at the waist.

When Helen picked up the bodice, Abigail finally spoke. “Mama, you don’t have to.”

“I know, dearest,” Helen murmured. “But it’s a funny thing that sometimes mothers enjoy dressing their daughters. Can you indulge me?”

Her daughter nodded. Her cheeks had regained the faint color they usually held, and her face was no longer stricken. Helen’s fingers fumbled on the laces as she remembered the awful expression on Abigail’s face when she’d come to the bottom of the stairs. Dear God, if Alistair hadn’t been there . . .

“There,” Helen said softly when the bodice was laced. “Hand me the brush and I’ll do your hair.”

“Can you braid it and put it in a crown?” Abigail asked.

“Of course.” Helen smiled. She sat on a low stool. “I’ll make you a princess.”

Abigail turned around, and Helen began stroking the brush through her hair. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Abigail’s thin shoulders lifted, and her head ducked as if she were a turtle withdrawing into a shell.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Helen murmured, “but I think we must, dearest. At least once. And then, if you wish, we’ll never discuss it again. Would that be all right?”

Abigail nodded and took a deep breath. “I woke up, but you and Jamie were asleep, so I took Puddles downstairs. I went with him outside so he could do his business, but then I saw Mr. Wiggins, and I ran back inside with Puddles and we hid.”

She paused, and Helen set down the brush to divide the long flaxen hair into three parts. “And then?”

“Mr. Wiggins came in the room,” Abigail said softly. “He… he shouted at me. He said I was spying on him.”

Helen’s brows knit. “Why would he think that?”

“I don’t know,” Abigail said evasively.

Helen decided to let it drop. “Then what happened?”

“And… and I cried. I didn’t want to—I tried not to, but I couldn’t seem to help myself,” she confessed miserably. “I hated crying in front of him.”

Helen’s mouth tightened, and she concentrated on braiding Abigail’s hair. For a brief, fierce moment, she wished that Alistair had killed Mr. Wiggins.

“Then Sir Alistair came in,” Abigail continued, “and he saw me and he saw Mr. Wiggins, and, Mama, he moved so fast! He took Mr. Wiggins by the neck and dragged him from the room, and I didn’t even know what was happening until I went into the hall, and then you and Jamie and Miss Munroe were there, and you told Sir Alistair that he must stop.” She took a deep breath at the end of this recitation.

Helen was silent a moment, thinking. She finished the braid and set aside the brush.

“Hold the pins,” she murmured, “while I do your crown.”

She placed the hairpins in Abigail’s hand and began wrapping the braid high across her daughter’s head.

“Thank you, darling.” She accepted a hairpin from Abigail and placed it carefully in the braid to anchor it. “I was wondering if anything else happened in the room where you hid with Puddles?”

Abigail held very still while she did her coiffure, but her eyes were lowered to the pins in her hand.

Helen’s heart missed a beat. Something seemed to be clogging her throat, and she had to clear it before going on. “Did Mr. Wiggins touch you at all?”

Abigail blinked and looked up, her eyes puzzled. “Touch me?”

Oh, God. Helen made her voice casual. “Did he put his hand on you, sweeting? Or… or try to kiss you?”

“Ewww!” Abigail’s face screwed into a mask of appalled disgust. “No, Mama! He didn’t want to kiss me—he wanted to beat me.”

“But why?”