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

To Beguile a Beast (Legend of the Four Soldiers #3) Page 41

Sophia, who’d been pacing the room, stopped, her expression alarmed. “She’s not a widow?”

“No. She’s the former mistress of the Duke of Lister.”

Sophia blinked, and then scowled. “I thought she might still be married. If she’s left Lister, who she was before hardly matters.” She dismissed Helen’s scandalous past with an impatient wave of the hand. “What matters is that you dress at once and go to Edinburgh and apologize to that woman for whatever boneheaded thing you’ve said or done.”

Alistair eyed his sister, now vigorously drawing the curtains. “I’m appreciative of the fact that you assume the rift is my fault.”

She only snorted at that.

“But what,” he continued, “do you think I should do once I apologize? The woman won’t live here.”

She turned to face him and pursed her lips. “You asked her to marry you?”

Alistair looked away. “No.”

“And why not?”

“Don’t be a fool, Sophia.” His head was aching, and he just wanted to go back to sleep—perhaps forever. “She’s been the mistress to one of the richest men in England. She’s lived in London or near the capital all of her life. You should’ve seen the jewels and gold Lister gave her. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but I’m a disgustingly scarred, one-eyed man who is nearing his fourth decade and living in a dirty old castle in the middle of nowhere. Why the hell would she want to marry me?”

“Because she loves you!” Sophia nearly shouted.

He shook his head. “She might say she loves me—”

“She admitted it to you and you did nothing?” Sophia looked scandalized.

“Let me finish,” Alistair growled. His head was pounding, his mouth tasted of the ale he’d drunk the night before, and he hadn’t shaved since Helen left. He just wanted to get this over with and go back to bed.

His sister pressed her lips together and waved a hand impatiently for him to continue.

He inhaled. “She might think she loves me now, but what future would she have here with me? What future would I have if she grew tired of me and left?”

“What future do you have now?” Sophia retorted.

He raised his head slowly and looked at her. Her expression was fierce, but her eyes were sad behind their round spectacles.

“Are you looking forward so much to spending the rest of your life alone?” Sophia asked quietly. “Childless, friendless, without a lover or helpmeet to even talk to in the evenings? What life is this that you’re protecting so desperately from Helen’s defection? Alistair, you must have faith.”

“How can I?” he whispered. “How can I when at any moment everything might change? When I might lose everything?” He traced his scars. “I can no longer believe in happy futures, in good luck, in faith itself. I lost my face, Sophia.”

“Then you’re a coward,” his sister said, and it was like a slap.

“Sophia—”

“No.” She shook her head and held out her hands to him. “I know it will be harder for you than most. I know you have no illusions left about happiness, but goddamn it, Alistair, if you let Helen go, you might as well kill yourself now. You’ll be giving up, acknowledging not that happiness is capricious, but that you have no hope of happiness.”

He drew in a painful breath. His chest felt as if shards of glass were buried there, breaking, shifting, cutting into his heart. Making him bleed.

“You can no more change your face than she can change her past,” Sophia said. “They’re both there; they’ll always be there. You must simply learn to live with your scars as Helen has learned to live with her past.”

“I have learned to live with my face. It’s her I’m worried about.” He closed his eye. “I don’t know if she can live with me. I don’t know if I could bear it if she couldn’t.”

“I do.” He heard her walk closer. “You can bear anything, Alistair. You already have. I once told Helen that you were the bravest man I’ve ever known. And you are. You’ve had the worst happen to you, and you view life with no illusions. I can’t even imagine the courage it takes for you to live day to day, but I’m asking you now to find an even greater courage.”

He shook his head.

The bed dipped, and he opened his eye to see her kneeling by his bed, her hands clasped before her as if in prayer. “Give her a chance, Alistair. Give your life a chance. Ask her to marry you.”

He rubbed his hand down his face. God, what if she was right? What if he was throwing away a life with Helen out of pure fear? “Very well.”

“Good,” Sophia said briskly, and rose to her feet. “Now get up and get dressed. My carriage is waiting. If we hurry, we can get to Edinburgh by nightfall.”

HELEN WAS SHOPPING on High Street when she heard the scream. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and the street was crowded. She’d decided once they reached Edinburgh to stay for a bit and buy Jamie and Abigail some new clothes. Jamie’s wrists were beginning to stick out from the cuffs of his coat. Her mind was taken up with fabrics and tailors and the scandalous cost of a small boy’s shoes, so she didn’t immediately turn to see what the problem was.

At least not until the second scream.

She looked then and saw several paces away a young pretty woman fainting gracefully into the arms of a startled gentleman in a dashing dark crimson coat. To the side stood Alistair, scowling at the girl, who’d obviously taken dramatic fright at his face.

Alistair looked up and saw her, and for a moment his expression went blank. Then he was making his way through the crowd to her, his gaze never leaving her face.

“It’s Sir Alistair!” Abigail exclaimed, finally seeing him.

Jamie strained at Helen’s hand. “Sir Alistair! Sir Alistair!”

“What are you doing here?” Helen asked when he was in front of them.

Instead of answering, he sank to one knee.

“Oh!” She placed a hand over her heart.

He held out a bunch of sadly wilted wildflowers, scowling at them. “It took longer to get to Edinburgh than I thought it would. Here.”

She took the limp wildflowers, cradling them as if they’d been the finest roses.

He looked up at her, his brown eye steady and focused exclusively on her face. “I said if I ever courted you, I’d bring you wildflowers. Well, I’m courting you now, Helen Carter. I’m a scarred and lonely man, and my castle is a mess, but I hope someday that you’ll consent to be my wife despite all that, because I love you with all my poor battered heart.”

By this time, Abigail was nearly jumping up and down with excitement, and Helen knew tears were in her own eyes.

“Oh, Alistair.”

“You don’t have to answer now.” He cleared his throat. “In fact, I don’t want you to answer yet. I’d like to have the time to properly court you. To show you that I can be a good husband and that I have some faith in the future. Our future.”

Helen shook her head. “No.”

He froze, his gaze fixed on her face. “Helen…”

She reached down and stroked his scarred cheek. “No, I can’t wait that long. I want to be married to you right away. I want to be your wife, Alistair.”

“Thank God,” he breathed, and then he was on his feet.

He pulled her into his arms and gave her a quite improper kiss right there on High Street, in front of God, the gaping crowd, and her children.

And Helen had never been happier.

SIX WEEKS LATER . . .

Helen lay back on the big bed in Alistair’s room—their room now—and stretched luxuriously. She was, as of ten o’clock this morning, officially Lady Munroe.

They’d had a small ceremony with only family and a few friends, but Papa had been able to attend, and Lord and Lady Vale had come, and really they were the only ones who mattered, anyway. She’d noticed that Papa had even gotten a tear in his eye as she’d come out of the little Glenlargo church.

He was their guest now for a week or so and was a floor below in a newly appointed room. Abigail and Jamie were exhausted from the excitement of the day. They were in the nursery a floor above with Meg Campbell, former housemaid, now raised to the exalted rank of nursemaid. Alistair was already talking about hiring a governess for the children. Badger had doubled his size in the last month and a half and was probably asleep in Jamie’s bed, though the dog was supposed to sleep in the kitchens.

“Admiring your new curtains?” Alistair’s rough voice came from the door.

She looked over and smiled at him. He was lounging against the doorframe, one hand held behind his back. “The blue’s so lovely in here, don’t you think?”

“I think,” he said, advancing toward the bed on which she lay, “that what I think has very little influence on the decorating of my castle.”

“Really?” She widened her eyes. “Then no doubt you won’t mind if I have your tower painted puce.”

“I have no idea what color puce is, but it sounds entirely revolting,” he said, and put one knee on the mattress. “Besides, I thought we’d agreed that you might do anything you wished to the rest of the castle as long as you left my tower be.”

“But—” she started, intending to tease him further.

He laid his mouth against hers, stopping the words in a long kiss.

When next he raised his head, she gazed up at his dear face dreamily and whispered, “What have you got behind your back?”

Alistair propped himself on one elbow beside her. “Two gifts, one small, one a little larger. Which would you like first?”

“The small one.”

He held out his fist and opened it to reveal a lemon. “Actually, this is a gift that comes with a condition.”

She swallowed, remembering when last they’d used a lemon to prevent conception. “What is that?”

“You may have it only if you wish it.” He raised his gaze to hers, and she saw a hesitant hope there. “I’m quite happy to continue as we are, with just Abigail and Jamie, for as little or as long as you want. But if you wish to forgo this”—he rolled the lemon between his fingers—“that would make me very happy as well.”

Silly tears flooded her eyes. “I think, then, that I prefer we use this lemon for lemonade.”

He didn’t reply, but the ardent kiss he pressed on her was eloquent. The prospect of having a shared child sometime in the future delighted him as well.

When she could catch her breath, Helen said, “And the other gift?”

“More of an offering, really.” He brought a bunch of wildflowers out from behind his back. “At least they’re not wilted this time.”

“I adore wilted flowers,” she said.

“I am a lucky man to have such an easily pleased wife.” He sobered. “I would like to give you a wedding present soon. Perhaps a necklace or a new dress or a special book. Think about it and let me know what you’d like.”

She’d been the mistress of a duke. She’d had jewels and gowns showered upon her once, and they hadn’t brought her happiness. Now she knew better.

Helen reached up and traced the scars on his cheek. “There’s only one thing I want.”

He turned his head to kiss her fingers. “And what is that?”

“You,” she whispered before he lowered himself to her. “Only you.”

Epilogue

Princess Sympathy lifted her eyes to the sky and saw that she had failed. Soon she would join her champion in a stony sleep. Despairing, she wrapped her arms about Truth Teller’s cold stone waist and kissed his frozen lips.

And then a strange thing happened.

Color and warmth rushed over Truth Teller’s gray face. His limbs turned to flesh and blood, and his mighty chest heaved, drawing breath.