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The sight shook her to her core. He’d made love to her as if they were the only ones in the world last night, and now he comforted her daughter with rough tenderness. She realized with a shock that she was falling in love with him, this angry, lonely master of the castle. Perhaps she was already in love with him. And her heart beat faster in near panic. If there was one thing she’d learned in her chaotic, illogical, foolish life, it was this: Love made her make incredibly stupid decisions. Decisions that put herself and her children in jeopardy.
Adding to that unpleasant thought was another awful realization. She was still confused—dazed and startled awake from sleep—but she knew in her soul that Alistair had saved her daughter. Saved her when she had failed.
She closed her eyes as a sob shuddered through her body.
“Take this,” Miss Munroe said gruffly, draping a cloak over her shoulders. “You look cold.”
“I’m such a fool,” Helen whispered. “I never thought—”
“Don’t castigate yourself until you’ve spoken to the girl,” Miss Munroe said.
“I don’t see how I can’t.” Helen wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I really don’t.”
“Mama.” Jamie inexplicably shoved himself between them and clutched at her skirts.
“It’s all right, Jamie.” She gave one last sniffle and determinedly straightened. “Breakfast must be ready. Let’s all go get properly dressed, and then we can eat. That’ll make us feel better.”
Alistair looked at her over Abigail’s head. He still hadn’t entirely composed himself. His eye glittered with a feral violence. He’d been in the act of killing Mr. Wiggins when she’d reached the hall. Even now she wasn’t sure that he would’ve stopped on his own had she not compelled him to look at her. She shivered. The evidence of this uncivilized, primitive part of him should frighten her. But oddly, instead of making her more fearful, that savage side of him made her feel safe. Safe in a way she hadn’t felt since she’d been a child living in her father’s house. Back when the complications of adulthood had not yet intruded on her life.
She shivered, aware that she was vulnerable right now—too vulnerable. She was awash in conflicting emotions, and they left her defenseless to him. She needed to get away, if only for a little while, and compose herself.
She swallowed, and taking Jamie’s hand, she held the other out for Abigail. “Come, my love. Let’s settle ourselves.”
Abigail placed her hand in hers, and Helen had to stop herself from squeezing too tightly. She wanted to run her fingers over her daughter’s head, look her in the eyes, and see for herself that Abigail was fine, but at the same time, she didn’t want to add to her daughter’s trauma. Better to calm down and question her gently.
“We’ll be back down in a few minutes,” she said to Alistair, her voice trembling just a little.
Then she led her children to their room. Jamie had apparently recovered from whatever worry had plagued him. He hurried into his clothes and then sat on the bed with the puppy.
Meanwhile, Helen poured water from the pitcher on the dresser into a basin. She took a cloth, wet it, and gently wiped Abigail’s face. It’d been years since she’d helped Abigail dress. Miss Cummings had done the chore in London, and on their journey north, Abigail had mostly been able to get herself ready. But this morning, Helen carefully washed the tearstains from her daughter’s face. She prompted Abigail to sit and then knelt at her feet to roll on her stockings, tying the garters over her knees carefully, each movement deliberate and calm. She drew on Abigail’s underskirt and skirt, fastening them at the waist.
When Helen picked up the bodice, Abigail finally spoke. “Mama, you don’t have to.”
“I know, dearest,” Helen murmured. “But it’s a funny thing that sometimes mothers enjoy dressing their daughters. Can you indulge me?”
Her daughter nodded. Her cheeks had regained the faint color they usually held, and her face was no longer stricken. Helen’s fingers fumbled on the laces as she remembered the awful expression on Abigail’s face when she’d come to the bottom of the stairs. Dear God, if Alistair hadn’t been there . . .
“There,” Helen said softly when the bodice was laced. “Hand me the brush and I’ll do your hair.”
“Can you braid it and put it in a crown?” Abigail asked.
“Of course.” Helen smiled. She sat on a low stool. “I’ll make you a princess.”
Abigail turned around, and Helen began stroking the brush through her hair. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Abigail’s thin shoulders lifted, and her head ducked as if she were a turtle withdrawing into a shell.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” Helen murmured, “but I think we must, dearest. At least once. And then, if you wish, we’ll never discuss it again. Would that be all right?”
Abigail nodded and took a deep breath. “I woke up, but you and Jamie were asleep, so I took Puddles downstairs. I went with him outside so he could do his business, but then I saw Mr. Wiggins, and I ran back inside with Puddles and we hid.”
She paused, and Helen set down the brush to divide the long flaxen hair into three parts. “And then?”
“Mr. Wiggins came in the room,” Abigail said softly. “He… he shouted at me. He said I was spying on him.”
Helen’s brows knit. “Why would he think that?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail said evasively.
