And then the childish voices clarified into words.
“. . . can’t go back to London, Jamie,” the girl was saying.
“Don’t see why not,” the boy replied in a mutinous voice.
“Because of him. Mama said so.”
Alistair frowned. Mrs. Halifax couldn’t return to London because of a man? Who? Her husband? She’d presented herself as a widow, but if her husband was still alive and she’d fled him… Dammit. The man might’ve hurt her. There were very few things a woman could do if she married badly, but fleeing her husband was one of them. This put a different angle on things.
Which wasn’t to say that he had to welcome her back with open arms. Alistair felt a wicked smile curve his lips.
He sobered and entered the kitchen. The children were at the far end of the room, squatting by the hearth. At his appearance, they both rose hastily, turning guilty faces toward him. Revealed between them was Lady Grey, lying before the small fire. She was on her back, her large paws in the air. She turned a sheepish face toward him, her ears flopping comically upside down, but she made no move to rise. Why should she? Quite obviously she’d been receiving the adoration of the children.
Humph.
The boy stepped forward. “ ’Tisn’t her fault, really! She’s a nice dog. We were just petting her. Don’t be angry.”
What kind of ogre did this child think him? Alistair scowled and advanced toward them. “Where is your mother?”
The boy glanced over his shoulder at the outside kitchen door and backed up a step as he talked. “In the stable yard.”
What was she doing in the stable yard of all places? Bathing his gelding, Griffin? Winding daisies in his mane? “And what are you two doing here?”
The girl moved around her brother so that her body shielded his. She stood very stiff, her thin little chest nearly quivering with tension. “We came back.”
He cocked an eyebrow at her. She looked like a martyr ready for the torch. “Why?”
She looked at him with her mother’s blue eyes. “Because you need us.”
He halted his advance. “What?”
She drew in a breath and spoke carefully. “Your castle is dirty and awful, and you need us to make it nice.”
ABIGAIL STARED UP at Sir Alistair’s face. Sometimes, on the carriage ride to Scotland, they’d passed huge stones, planted upright in fields, standing all by themselves. Mama had said they were called standing stones and that some ancient people had put them there, but no one knew why. Sir Alistair was like one of those standing stones—large and hard and sort of scary. His legs went on for miles, and his shoulders were wide and his face… She swallowed.
He had a dark beard that was patchy, because it didn’t grow on the scars on one side of his face. The scars ran through his beard, red and ugly. He’d covered his empty eye socket today with an eye patch. She was grateful for the eye patch, otherwise she might not have been able to look him in the face at all. His one eye was light brown, the color of tea without milk, and he looked down at her like she was an insect. A beetle, perhaps. One of those horrid black ones that scuttled away when someone overturned a rock.
“Huh,” Sir Alistair said. He cleared his throat with a grating, rumbling sound. Then he frowned. When he frowned, the red scars twisted on his cheek.
Abigail looked down. She wasn’t sure what to do next. She should apologize to him for screaming at him last night, but she didn’t quite have the courage. Her new apron was pinned to her bodice, and she plucked at it. She’d never worn an apron before, but Mama had bought one for herself and one for Abigail in the village. She said they’d need them if they were to set the castle kitchen to rights. Abigail didn’t think cleaning a castle would be nearly as fun as Mama was trying to pretend.
She peeked up at Sir Alistair. The corners of his mouth were turned down, but oddly his frown wasn’t half as frightening as it’d been the night before. She cocked her head. If Sir Alistair hadn’t been a very big, very stern sort of gentleman, she might’ve thought that he didn’t know what to do next, either.
“There was hardly any food in the pantry this morning,” she said.
“I know.” His mouth went flat.
Jamie had gone back to the big gray dog by the fire. He’d been the one to see her when they’d come in the kitchen. He’d run over to pet the dog, despite Abigail’s warnings. Jamie adored dogs of all kinds, and he never seemed to think that they might bite him. Abigail always thought about being bitten when she saw a strange dog.
She had a sudden longing for home, in London, where she knew everyone and where everything was familiar. If they were at home right now, she and Jamie would be having tea and bread with Miss Cummings. Although she’d never been very fond of Miss Cummings, the thought of her pinched, narrow face and the bread and butter she always served made Abigail’s chest ache. Mama said they might never return to London.
Now Sir Alistair was frowning down at the big dog as if he might be cross with her.
“Mama’ll be in soon,” Abigail said to distract him.
“Ah,” he said. The old dog put a paw on his boot. Sir Alistair glanced up at Abigail, and she stepped back. He was so stern-looking. “What are your names?”
“I’m Abigail,” she said, “and that’s Jamie.”
“We’re to have tea when Mama comes in,” Jamie said. He didn’t seem at all nervous at Sir Alistair’s presence. But then he was blissfully rubbing the dog’s ears.
Sir Alistair grunted.
“And eggs and ham and bread and jam,” Jamie recited. He often forgot things, but not things that had to do with food.
“She’s going to make some for you as well,” Abigail said cautiously.
“She isn’t a very good cook,” Jamie said.
Abigail frowned. “Jamie!”
“Well, she isn’t! She’s never done it before, has she? We always—”
“Hush!” Abigail whispered fiercely. She was afraid that Jamie was about to say that they’d always had their own servants. He was so stupid sometimes, even if he was only five.
Jamie looked at her with wide eyes, and then they both looked at Sir Alistair.
He was hunched down, scratching the dog under her chin. Abigail noticed that his hand was missing two fingers. She shivered in disgust. Maybe he hadn’t heard them?
Jamie rubbed his nose. “She’s a right nice dog.”
The dog tilted her head and waved a great paw in the air as if she’d understood Jamie.
Sir Alistair nodded. “That she is.”
“I’ve never seen one so big.” Jamie began stroking the dog again. “What kind is she?”
“A deerhound,” Sir Alistair said. “Her name is Lady Grey. My ancestors used hounds like her to hunt deer.”
“Coo!” Jamie said. “Have you ever hunted deer with her?”
Sir Alistair shook his head. “Deer are rare in these parts. The only thing Lady Grey hunts anymore is sausages.”
Abigail carefully bent and touched Lady Grey’s warm head. She made sure to stay far enough away from Sir Alistair so that she didn’t accidentally brush him. The dog licked her fingers with a long tongue. “She’s still a nice dog, even if it’s only sausages she hunts.”
Sir Alistair turned his head so he could see her out of his good eye.
Abigail froze, her fingers clutching Lady Grey’s wiry fur. She was so close to him that she could see lighter bits of brown like a star around the center of his eye. They were almost gold-colored, those bits. Sir Alistair wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning anymore, either. His face was still horrible to look at, but there was something almost sad about it, too.
She drew in her breath to say something.
At that moment, the outside kitchen door blew open. “Who’s ready for tea?” Mama asked.
HELEN STOPPED SHORT at the sight of Sir Alistair kneeling with her children by the hearth. Oh, dear. She’d rather hoped he’d not discover their return until after she’d made some tea. Not only might
a meal pacify him, but she could also use a bite or two before confronting Sir Beastly. Shopping was much harder work than she’d first supposed.
But a respite was not to be. Sir Alistair rose to his feet slowly, his worn boots scraping on the hearth’s flagstones. Goodness! She’d seen him just this morning, but already she’d forgotten how tall he was—how big in general, really, especially standing next to Abigail and Jamie—and how intimidating. That was probably why she was just a little bit short of breath.
He smiled, and the expression made the back of her neck tickle. “Mrs. Halifax.”
She swallowed and tilted her chin. “Sir Alistair.”
He prowled toward her, athletic, male, and rather dangerous. “I confess your presence in my kitchen is something of a surprise.”
“Is it?”
“I believe”—he circled behind her, and she twisted her neck to try and keep him in her sight—“that I dismissed you just this morning.”
Helen cleared her throat. “About that—”
“I’m almost certain, in fact, that I saw you leave in a carriage.”
“Well, I—”
“A carriage I hired to take you away.” Was that his breath against the back of her neck?
She turned, but he was several paces away, by the fireplace now. “I explained to the driver that you’d made a mistake.”
“I made a mistake?” His gaze dropped to the basket she carried in her hands. “You’ve been to the village, then, madam?”
She tilted her chin. No use letting him intimidate her. “Yes, I have.”
“And you’ve bought eggs and ham and bread and jam.” He stalked straight toward her, his long stride eating up the few feet between them.
“Yes, I have.” She shied away—entirely inadvertently! —and found herself against the kitchen table.
“And what sort of mistake did you tell the carriage driver I’d made?” He plucked the basket from her hand.
“Oh!” She reached for her basket, but he carelessly held it up out of reach.
“Tut, tut, Mrs. Halifax. You were about to tell me how you convinced the driver to bring you back here.” He took the ham out of the basket and set it on the kitchen table. “Did you bribe the man?”
“Certainly not.” She watched him worriedly as he placed the bread and jam beside the ham. Was he angry? Amused? The problem was she simply couldn’t tell. She expelled an exasperated breath. “I told him that you were confused.”
He looked at her. “Confused.”
If the table hadn’t been at her back, she might’ve fled. “Yes. Confused. I said I only needed the carriage to do my shopping in Glenlargo.”
“Is that so?” He’d emptied the basket by now and was examining the contents laid out on the table. Besides the jam, ham, bread, and eggs, she’d purchased tea, a lovely brown-glazed teapot, butter, four nice round apples, a bunch of carrots, a wedge of creamy yellow cheese, and a herring.
He turned his gaze to her. “What a magnificent feast. Did you use your own money?”
Helen blushed. Naturally, she’d had to use her own money. “Well, I—”
“How very generous of you, madam,” he rasped. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard tell before of a housekeeper using her own funds for her master.”
“I’m sure you’ll repay me—”
“Are you?” he murmured.
She set her hands on her hips and blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. This afternoon had been the most trying of her entire life. “Yes, I’m sure. You’ll repay me because I begged and bullied that wretched driver into stopping in Glenlargo. Then I had to find the shops, wheedle the baker to reopen his shop—he closes at noon, would you believe?—bargain the butcher down from his quite scandalous prices, and tell the grocer I wasn’t going to buy wormy apples.” She didn’t even mention the task that’d taken up most of her time in the village. “And after that I had to persuade the carriage driver into bringing us back here and helping me unload the carriage. So, yes, the very least you could do is repay me!”
A corner of those wide sensuous lips twitched.
Helen leaned forward, on the verge of violence. “And don’t you dare laugh at me!”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He reached for a knife in a drawer. “Abigail, can you put the kettle on for tea by yourself?” He began to slice the bread.
“Yes, sir.” Abigail jumped to help.
Helen let her arms fall, feeling a bit deflated. “I want to try it again. The housekeeping, I mean.”
“And I, as the master of the house, am to have no say in the matter, I see. No, don’t touch that.” This last was directed at her as she began to unwrap the ham. “It’ll have to be boiled, and that’ll take hours.”
“Well, really.”
“Yes, really, Mrs. Halifax.” He glanced at her with that light brown eye. “You can butter the bread. I’m assuming, of course, that you are capable of buttering bread?”
She didn’t bother replying to that insulting remark but merely took up a butter knife and began applying butter. His mood seemed to have lightened, but he still hadn’t indicated if he’d let her and the children stay. Helen bit her lip, darting a sideways glance at him. He looked perfectly content slicing bread. She blew out a breath. Easy for him to be at ease; he didn’t have to worry if he’d have a roof over his head tonight.
Sir Alistair didn’t speak again for a bit but sliced and handed her bread to butter. Abigail had brought out the tea, and now she rinsed the new teapot with hot water before filling it. Soon they all sat down to a meal of tea, buttered bread, jam, apples, and cheese. It wasn’t until Helen bit into her second slice of bread that she realized how very odd this might look to anyone walking in. The master of the castle eating with his housekeeper and her children in the kitchen.
She glanced at Sir Alistair and found him watching her. His long black hair fell over his brow and eye patch, giving him the appearance of a surly highwayman. He smiled—not very nicely—and she was put on the alert.
“I’ve been wondering something, Mrs. Halifax,” he rasped in his broken voice.
She swallowed. “Yes?”
“What, exactly, was your position in the dowager Viscountess Vale’s household?”
Damn. “Well, I did do some housekeeping.”
Technically true since Lister had set her up in her own house. Of course, she’d had a paid housekeeper. . . .
“But you weren’t the official housekeeper, I’m thinking, or Lady Vale would’ve said so in her letter.”
Helen hastily took another bite of bread so she could think.
Sir Alistair watched her in that disconcerting way, making her quite self-conscious. Other men had stared at her before, she was considered a beauty, and it was only false modesty not to admit the fact. And, of course, as the Duke of Lister’s mistress, she’d been an object of curiosity. So she was used to being stared at by men. But Sir Alistair’s gaze was different. Those other men had looked at her with lust or speculation or crass curiosity, but they hadn’t been looking at her really. They’d been looking at what she represented to them: physical love or a valuable prize or an object to be gawked at. When Sir Alistair stared at her, well, he was looking at her. Helen the woman. Which was rather disconcerting. It was almost as if she were naked before him.
“You certainly weren’t the cook,” he murmured now, interrupting her thoughts. “I think we’ve established that.”
She shook her head.
“Perhaps you were a type of paid companion?”
She swallowed. “Yes, I think you might call my position that.”
“And yet I’ve never heard tell of a companion who was allowed to keep her children with her.”
Helen glanced at the children across the table. Jamie was intent on devouring an apple, but Abigail looked back and forth between Helen and Sir Alistair with a worried expression.
Helen threw the abominable man her best smile along with a conversational bomb. “Have I told you about the two footme
n, three maids, and the cook I hired in town today?”
MRS. HALIFAX was the most astonishing woman, Alistair reflected as he deliberately set down his teacup. She was bent on staying at Castle Greaves, despite his inhospitality; on buying teapots and food; on, in fact, becoming his housekeeper of all things; and now she’d hired an entire staff of servants.
She quite took his breath away.
“You’ve hired half a dozen servants,” he said slowly.
Her brows drew together, making two small lines in her otherwise smooth forehead. “Yes.”
“Servants I neither want nor need.”
“I think there can be no question that you need them,” she replied. “I’ve dealt with Mr. Wiggins. He seems unreliable.”
“Wiggins is unreliable. He’s also cheap. Your servants will expect to be paid well, won’t they?” Grown men had been known to flee when he spoke thus.
But not she. She tilted up her softly rounded chin. “Yes.”
Fascinating. She appeared to have no fear of him. “What if I don’t have the money?”
Her beautiful blue eyes widened. Had that thought never occurred to her? That a man who lived in a castle might not have servants because he couldn’t afford them?
“I… I don’t know,” she stammered.
“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.