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Dear God.
From up the bank, Jamie’s high voice called, “Mama, come see this bug!”
Helen blinked. “Just a moment, darling.”
“I can’t get enough of you,” Sir Alistair muttered low.
A streak of desire shot through her.
“Mama!”
He straightened and swiftly smoothed her fichu, his hands sure and steady. “Stay here.”
He slid down the bank and deftly caught the fishing pole, which was indeed spinning lazily in a whirlpool. He mounted the bank again and took her elbow casually. “Come.”
And she wondered as they walked back to Jamie and the others, did he not feel the same incredible yearning when they kissed?
Madness, pure madness, Alistair thought as he resumed his fishing spot. Mrs. Halifax was dipping her line into the stream in an entirely ineffectual way downriver from him, but he didn’t trust himself to go and help her. What was he about, kissing his housekeeper? What must she think of him, a great, ugly beast of a man, forcing himself on her as he had? Surely she was appalled and distressed.
Except she hadn’t seemed particularly appalled or distressed as she’d opened her sweet mouth to his tongue and pressed her body against him. The memory had his cock rearing eagerly and nearly made him drop his fishing pole in the water. He caught Sophia’s suspicious gaze at that moment. God only knew what she’d say if he lost his pole. Something cutting, no doubt.
He cleared his throat. “Mrs. McCleod packed some bread and such for us, I believe.”
That got Jamie’s immediate attention. He came scampering over with the puppy, and Mrs. Halifax set aside her fishing pole only too eagerly to go digging in the basket. “Lovely! There’s a ham and some bread and fruit. Oh, and a meat pie and some small cakes.” She looked up at him. “What would you like?”
“Some of everything,” Alistair called back. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She was smiling at her son and chatting as she put together plates of food, and every once and a while, she’d dart a quick little glance at him when she thought he couldn’t see.
What was it about her? She was beautiful, yes, but that if anything would normally be a deterrent for him. Beautiful women merely made him more conscious of his own repulsiveness. She was different somehow. Not only had she seemed to have recovered from her shock at his appearance, but she also made him forget what he looked like. With her, he was simply a man flirting dangerously with a woman.
The feeling was intoxicating.
Abigail made a frustrated sound, and he moved to where she was trying to untangle her line. “Here, let me help you.”
“Thank you,” the girl said.
He glanced down at her solemn face. “You can go get some food if you wish.”
But she shook her head. “I like this. I like fishing.”
“You seem to have an aptitude for it.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Aptitude?”
He smiled. “You’re good at it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She gripped her pole fiercely. “I’ve never been good at anything.”
It was his turn to eye her. Perhaps he should offer some platitude, wave away her self-doubt, but he couldn’t find it in him to make light of her distress.
She glanced over her shoulder at her mother. “I disappoint Mama. I’m not… not as right as other girls.”
Alistair frowned. Abigail was unusually solemn for a little girl, but he knew that Mrs. Halifax loved her daughter. “I think that you’re right enough.”
Abigail’s brows knit and he knew he hadn’t said quite the right thing. He opened his mouth to try again when he was called by the picnickers.
