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Alistair looked at him, at his long lined face, his wide, mobile mouth, his extraordinary green-blue eyes. “What?”
Vale closed his eyes. “Sometimes I still dream of him, Reynaud. On that goddamned cross, his arms widespread, his clothes and flesh alight, black smoke rising in the air.” He opened his eyes, bleak now. “I wish I could’ve brought to justice the man who put him there.”
“I’m sorry,” Alistair said, because it was the only thing he could say.
A moment later, he shook hands with Vale, bowed to Lady Vale, and entered the waiting carriage. The children waved good-bye enthusiastically as the carriage rumbled down the street.
Helen watched them, smiling. She looked across the carriage to Alistair on the opposite seat, with the smile still on her face, and he felt it like a physical blow. She was so lovely, so loving. At some point it must occur to her that he was nothing but an ugly misanthrope with only an equally ugly castle to his name. He’d not even discussed with her whether or not she wished to accompany him back to Scotland. Perhaps once there she’d change her mind, see Castle Greaves for the provincial place it was, and leave him. He should discuss it with her, find out what her plans for her future were, but the truth was that he didn’t want to precipitate a heart-search on her part. If that made him a coward, so be it.
The children chattered for the next hour or so as they bumped and rolled out of London proper. Jamie did most of the talking, describing their kidnapping and the long carriage ride to London with the perfidious Wiggins. Alistair noted that the boy hardly mentioned his father at all, and when he did, it was always as “the duke.” The children didn’t seem to hold any filial regard for their father. Perhaps that was just as well.
Just outside of London, the carriage rambled into a small inn yard and halted.
Helen leaned forward to look outside the window. “Why are we stopping here?”
“A small bit of business,” Alistair replied evasively. “Wait here, please.”
He jumped from the carriage before she could bombard him with any more questions. The coachman was just descending his box. “A half hour you said, sir?”
Alistair nodded at the man. “That’s right.”
“Juss enough time for a pint, I reckon,” the man said, and went into the inn.
Alistair looked about the yard. It was a quiet little inn with no other carriages. Only a dogcart with a dozing mare stood on one side under the stable eaves. A gentleman came out of the inn. He put up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and then caught sight of the carriage and Alistair. He let his hand drop, then walked slowly toward Alistair. The gentleman wore a gray bobbed wig, and as he approached, Alistair saw that his eyes were a bright harebell blue.
The gentleman looked past him to the carriage. “Is she—?”
Alistair nodded. “I’ll be in the inn. I’ve told the coachman we’ll stop for a half hour. It’s up to you if you want to use all of that time.”
And without waiting to see what the man would do, Alistair strode to the inn.
“WHAT IS HE about?” Helen muttered under her breath as they waited in the carriage.
“Perhaps Sir Alistair has to use the necessary,” Jamie said.
That made her eye her son suspiciously. Jamie was five years old, but apparently a five-year-old boy’s bladder wasn’t very large because—
A single knock came at the carriage door. Helen frowned. Surely Alistair wouldn’t knock at his own carriage? Then the door swung open, and she entirely lost her thought.
“Papa,” she whispered, her heart in her throat.
She hadn’t seen him for fourteen years, but she’d never forget his face. There were a few more lines about his eyes and forehead, his bobbed gray doctor’s wig looked new, and his mouth was more pinched than she remembered it, but it was her papa.
He stared at her but didn’t smile. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
He climbed in the carriage and sat across from them. His coat, waistcoat, and breeches were black, making him very somber. He didn’t seem to know what to do now that he was in the carriage.
Helen put her arms around her children. She cleared her throat so that she might speak clearly. “These are my children. Abigail, who is nine, and Jamie, who is five. Children, this is my father. Your grandpapa.”
Abigail said, “How do you do, sir?”
Jamie merely stared at his grandfather.
“Jamie.” Papa cleared his throat. “Ah. Well.”
Papa’s Christian name was James. Helen waited to see if he’d say anything more, but he seemed a little stunned.
