“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?”
She looked blindly at her feet. “He cried himself to sleep.”
“Ah.”
Helen stared out at the moonlit landscape. “What a wilderness this is.”
“It wasn’t always.” His voice was low, the gravel making it rumble in a sort of comforting way. “There used to be gardens that led to the stream.”
“What happened to them?”
“The gardener died and another was never hired.”
She frowned. The ruined terrace gardens were silvered in the moonlight, but she could see that it was terribly overgrown. “When did the gardener die?”
He tilted his head back, gazing at the stars. “Seventeen… no, eighteen years ago?”
She stared. “And you’ve never hired a gardener since then?”
“There seemed no need.”
They stood in silence then. A cloud drifted across the moon. She wondered suddenly how many nights he had stood thus, alone and lonely, looking out over the ruin of his garden.
“Do you…”
He tilted his head. “Yes?”
“Forgive me.” She was glad the darkness masked her expression. “You’ve never married?”
“No.” He hesitated, and then said gruffly, “I was engaged, but she died.”
“I’m sorry.”
He made a movement, perhaps a halfhearted shrug. He hardly needed her sympathy.
But she couldn’t leave it alone. “No family, either?”
“I have an older sister who lives in Edinburgh.”
“But that’s not too far away. You must see her often.”
She thought wistfully of her own family. She hadn’t seen any of them—her sisters, brother, mother, or Papa—since she’d gone to Lister. What a price she’d paid for her romantic dreams.
“I haven’t seen Sophia in years,” he replied, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked at his dark profile, trying to make out his expression. “You’re estranged?”
“Nothing so formal.” His voice had grown cold. “I simply don’t choose to travel much, Mrs. Halifax, and my sister sees no reason to visit me.”
“Oh.”
He pivoted slowly, facing her. His back was to the moon, and she couldn’t see his expression at all. He seemed suddenly bigger, looming over her more closely—and more ominously—than she’d realized.
“You’re very curious about me tonight, Mrs. Halifax,” he growled. “But I think I’d rather discuss you.”
THE MOONLIGHT CARESSED her face, highlighting a beauty that needed no additional ornamentation. But her loveliness didn’t distract him anymore. He saw it, admired it, but he could also see past the surface camouflage to the woman beneath. A vivacious woman who, he suspected, was not used to labor yet had spent the day cleaning his filthy dining room. A woman not used to fending for herself but who had still managed to push her way into his home and his life. Interesting. What motivated her? What life had she left behind? Who was the man she was hiding from? Alistair watched Mrs. Halifax, trying to see the expression in her harebell-blue eyes, but the night shielded them from him.
“What do you want to know about me?” she asked.
Her voice was even, almost masculine in its directness, and the contrast to her extremely feminine form was surprising. Fascinating, actually.
He cocked his head, considering her. “You’ve said that you’re widowed.”
Her chin lifted. “Yes, of course.”
“For how long?”
She looked away, hesitating for a fraction of a second. “Three years this fall.”
He nodded. She was very good, but she was lying. Did the husband still live? Or did she run from another man? “And what did Mr. Halifax do?”
“He was a doctor.”
“But not a successful one, I take it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“If he’d been successful,” he pointed out, “you wouldn’t have to work now.”
She lifted a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me, but the topic distresses me.”
No doubt he was supposed to feel pity for her at this point and give up the chase, but he had her cornered, and his curiosity urged him on. Her distress only made him more eager. He stepped closer, so close that his chest nearly touched her shoulder. His nose caught the scent of lemons from her hair. “You were fond of your husband?”
Her hand fell and she glared up at him, her tone tart. “I loved him desperately.”