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Alistair knelt by the old dog and placed his palm on her side. She was already growing cold. It must’ve happened as she slept, while they ate supper, as he’d shown Mrs. Halifax his library, completely oblivious.
He had to clear his throat. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Yes!” the boy cried. His face was red, tears glittering in his eyes. “Yes! You must!”
“Jamie,” Mrs. Halifax murmured. She tried to grasp her son’s arm, but he wrenched it from her grasp and threw himself on the dog.
Abigail ran from the room.
Alistair placed a hand lightly on the boy’s head. It quivered under his palm as the child sobbed. Lady Grey had been a gift from Sophia, many, many years ago, before he’d left for the Colonies. He hadn’t taken her with him; she had been a young dog back then, and he feared that the long sea voyage would prove too cramped for her. But when he’d returned home, broken, his life no longer what he’d thought it would be, Lady Grey had been here. She’d galloped down the drive to greet him, had stood with her paws upon his shoulders as he’d rubbed her ears, and she’d grinned, tongue lolling. She’d walked by his side when he’d wandered the heath, lay by the fireside as he’d written his book. Come to nuzzle his hand when he’d woken in the dark of night, drenched in sweat from hideous dreams.
Alistair swallowed with difficulty. “Good dog,” he whispered huskily. “That’s a good lass.”
He stroked her side, feeling the rough, cooling fur.
“Help her!” Jamie reared up and hit at the hand that had touched his head. “Help her!”
“I cannot,” Alistair said, choking. “She’s dead.”
Chapter Five
The beautiful young man led Truth Teller into the courtyard of the castle. An ancient knot garden lay here, formed of yew shrubs and decorated with statues of knights and warriors. A small cage of swallows was at one corner, the birds beating their wings hopelessly against the bars. In the center of the knot garden was a great iron cage. Dirty straw was scattered in the cage, and in the back huddled a large thing. It was a dull black color with rotting scales and stringy hair. It stood eight feet tall and had huge horns that curved down to its great shoulders. The thing’s eyes were yellow and bloodshot. At the sight of the young man, it leapt at the bars and snarled with a mouth filled with dripping fangs.
The beautiful young man merely smiled and turned to Truth Teller. “Are you afraid now?”
“No,” said Truth Teller.
His host laughed. “Then you shall be this monster’s guard.…”
—from TRUTH TELLER
She’d made a ghastly mistake. Helen stroked Jamie’s sweaty head that night and berated herself. Jamie had cried himself to sleep, desolate over Lady Grey’s death. On the other side of the bed, Abigail was silent. She hadn’t made a sound since that single shrill scream in the dining room. Now she lay on her side, facing away from Jamie, her body a slight lump under the covers.
Helen closed her eyes. What had she done to her darlings? She’d taken her children from the safety of their home in London, from all they knew, all that was familiar to them, and brought them to this strange, dark place where sweet old dogs died. Perhaps she’d been wrong. Perhaps she could’ve endured Lister and the hopeless, imprisoned life she’d led as his forgotten mistress, if only for the sake of her children.
But no. She’d known these last years that it was only a matter of time before she offended him in some way and she would wake up to find the children gone. If nothing else, that had been the primary driving reason to leave the duke: she could not live without Abigail and Jamie.
She opened her eyes and got up, drifting to the dark windows. The view was less than comforting, though. The ivy on the outside walls so overgrew the windows that the moon was but a glittering speck. There was a small table under the window that she’d made into a desk to transcribe Lady Vale’s fairy-tale book. She touched the papers there. She really ought to work on it some more, but she was too restless tonight.
She glanced back at the children. Jamie was in exhausted slumber, and Abigail hadn’t moved. Just in case she was still awake, Helen rounded the bed and bent over her daughter.
She touched her shoulder lightly—not enough to wake her if she slept—and whispered, “I’m going for a walk, darling. I’ll return before too long.”
Abigail’s closed eyelids didn’t move, but nonetheless Helen suspected she wasn’t asleep. She sighed and kissed her daughter’s cheek before leaving the room and shutting the door carefully behind her.
The corridor was dim, of course, and she really had no notion of where she could go. The castle didn’t lend itself to a meditative stroll. Still, she was restless and had to move somehow. Helen wandered down the hall, her single candle casting flickering light against the walls. The castle had five main floors. The bedroom she shared with the children was on the third, along with several rooms that once must’ve been quite nice bedrooms and sitting rooms. Helen trailed her fingers idly along the carved paneling of the hall. She’d have to have the maids dust and polish the old wood eventually, but this floor was low on her list of things to be put to rights.
She stopped suddenly and shuddered. She was making plans—future plans—for the castle when she might not even be here tomorrow. She had no doubt that Lister had men searching for her and the children at this very moment. The knowledge made her skin prickle in fear, made her want to flee at once. But she’d attended shooting parties in the country and knew what happened to the bird that flew when the beaters came close. They were shot from the sky. No. Better to keep her nerve and stay here at this hiding place she’d found.
She shivered and started down a staircase at the end of the hall. The treads were even and strong, but they were bare. Did Sir Alistair have the funds for a proper carpet? Perhaps she could hang a painting or two on the landing. She’d found quite a cache of paintings just today. They were all leaning on their sides and covered with a cloth in one of the closed rooms on the second floor.
The stair led to the back of the castle, quite near the kitchens. She hesitated when she made the ground floor. Light was coming from the kitchen. It couldn’t be any of the new servants. The maids and footmen made the journey to and from the village daily. Mrs. McCleod would eventually live in, but she’d taken one look at the cook’s quarters and stated that they’d need to be cleaned before she could move in. The light in the kitchen meant that either Sir Alistair was having a late snack or Mr. Wiggins was lurking there. Helen shivered. She hadn’t the fortitude to take on the nasty little man at the moment.
That decided, she turned to the front of the castle. The dining room was dark as she passed it, and for a moment she wondered what Sir Alistair had done with the big dog’s body. She’d left the castle’s master there in the dining room when she’d gone to take care of Jamie and Abigail. When she’d last glimpsed him, he’d been crouching silently over the dog. His eyes had been dry, but every bone in his body had projected grief.
Helen looked away from the dining room. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for Sir Alistair. He was a disagreeable man who’d gone out of his way to make it plain he didn’t want her here. She’d like to think that he didn’t care for anyone or anything. But that’d been clearly disproved, hadn’t it? He might wear the mask of an unfeeling ogre, but underneath he was a man. A man who could be hurt.
She was at the front of the castle now, by those great doors where first they’d entered. She had to set down the candle to pull back the heavy bolt and wrench the door open. Sir Alistair had performed these jobs without any sign of strain. Obviously he had some muscles under that old hunting coat he habitually wore. An image of the master of the castle without any clothing at all suddenly sprang up in her too-fertile mind, and Helen halted, startled and oddly warmed. Good Lord! Had she truly become a wanton? Because imagining Sir Alistair nude only aroused her curiosity: Did the man have hair on his chest? Was his belly as flat as it looked? And while she was standing here in the darkness, she might as well think it—was his manhood long or short? Thick or narrow?
