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Alistair took her arm firmly, leading her into the dining room. “On the contrary, I expect you and the children to dine with me every night that you stay in Castle Greaves.”
“Huzzah!” yelled the boy. He had already found a place at the table.
“You can’t!” hissed Mrs. Halifax.
“It is my castle, madam. Allow me to remind you that I do here as I please.”
“But the other servants will think… will think…”
He looked down at her. Her harebell-blue eyes were wide and pleading, and perhaps he should’ve taken pity on her.
But he didn’t. “They’ll think what?”
“That I am your mistress.”
Her lips were red and parted, her hair smooth and golden, the skin of her neck and breast so white and pure it might’ve been made from the wings of doves.
The irony was enough to kill him.
His mouth twisted. “Madam, I care not what others think, about me or anyone else. I should’ve thought that was obvious by now. You may either leave my castle this very night, or you may stay and dine with me tonight and every evening henceforth. It’s your choice alone.”
Alistair pulled out her chair with a thump and watched to see if worry for her own reputation would finally drive her away.
She inhaled, her sweet bosom swelling above the square-cut neckline of her dress. She’d left off the fichu tonight, and he damned the loss. Yards of creamy skin seemed to be revealed in the fichu’s absence. He could feel the blood rushing through his veins, pounding to that most earthly part of him.
“I’ll stay.” She lowered herself to the chair he held.
He gently pushed it in for her and bowed over her golden head. “I am filled with joy.”
* * *
BEASTLY, BEASTLY MAN!
Helen glowered from beneath her brows as she watched Sir Alistair round the table and sit at his own place. He didn’t have a worry about society or the consequences of flaunting it, and as a result, he’d put her in an untenable position purely on a whim it seemed! She inhaled and beckoned to Tom, the taller of the two footmen. He’d been standing in the corner gawking at their byplay all this while.
“Fetch dishes and silverware for myself and the children,” she ordered.
Tom hurried out of the room.
“Mrs. McCleod’s made meat pie,” Jamie confided to Sir Alistair.
“Indeed?” Sir Beastly replied to her son as gravely as if he spoke with a bishop.
Helen frowned at the polished table in front of her. Lister had never been interested in anything Jamie or Abigail had ever said.
“Yes, and it smells won-der-ful.” Jamie drew the last word out to emphasize the ambrosia that awaited them.
Despite working all afternoon, Jamie was bouncing with energy. Helen couldn’t help but smile at him, though she worried whether his exhaustion was merely waiting for bedtime. There had been several times on the ride north when Jamie had fallen apart with tiredness at the end of the day. It made putting him to bed rather wearying. Nursemaids, too, were something she’d never take for granted again.
Sir Alistair sat at the head of the rectangular table as was proper. Jamie was to his right, Abigail to his left, and Helen was at the foot, blessedly as far away from the master of the castle as she could be. Jamie’s face barely cleared the table. If they were to do this every night, Helen would have to find something he could sit on to make him higher.
“Mama said we weren’t to eat with you.” Abigail’s blue eyes were shadowed by worry.
“Ah, but this is my castle, and I set the rules within it,” Sir Alistair replied. “And I wish for you and your brother and your lovely mother to dine with me. Is that to your liking?”
Abigail knit her brow in thought before answering. “Yes. I like eating in the dining room. We polished the table and beat the carpet today. You wouldn’t believe the cloud of dust that came out of it. Nellie, the maid, coughed so hard I thought she’d choke.”
“And there was a bird in the chimney!” Jamie said.
