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Helen shook her head, avoiding his gaze. The truth was, there hadn’t been much time for Lady Vale to tell her anything. When Helen had gone to Melisande, she’d been fleeing Lister and had feared she was being followed. Melisande had suggested Sir Alistair because he lived in Scotland—far away from London—and Helen had jumped at the idea. She’d been desperate.
“Have you written many books?” She felt foolish that she hadn’t thought about what he might be doing up in his cluttered study.
“Only one.” He sipped his wine, watching her. “A Brief Survey of the Flora and Fauna of New England.”
“But I’ve heard of that.” She looked up at him in surprise. “It’s all the rage in London. Why, I saw two fashionable ladies nearly come to blows over the last copy in a bookseller on Bond Street. It’s considered de rigueur for a complete library. You wrote that book?”
He inclined his head ironically. “I confess it.”
Helen felt strange. The book in question was very elegant, a portfolio-sized volume filled with full-page hand-colored illustrations. She would never have dreamed in a thousand years that Sir Alistair could write something so beautiful.
“Did you illustrate the book as well?”
“In a way—the engravings are based upon my sketches,” he said.
“It’s lovely,” she said truthfully.
He raised his glass but didn’t comment, his eye watching her.
“I want to see the book,” Jamie said.
Abigail had stopped eating. She didn’t echo Jamie’s plea, but it was quite obvious she was curious as well.
Sir Alistair inclined his head. “I suppose there must be a copy about somewhere in the library. Shall we go see?”
“Huzzah!” yelled Jamie again, this time fortunately having swallowed the food in his mouth.
Sir Alistair looked across the table at Helen, cocking the eyebrow over his eye patch at her. It looked very much like a challenge.
ALISTAIR ROSE FROM his newly polished dining room table and walked around it to help Mrs. Halifax from her chair. She stared up at him, suspicious at his courtesy, so he held out his arm just to flummox her.
She laid her fingertips on his sleeve as if touching a hot pot. “We don’t wish to take your time. I know you’re busy.”
He cocked his head to better see her. She wasn’t getting away that easily. “Alas, I have no pressing matters at the moment, ma’am. Take a candle.”
She didn’t reply but merely nodded, though a small frown played about her mouth. She picked up one of the candles from a sideboard. Alistair led her toward the library, the children trailing behind. He was conscious of her fingers so lightly pressed against his arm and of her warmth as she walked beside him. Women, especially beautiful ones, didn’t often venture so near to him. He could smell the soap she’d used to wash her hair—a light lemon scent.
“Here we are,” he said as they made the library door.
He opened the door and went in. Mrs. Halifax immediately separated herself from him, not surprisingly really, but he felt the loss. Maudlin idiocy, that. He should be used by now to women running from him. He didn’t comment but took her candle and began lighting the ones in the room.
This had been his father’s library and his grandfather’s before him. Unlike many great house libraries, this one was actually used and the books read and reread. It was a rectangular room on an outside wall with some of the largest windows in the castle. The windows were hidden behind long, dusty curtains that hadn’t been drawn for years. All except the one curtain that had fallen, letting in Lady Grey’s afternoon ray of sunlight. The remaining walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with bookshelves, each crammed to overflowing with volumes. At one end of the library was a small fireplace. Two decrepit chairs and a small table sat before it.
He finished lighting the candles and turned back. The children and Mrs. Halifax were still clustered by the door. A corner of his mouth kicked up. “Come in. I know it isn’t as beautifully clean as the dining room now is, but I don’t think you’ll come to actual harm.”
Mrs. Halifax muttered something under her breath and frowned at one of the chairs by the fireplace. The chair was lopsided; it had a broken leg and was propped up by two books. Abigail was running her finger along a bookshelf and inspecting the dust collected on her fingertip.
But Jamie ran to a globe of the world and peered at it. “I can’t see England.”
The globe was nearly obscured by dust.
“Ah.” Sir Alistair took out his handkerchief and wiped off the globe. “There. Now England’s revealed, and so is Scotland. Here we are.” He pointed to the area north of the Firth of Forth.
Jamie squinted at the globe and then looked up. “Where’s your book?”
Alistair glanced about the library, frowning. He hadn’t had occasion to look at his own writing in quite some time. “Over here, I think.”
He led the way to a corner in which several oversized volumes were piled on the floor.
