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Chapter Ten
The next evening, Truth Teller again loosed the swallows, and once again the beautiful young man pursued them out of the courtyard. Truth Teller stood and watched as the sun set and the monster took the form of the fair princess.
Then he asked, “How has this been done to you?”
The lady sighed sadly. “The man you serve is a powerful sorcerer. He saw me one day as I rode in the forest with my court. That night he came to my father’s castle and demanded my hand in marriage. I refused him, for the sorcerer is an evil man and I wanted nothing to do with him. But the sorcerer became enraged. He stole me from my father’s house and brought me here. He put a spell on me so that by day I am that repulsive beast. Only by night am I myself again. Go now so that he does not find you talking to me.”
And again Truth Teller was forced to depart. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
The letter from France came late that afternoon. Alistair was so distracted by what had happened earlier with Helen and what might happen later that night with her that he nearly didn’t notice it among the papers the footman brought up. He subscribed to several journals and news sheets from London, Birmingham, and Edinburgh, and they had a tendency to arrive all at once in the week. But at the bottom of the pile lay a very battered missive, looking as if it had come by way of the Horn of Africa, which, considering England’s present relations with France, was entirely possible.
Alistair took up the letter and slit it open with a sharp knife he’d earlier used to dissect a meadow vole. He read the letter, pausing to carefully reread several passages, and then tossed it onto his crowded desk. He got up to pace restlessly to the windows and gaze out. Etienne phrased his words with circumspection, but his message was clear. He’d heard rumors from those in the French government that there had indeed been an English spy who’d given away the position of the 28th Regiment of Foot, leading to the slaughter at Spinner’s Falls. What was more, the rumors specified that the spy was a titled Englishman. Alistair drummed his fingers restlessly on the windowsill. That was new information.
Etienne wrote that he could commit no more to paper but that he could speak to Alistair in person. Even now, he was preparing to set sail on a ship that would dock in London in a fortnight’s time. If Alistair wished to meet the ship, Etienne could give more specific information at that time.
Alistair traced the scars on the left side of his face. To finally know that this was done apurpose by someone made his chest swell with a cold and determined rage. It made no logical sense. Catching a traitor wouldn’t heal his face. But even knowing it was illogical couldn’t stop the beast within. By God he wanted the Spinner’s Falls traitor to pay.
A knock came at the tower door, and he turned absently. “Yes?”
“Dinner is served, sir,” one of the maids called before clattering back down the stairs.
Alistair walked to his table and picked up Etienne’s letter. He stared at it a moment, muttered a curse, folded it, and stuck it in an already full drawer. He needed to think on this before he moved, perhaps inform Vale of the new information, but for now dinner awaited him.
As he neared the dining room, he could already hear Jamie’s high tones as he made some comment about fish. The mere sound sent his mouth to curving. Strange how the sound of a child’s voice—something that would’ve irritated him a fortnight ago—now made him smile. Was he really so mercurial? The thought made him uneasy, and he pushed it away. Why think about the future when the present held much better delights?
When he walked into the dining room, he found that the others had all sat down. Helen had unaccountably taken a seat as far away as possible from his own chair at the head of the table. She was pointedly not looking at him, and a faint flush tinged her cheeks. She would never be a great liar, and he had the contrary urge to kiss her right then and there in front of his sister and Helen’s children. Instead he strode to his own seat, avoiding Sophia’s speculative gaze, and sat. Sophia was to his right tonight with Miss McDonald on her other side. Jamie sat for some unknown reason to his left. Abigail sat on the far side of her brother, looking oddly subdued. Her mother was on the other side of Abigail, far enough away that he’d practically have to hoist a flag to communicate with her.
One of the footmen brought in a steaming platter of fish.
“Ah, lovely,” Alistair said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. He’d not had fresh trout for several months, despite it being a favorite of his. “Here’s a nice big fish for you.” He forked up the largest of the trout and deposited it on Jamie’s plate.
“Thank you,” Jamie droned, his chin sinking onto his thin little chest as he stared at the fish on his plate.
Miss McDonald coughed into her napkin.
Alistair raised his eyebrows at his sister. “Something the matter?”
“No, nothing,” Sophia said, frowning at her companion. “But perhaps Jamie would prefer just a wee bit of fish to begin with.”
Alistair looked at Jamie. “Is that so?”
The boy nodded miserably.
“Then I shall eat your fish and you shall have my empty plate,” Alistair said, switching the plates. “Have some of the bread instead.”
Jamie perked up visibly at the suggestion.
“Bring in some marmalade or jam,” Alistair instructed the footman sotto voce. “What about you, Abigail? Do you care for fish?”
“Yes,” she whispered, and she did take a fish when the platter was offered, but then she merely poked it with a fork.
Alistair exchanged a glance with Helen. Helen shook her head, looking baffled.
Perhaps the chit was feeling unwell. Alistair frowned and sipped his wine. There was a surgeon in Glenlargo, but the man was more bloodletter than healer, and Alistair wouldn’t trust himself with the man, let alone a child. In fact, the nearest good doctor might not be any closer than Edinburgh. If Abigail was truly ill, he’d have to take her there himself. Childhood illnesses could be so debilitating—and so often fatal. Damn. Perhaps he shouldn’t have woken the children so early this morning. Had the stream been too cold? Had Abigail overexcited herself? It’d always struck him as a singularly silly theory that females could excite themselves into illness, but now, with a small female child under his roof, he realized how very inadequate his knowledge of children was.
“Are you ill?” he asked Abigail, perhaps a little sharply, as both Helen and Sophia turned to look at him.
