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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?
A wanton, indeed.
Helen inhaled, shaking the crude thoughts away, and set her candle on the stone step of the castle. The moon was high enough to see a little in the dark as her eyes adjusted. The group of trees by the drive rustled softly in the wind, their tops waving against the night sky. Helen shivered. She should’ve brought a wrap.
There was a kind of path that led around the side of the castle, and Helen began picking her way. She rounded the back of the castle, and the moon shone, full and fat, on the hills in the distance. Its light was as nearly bright as day, and as she tore her eyes from it, Helen belatedly saw that she wasn’t alone. A tall male figure was silhouetted against the sky, like an ancient monolith, grim and still and lonely. He might’ve stood thus for centuries.
“Mrs. Halifax,” Sir Alistair rasped as she started to turn away. “Have you come to torment me even in the night?”
“I’m sorry,” Helen murmured. She could feel a flush start on her cheeks, and she was grateful for the dark, not only to hide her blush, but also to keep him from seeing the expression on her face. Her wayward imagination conjured up that same hazy picture of him nude. Oh, dear! “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
She turned to go back around the castle, but his voice halted her.
“Stop.”
She peered at him. He still faced the hills, but he’d turned his head toward her.
He cleared his throat. “Stay and talk with me, Mrs. Halifax.”
It was an order, spoken in commanding tones, but Helen thought perhaps there was a hint of a plea underneath the gravel in his voice, and that decided her.
She wandered closer to where he stood. “What would you like to talk about?”
He shrugged, his face averted again. “Don’t women always have something to babble about?”
“You mean fashion and gossip and other terribly unimportant things?” she asked sweetly.
He hesitated, perhaps thrown off balance by the iron underlying her tone. “I’m sorry.”
She blinked, sure she had misheard him. “What?”
He shrugged. “I’m not used to the company of civilized people, Mrs. Halifax. Please forgive me.”
It was her turn to feel uncomfortable. The man was obviously grieving the death of his loyal companion; it was unkind of her to snap at him. In fact, considering she’d made her living for the last fourteen years by catering to the needs of a man, it was rather out of character for her.
Helen pushed that strange thought aside and wandered a little closer to Sir Alistair, trying to think of a neutral topic of conversation. “I thought the meat pie at dinner was quite good.”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I noticed that the boy ate two slices.”
“Jamie.”
“Hmm?”
“His name is Jamie,” she said, but without any censor.
“Quite. Jamie, then.” He shifted a little. “How is Jamie?”
