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“You forget, Mrs. Halifax, that I’ve tried and failed to dismiss you since the night you arrived at my door. Watch it.” He’d fallen against the doorframe, pulling her off balance.

“If you’d just follow my lead,” she gasped.

“What a very bossy woman you are,” he mused as he staggered through the doorway. “I can’t think how I managed without you.”

“Neither can I.” She propped him against the wall and shoved the door shut. The pup whimpered. “It’ll serve you right if you catch an ague.”

“Oh, how dulcet is the feminine tone,” he murmured. “So soft, so gentle, even enough to rouse the protective urge in any man.”

She snorted and led him toward the stairs. They were leaving a trail of water that would have to be cleaned on the morrow. Despite his sardonic words, he was pale and shivering violently, and she truly was afraid he’d catch a deathly chill. She’d seen strong men laid low by fever before, when helping her father on his rounds. They’d be laughing and alive one week and dead within days.

“Watch the step,” she said. He was tall enough, heavy enough, that if he started to fall, she wasn’t altogether sure she could keep him from tumbling down the stairs.

He merely grunted, and that worried her more—did he no longer have the strength to argue with her? Her mind leapt ahead as she helped him slowly up the stairs. She’d have to get hot water, perhaps make tea. Mrs. McCleod had left a kettle near the banked kitchen fire last night—perhaps she had again tonight. She’d get him to his room and then run down for the kettle.

But he was shuddering in waves by the time they made the hallway outside his room. The puppy was in danger of being flung from his arm.

d her the digging stopped, and she could hear the rug sliding. Sir Alistair grunted. She put her face closer to the pool, watching a water weed waving below. If she were a mermaid, she’d sit on those rocks far below and tend a garden of water weeds. The stream would flow all about her, and she wouldn’t be able to hear a thing from the world above. She’d be safe. Happy.

A fish flashed silver among the rocks and she straightened.

When she turned around, Sir Alistair was smoothing a mound of earth over Lady Grey’s grave. Jamie had a tiny white flower he’d plucked from the meadow, and he laid it on the grave.

Her brother turned to her, holding out another flower. “Do you want one, Abby?”

And she didn’t know why, but her chest suddenly felt as if it would burst from within her. She’d die if that happened.

So she turned and ran back up the hill to the castle, as fast as she could, with the wind against her face until it blew all the thoughts from her mind.

IN THE EARLY years, when she’d still been naive and in love, Helen had sat up many nights waiting in case Lister should deign to visit her. And many nights she’d finally given up her vigil to retire alone and lonely. She was past those nights of waiting now—years past them. So it was particularly aggravating that she found herself that evening at midnight pacing the dim library in her chemise and wrap and waiting for Sir Alistair’s return.

Where was the man?

He hadn’t appeared for supper, and when she’d made the climb to his tower, she’d found it deserted. In the end, after waiting until the roast duck was completely cold, she’d had to eat without him, just her and the children in the now-clean dining room. When she’d questioned the children over the cold duck and congealed sauce, Jamie had told her about burying the dog earlier in the afternoon. Abigail had merely pushed her peas about her plate and then asked to be excused early, saying she had a migraine. Her daughter was too young to have migraines, but Helen had taken pity on the girl and let her retire in peace. That was another concern entirely—Abigail and her secretive, sad little face. Helen wished she knew what she could do to help her daughter.

She’d spent the rest of the evening consulting with Mrs. McCleod about meals and refurbishing the kitchen. Then she’d made Jamie take a bath by the kitchen fire, which had resulted in a puddle that needed mopping up before she’d put him to bed. The entire time she’d done these chores, she’d kept an ear half-cocked, listening for Sir Alistair’s return. All she’d heard for her troubles was Mr. Wiggins stumbling to the stables drunk as a lord. Sometime after that, it’d begun raining.

Where was he? And more to the point, why did she care? Helen halted by the pile of books where his great album of birds and animals and flowers of America still lay. She set her candle on a long table against the wall, bent, and hauled the big tome to the table’s surface. A small cloud of dust stirred and she sneezed. Then she moved the candle close enough to illuminate the pages without dripping wax on them and opened the book.

The frontispiece was an elaborate hand-colored illustration of a classical arch. Through the arch, a lush forest, blue sky, and a pool of clear water could be seen. To one side of the arch stood a beautiful woman in classical drapery, obviously an allegory. She held out her hand, inviting the viewer to enter the arch. On the other side of the arch was a man in sturdy buckskin breeches and coat, on his head a floppy hat. He had a pack over one shoulder and carried a magnifying glass in one hand and a walking stick in the other. Beneath the picture was the caption, THE NEW WORLD WELCOMES HIS MAJESTY’S BOTANIST ALISTAIR MUNROE TO DISCOVER HER WONDERS.

Was the little man supposed to be Sir Alistair? Helen peered closer. If so, it didn’t look a thing like him. The illustration had a cupid’s bow mouth and plump pink cheeks and looked rather like a woman in man’s clothing. She wrinkled her nose and turned the page. Here was the title page, which read in elaborate script A BRIEF SURVEY OF THE FLORA AND FAUNA OF NEW ENGLAND BY ALISTAIR MUNROE. On the next page were the words,

The Dedication

To His Most Serene Majesty

GEORGE

By the Grace of God

KING OF GREAT BRITAIN, &c

If it please him

I dedicate this book and my work.

yr humble servant, &c.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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