To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3)(61)

“Alistair…” She hadn’t seen this side of him before, this gentle, charming lover. He was very appealing like this, and her resolve wavered.

“Is it the eye? I can put the patch back on.”

“No.” She drew back a little to see his face. Truly, she was no longer shocked by the scars, horrible as they were.

He placed his large hand on the back of her head and gently drew her down. “Then stay a little longer. I haven’t had a chance to properly woo you.”

She drew slightly away, eyeing him uncertainly. “Woo me?”

A corner of his mouth curled in amusement. “Court. Dance attendance on. Woo. I’ve been remiss.”

“And what would you do if you were to woo me?” she asked, only half in jest. She’d never been wooed, not properly. Surely, he wasn’t referring to marriage, was he?

He cocked one arm beneath his head, his mouth still curled. “I don’t know. I’m a bit rusty at paying court to a beautiful woman. Perhaps I should compose an ode to your dimples.”

Startled laughter puffed from her lips. “You can’t be serious.”

He shrugged and reached up with his free hand to play with a lock of hair near her face. “If you can’t abide poetry, I’m afraid I’m left with carriage rides and bouquets of flowers.”

“You’d bring me flowers?” He was joking, she knew, but a small, silly part of her heart wanted to believe him. Lister had bought her expensive jewels and an entire wardrobe, but he’d never thought to give her flowers.

His beautiful brown eye met her own. “I’m not a sophisticated man, and I live in the country, so you’d have to make do with country flowers. Violets and poppies in the early spring. Michaelmas daisies in the fall. Dog roses and thistles in the summer. And in late spring I’d bring you the harebells that grow in the hills hereabouts. Blue, blue harebells the exact same blue as your eyes.”

And that was the moment she felt it: a loosening, a breaking free. Her heart slipped its traces and went racing away, beyond her grasp, beyond her control. Entirely free and racing toward this complex, vexing, and utterly fascinating man.

Dear God, no.

BY THE TIME Alistair rose that morning, it was later than usual, a result of a night spent making love to Helen—which, all things considered, was a wonderfully satisfactory turn of events. If he had the choice of starting his day early or laying abed with his housekeeper, he very much feared he’d choose the latter and happily damn the sunrise.

Right now, though, it was past his usual hour to rise. As it was, by the time he’d shaved and dressed and run down the stairs, he discovered that Mrs. Halifax was engrossed in airing one of the unused bedrooms. One hoped that one rated higher than mildewed linen in one’s lover’s estimation, but apparently this was not always so. Helen rather distractedly refused an offer of a ramble and then soothed his ruffled male feathers by blushing violently before returning her attention to ordering the servants about.

Alistair continued to the kitchens. He might’ve not pulled her away from her work, but a woman wasn’t entirely indifferent if she went red at a mere glance. He snatched a warm bun from a tray Mrs. McCleod had just taken out of the oven and strode out the back door, tossing the hot bread from hand to hand. The day was brilliantly sunny, perfect for a ramble. Whistling, Alistair went to the stables to get his old leather specimen satchel.

He greeted Griffin and the pony and then went to pick up his satchel, which was lying in a corner. The strong, acrid odor of urine assaulted his nostrils when he raised the satchel. Only then did he see the dark wet spot on the corner.

He stared for a second at the ruined satchel, and then he heard a whimper and swung around. The puppy sat behind him, tongue lolling, entire rear end wagging.

“Dammit.” Of all the places in the stable, the yard, the whole, wide world, why, why, did the animal pick his satchel to piss on?

“Puddles!” He heard Abigail’s high voice call to the puppy from outside.

Alistair followed the puppy from the stables, holding the stinking satchel away from his body.

Abigail was outside, picking up the puppy. She turned a startled face toward him as he came out of the stables.

He held up the satchel. “Did you know he did this?”

The look of confusion told him her answer even before she replied. “What did… oh.” She wrinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the satchel.

He sighed. “This is ruined, Abigail.”

A mutinous expression creased her little face. “He’s only a puppy.”

Alistair tried to tamp down his exasperation. “That’s why you are supposed to be watching him.”

“But, I was—”

“Obviously not or my satchel wouldn’t be full of piss right now.” He placed his hands on his hips, watching her, not entirely sure what to do. “Get a scrub brush and some soap, and I want you to clean this for me.”

“But it’s smelly!”

“Because you weren’t doing your duty!” Anger finally overcame his good sense. “If you can’t mind him, I’ll find someone else who can. Or I’ll simply return him to the farmer I bought him from.”

Abigail jumped to her feet, the puppy held protectively in her arms, her face red. “You can’t!”

“I can.”