“Then Sir Alistair came in,” Abigail continued, “and he saw me and he saw Mr. Wiggins, and, Mama, he moved so fast! He took Mr. Wiggins by the neck and dragged him from the room, and I didn’t even know what was happening until I went into the hall, and then you and Jamie and Miss Munroe were there, and you told Sir Alistair that he must stop.” She took a deep breath at the end of this recitation.

Helen was silent a moment, thinking. She finished the braid and set aside the brush.

“Hold the pins,” she murmured, “while I do your crown.”

She placed the hairpins in Abigail’s hand and began wrapping the braid high across her daughter’s head.

“Thank you, darling.” She accepted a hairpin from Abigail and placed it carefully in the braid to anchor it. “I was wondering if anything else happened in the room where you hid with Puddles?”

Abigail held very still while she did her coiffure, but her eyes were lowered to the pins in her hand.

Helen’s heart missed a beat. Something seemed to be clogging her throat, and she had to clear it before going on. “Did Mr. Wiggins touch you at all?”

Abigail blinked and looked up, her eyes puzzled. “Touch me?”

Oh, God. Helen made her voice casual. “Did he put his hand on you, sweeting? Or… or try to kiss you?”

“Ewww!” Abigail’s face screwed into a mask of appalled disgust. “No, Mama! He didn’t want to kiss me—he wanted to beat me.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.” Abigail looked away. “He said that he was going to, but then Sir Alistair came in and dragged him out.”

The clog in her throat was abruptly gone. Helen swallowed and asked, to be completely sure, “Then he didn’t touch you at all?”

“No, I told you. Sir Alistair came in before Mr. Wiggins could come near me. I don’t think he would want to kiss me when he was so angry, anyway.”

Abigail looked at her as if she was rather dim.

And Helen had never been so glad in all her life to be thought stupid. She placed the last pin, turned Abigail around to face her, and hugged her, careful not to squeeze as tightly as she really wanted.

“Well, I’m glad that Sir Alistair came in when he did. I don’t think we’ll have to worry about Mr. Wiggins again.”

Abigail squirmed. “Can I look in the mirror?”

“Of course.” Helen opened her arms and set her daughter free. Abigail ran to an old mirror over the dresser. She stood on tiptoe, turning her head first one way and then the other to see her crown of braided hair.

“I’m hungry,” Jamie announced, bouncing off the bed.

Helen nodded briskly and rose. “Let me dress and we’ll see what Mrs. McCleod has for breakfast.”

She began her toilet with a considerably lighter heart, though a small part of her brain pondered over Abigail’s evasion. If Mr. Wiggins wanted to beat the girl, what was she hiding?

“WE HAVE GOT to find a name for that dog,” Sir Alistair muttered to no one in particular later that afternoon. He hitched his old satchel over his shoulder.

He’d paused at the crest of a small hill to watch Jamie and Abigail roll down the other side. Jamie threw himself to the ground and rolled with complete abandon, oblivious both to possible obstacles and the direction his little body rocketed in. Abigail, in contrast, carefully tucked her skirts about her legs before lying down, her arms over her head, and slowly rolled in a straight line down the hill.

“You don’t like the name Puddles?” Helen asked. She’d tilted her face to the breeze and looked quite angelic.

Nonetheless, he shot her a dark look. “The animal will die of humiliation once it’s old enough to understand its name.”

She looked doubtfully at him. “Understand its name?”

He ignored the look. “A dog—especially a male dog—needs a dignified name.”

They both watched as the puppy, running excitedly down the hill after the children, tripped on its big paws and rolled to the bottom in a heap of long ears and muddy fur. The dog got up, shook itself, and started back up the hill again.

Alistair winced. “This dog in particular needs a dignified name.”

Helen giggled.

He felt his mouth twisting in a reluctant smile. It was a lovely day, after all, and she and the children were safe. For the present, it was enough that Wiggins hadn’t touched Abigail with lecherous intent but had merely scared the wits out of her. When Helen had told him, shortly before they’d sat for breakfast, he’d felt an awful weight lift from his chest.

Sophia, who’d also been part of the whispered conversation, had merely nodded and muttered, “Good,” before tucking into the porridge, bacon, and eggs that Mrs. McCleod had prepared. Shortly thereafter, she and Miss McDonald had departed for Edinburgh. He’d watched the carriage disappear down his drive with mixed feelings. He’d enjoyed sparring with his sister—he’d forgotten how much he liked her company—but he was glad to have the castle to himself and Helen again. Sophia’s eyes were far, far too perceptive.

He’d spent the remainder of the morning in productive work, but during luncheon, Jamie had spoken rather wistfully about the badgers they’d been unable to find the day before. That had led to a suggestion of an afternoon ramble, and now Alistair found himself derelict from his work and hiking the countryside.

“You did say that you’d let the children name him,” Helen said now.

“Aye, but I also specified that Puddles was not a name.”

“Hmm.” Her lips twitched and then firmed. “I haven’t thanked you for this morning.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “There’s no need.”

At the bottom of the hill, Abigail got carefully to her feet and shook out her skirts. Miraculously, she had no grass stains on them, though she’d gone down the hill multiple times now.

Helen was silent beside him a moment, and then she stepped closer and took his hand, the action hidden by her skirts. “I am so glad that you were there to protect her.”

He glanced at her.

She was watching Abigail with a wistful look in her eye. “She’s very special, you know, not at all what I expected in a daughter, but then I suppose we must all accept what God grants us.”

He hesitated a moment. It really wasn’t any of his business, but then he said gruffly, “She fears that she doesn’t meet with your approval.”

“My approval?” She looked at him, puzzled. “Abigail told you that?”

He nodded.

She sighed. “I love her terribly—of course I do; she’s my daughter—but I’ve never understood her. She has these moods, so dark for one so young. It’s not that I disapprove of her; it’s that I wish I knew how to make her happy.”

“Perhaps you don’t need to.”

She shook her head. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I’m no authority, but perhaps there’s no need to try and ‘make’ her happy. After all, that chore is ultimately one that will lead to defeat. No one can make Abigail happy but herself. Perhaps you need only love her.” He looked down into her sad harebell-blue eyes. “And you already do.”

“Yes.” Her eyes widened. “Yes, I do.”

He looked away again and felt the squeeze of her fingers before she dropped her hand.

“Come, children,” she called, and started down the hill.

He watched her, her skirts swaying as she descended the hill, her hips moving in a smooth seductive rhythm, a lock of pale gold hair blowing from beneath the wide brim of her hat. He blinked as if waking from a dream and followed those slowly swaying hips.

“Where’re the badgers?” Jamie asked. The boy caught his hand, seemingly without thinking.

Alistair tilted his chin forward. “Just over the hill there.”

They were surrounded by gently rolling hills covered in low gorse and heather, the horizon clear as far as the eye could see. Farther to the west, a flock of sheep grazed like dots of down on the green and purple hills.

“But we went that way yesterday,” Abigail objected. “Miss Munroe couldn’t find the badgers anywhere.”

“Ah, but that’s because she doesn’t know where to look.”

Abigail gave him a dubious glance, and he was hard-pressed not to smile at her doubt.

“Puddles doesn’t want to walk anymore,” Jamie announced.

“How do you know?” Abigail frowned at the puppy, who, as far as Alistair could see, looked perfectly able to walk.

“I just do,” Jamie retorted. He scooped the puppy into his arms. “Oof. He’s gotten big.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “That’s because you gave him the rest of your porridge this morning.”

Jamie started to say something rather heatedly, but Alistair cleared his throat. “I found a puddle in the kitchen this morning that I suspect Puddles may have made. Mind you take him outside for his business, children.”

“We will,” Abigail said.

“Have you thought of a name for him? He can’t be Puddles for the rest of his life.”

“Well, I thought of George, in honor of the king, but Jamie doesn’t like it.”

“It’s a silly name,” Jamie muttered.

“And what is your proposition?” Alistair asked.

“Spot,” Jamie said.

“Ah, well, that’s—”

“Stu-pid!” Abigail interjected. “Besides, he’s more splotchy than spotty, and Splotch would be an even sillier name.”

“Abigail,” Helen said. “Please apologize to Sir Alistair for interrupting him. A lady never interrupts a gentleman.”

Alistair’s eyebrows shot up at this piece of information. He took two long steps, catching up with her and bending his head near hers. “Never?”

“Not unless the gentleman is being extremely stubborn,” she replied serenely.

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry,” Abigail muttered.

Alistair nodded. “Hold the puppy tight, now.”

“Why?” Jamie looked up.

“Because the badger sett is right over there.” Alistair pointed with his walking stick. The badgers lived in a low mound, covered in gorse. “See the freshly dug earth? That’s one of the tunnels.”

“Ohhh.” Jamie squatted to look. “Will we see one?”

“Probably not. They’re rather shy, but they can kill a dog, especially a small one, if they’re challenged.”

Jamie hugged Puddles to his chest until the puppy squeaked, and whispered hoarsely, “Where do you think they are?”

Alistair shrugged. “Perhaps in their den asleep. Maybe out hunting grubs.”

“Grubs?” Jamie wrinkled his nose.

He nodded. “That’s what they seem to like.”

“Look at this!” Abigail very carefully squatted with her skirts tucked under her rear.

Alistair went to where she pointed and saw a small black mound. “Oh, well done! You found a badger’s scat.”

Behind him, Helen made a muffled sound, but he ignored her. He squatted next to Abigail and, taking a twig, poked at the mostly dry scat. “Notice these.”

He scraped out a couple black flakes.

Abigail peered closer. “What are they?”

“The carapace of a beetle.” He shrugged off his satchel and opened a pocket, rummaging until he found a very small glass jar. He picked up the beetle parts and dropped them in the jar, stopping the top with a tiny cork.

“What’s a carapace?” Jamie asked. He was squatting now, too, breathing anxiously through his mouth.

“The hard outer shell.” Alistair poked some more and found a thin, pale bone.