To Beguile a Beast
Book 3:
The Legend of the Four Soldiers
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Synopsis
Can a wounded beast trust a beauty with a past to tame his most secret desires?
Reclusive Sir Alistair Munroe has hidden in his castle ever since returning from the Colonies, scarred inside and out. But when a mysterious beauty arrives at his door, the passions he’s kept suppressed for years begin to awaken.
Running from past mistakes has taken legendary beauty Helen Fitzwilliam from the luxury of the ton to a crumbling Scottish castle and a job as a housekeeper. Yet Helen is determined to start a new life and won’t let dust, or a beast of a man, scare her away.
Beneath Helen’s beautiful façade, Alistair finds a courageous and sensual woman. A woman who doesn’t back away from his surliness or his scars. But just as he begins to believe in true love, Helen’s secret past threatens to tear them apart. Now both Beast and Beauty must fight for the one thing neither believed they could ever find: a happy ever after.
A Blackstone Audio production.
Release date: April 14, 2009
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 368
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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To Beguile a Beast
Elizabeth Hoyt
“You’re in pain and I can help you.”
Alistair looked at Helen, his eye cynical. “Why would you care?”
Did he think she’d back away at his harsh words?
She leaned into his face, still holding his hand. “What kind of woman do you think I am? Do you think I let just any man kiss
me?”
His eye narrowed. “I think you’re a nice woman. A kind woman.”
The patronizing answer nearly drove her to violence. “A nice woman? Because I kissed you? Because I let you touch me? Are
you mad? No woman is that nice, and certainly not I.”
He simply looked at her. “Then why?”
“Because.” She took his face in her palms. “I do care. And so do you.”
And she set her lips against his. Deliberately. Softly. Putting all her longing, all her loneliness into the gesture. She
started the kiss lightly, but he tilted his head beneath hers, angling and opening his mouth, and somehow she found herself
on his lap.
She’d been waiting for this for days now, and the reality set her limbs to trembling . . .
“Elizabeth Hoyt writes with flair, sophistication, and unstoppable passion.”
—JULIANNE MACLEAN, author of Portrait of a Lover
PRAISE FOR ELIZABETH HOYT’S NOVELS
To Seduce A Sinner
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Hoyt’s magical fairy-tale romances have won the hearts of readers who adore sizzling sensuality perfectly
merged with poignancy. Her latest showcases her talent for creating remarkable characters and cherished stories that make
us believe in the miracle of love.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Hoyt expertly sifts a generous measure of danger into the latest intriguing addition to her Four Soldiers, Georgianera series.
Her ability to fuse wicked wittiness with sinfully sensual romance is stunning.”
—Booklist
“I thoroughly enjoyed this story of action, mystery, and hot, hot romance. Be prepared to sizzle through this sensuous and
exciting story that’s impossible to put down until the last page is finished.”
—FreshFiction.com
“5 Stars! Sensational . . . One of the things I love most about Elizabeth Hoyt’s book is the lushness of the writing. A story
well worth digging into and enjoying. A thrilling historical romance!”
—ARomanceReview.com
“A wonderful story.”
—JandysBooks.com
“Hoyt masterfully throws you into the setting, characters, and plot . . . A skillfully wicked and sensuous tale, guaranteed
to capture your attention and heart.”
—BookPleasures.com
“Fans of Georgian romances will relish this fine tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“This story will grab you and not let you go until the last page is turned. Hoyt’s unique storytelling style . . . makes you
think, makes you smile, and also keeps your curiosity piqued as you move along the story.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“A great series.”
—GoodBadandUnread.com
“Funny and heartbreaking, sexy and poignant . . . wrenching and riveting reading . . . Jasper and Melisande are full, vibrant
characters. I loved the unusual setting, the intriguing and complex characters, the emotional struggles and connections, the
lush love scenes, the mystery . . . all in all, a remarkable book.”
—LikesBooks.com
“Falls firmly into the ‘love it!’ category . . . Our hero and heroine’s relationship leaps off the page. Watching the two
try to sort each other out while uncovering their true selves was wonderful.”
—Rakehell.com
“4½ Stars! I continue to be blown away by Elizabeth Hoyt. [She] writes the most remarkable characters. I couldn’t have been
happier at how the story was told and how it ended.”
—TheBookBinge.com
To Taste Temptation
“Hoyt . . . is firmly in control of her craft with engaging characters, gripping plot, and clever dialogue.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hoyt’s new series . . . begins with destruction and ends with glorious love. She begins each chapter with a snippet
of a legend that beautifully dovetails with the plot and creates a distinct love story that will thrill readers.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Stars! There’s an interesting suspense embedded in this book . . . The sensuality is breathtaking and the reader is carried
into the headiness of growing love . . . I loved this book, the high quality of the writing, the engaging plot, and, most
of all, the character development. A terrific novel . . . highly recommended.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“[A] brilliant start to a sexy new historical romance series. I thoroughly enjoyed this story of action, mystery, and steamy
romance. Her love scenes are scorching hot . . . Hang on to your seat and have a cold glass of water handy.”
—FreshFiction.com
“A suspenseful romantic tale that keeps the reader intrigued. The romance . . . is gratifying and grabs the most romantic
heart. The added touch of the folk tale at the beginning of each chapter is great.”
—JandysBooks.com
“Enchanting . . . Hoyt stuns with this marvelous romance. Emotionally charged and beautifully written. Samuel and Emeline
come alive on the pages, truly taking life as three-dimensional, provocative, and complex characters. Hoyt weaves threads
of this story seamlessly into anything but typical historical romance . . . Utterly impossible to put down. I am so excited
for the next book in this series.”
—RomanceJunkieReviews.com
“Volatile romance . . . involving mystery . . . readers will become completely engrossed in the fast-paced plot. With its
vividly drawn characters, neat plotting, and heated romance, it’s sure to satisfy.”
—RomRevToday.com
“I have been a fan of Elizabeth Hoyt’s writing since the release of her first book. Her writing catches you from the first
sentence and you are always taken on a wonderful journey.”
—ALadysDesire.com
“A strong tale . . . a fine Georgian romance.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Hoyt is a talented writer . . . I loved the historic detail and the slow reveal of what happened to the men at Spinners Falls.”
—Rakehell.com
The Serpent Prince
“Exquisite romance . . . mesmerizing storytelling . . . incredibly vivid lead characters, earthy writing, and an intense love
story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Wonderfully satisfying . . . delightfully witty . . . with just a touch of suspense. Set in a lush regency background, Elizabeth
spins a story of treachery, murder, suspense, and love with her usual aplomb.”
—RomanceatHeart.com
“Delectably clever writing, deliciously complex characters, and a delightfully sexy romance between perfectly matched protagonists
are the key ingredients in the third book in Hoyt’s superbly crafted, loosely connected Georgian-era Prince trilogy.”
—Booklist
“With an engrossing plot centered on revenge and a highly passionate romance between Simon and Lucy, The Serpent Prince delivers a steamy tale that packs an emotional punch. The three-dimensional characters, high drama, and sensuous love story
make it a page-turner.”
—RomRevToday.com
The Leopard Prince
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! An unforgettable love story that ignites the pages not only with heated love scenes but also with a mystery
that holds your attention and your heart with searing emotions and dark desire.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“The new master of the historical romance genre.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“An exhilarating historical romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4½ Stars! Absolutely fantastic . . . filled with witty dialogue and sparkling characters.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A refreshing historical romance . . . Elizabeth Hoyt weaves a superb tale that will keep you reading long into the night.”
—Bookloons.com
The Raven Prince
“A sexy, steamy treat! A spicy broth of pride, passion, and temptation.”
—CONNIE BROCKWAY, USA Today bestselling author
“Hoyt expertly spices this stunning debut novel with a sharp sense of wit and then sweetens her lusciously dark, lushly sensual
historical romance with a generous sprinkling of fairy-tale charm.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will leave you breathless.”
—JULIANNE MACLEAN, author of Portrait of a Lover
Now dark began to fall as Truth Teller made the crest of the mountain and saw a magnificent castle, black as sin. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
SCOTLAND
JULY 1765
It was as the carriage bumped around a bend and the decrepit castle loomed into view in the dusk that Helen Fitzwilliam finally—and
rather belatedly—realized that the whole trip may’ve been a horrible mistake.
“Is that it?” Jamie, her five-year-old son, was kneeling on the musty carriage seat cushions and peering out the window. “I
thought it was ’sposed to be a castle.”
“’Tis a castle, silly,” his nine-year-old sister, Abigail, replied. “Can’t you see the tower?”
“Just ’cause it has a tower don’t mean it’s a castle,” Jamie objected, frowning at the suspect castle. “There’s no moat. If
it is a castle, it’s not a proper one.”
“Children,” Helen said rather too sharply, but then they had been in one cramped carriage after another for the better part of a fortnight. “Please don’t bicker.”
Naturally, her offspring feigned deafness.
“It’s pink.” Jamie had pressed his nose to the small window, clouding the glass with his breath. He turned and scowled at
his sister. “D’you think a proper castle ought to be pink?”
Helen stifled a sigh and massaged her right temple. She’d felt a headache lurking there for the last several miles, and she
knew it was about to pounce just as she needed all her wits about her. She hadn’t really thought this scheme through. But,
then, she never did think things through as she ought to, did she? Impulsiveness—hastily acted on and more leisurely regretted—was
the hallmark of her life. It was why, at the age of one and thirty, she found herself traveling through a foreign land about
to throw herself and her children on the mercy of a stranger.
What a fool she was!
A fool who had better get her story straight, for the carriage was already stopping before the imposing wood doors.
“Children!” she hissed.
Both little faces snapped around at her tone. Jamie’s brown eyes were wide while Abigail’s expression was pinched and fearful.
Her daughter noticed far too much for a little girl; she was too sensitive to the atmosphere adults created.
Helen took a breath and made herself smile. “This will be an adventure, my darlings, but you must remember what I’ve told
you.” She looked at Jamie. “What are we to be called?”
“Halifax,” Jamie replied promptly. “But I’m still Jamie and Abigail’s still Abigail.”
“Yes, darling.”
That had been decided on the trip north from London when it became painfully obvious that Jamie would have difficulties not calling his sister by her real name. Helen sighed. She’d just have to hope that the children’s Christian names were ordinary
enough not to give them away.
“We’ve lived in London,” Abigail said, looking intent.
“That’ll be easy to remember,” Jamie muttered, “because we have.”
Abigail shot a quelling glance at her brother and continued. “Mama’s been in the dowager Viscountess Vale’s household.”
“And our father’s dead and he isn’t—” Jamie’s eyes widened, stricken.
“I don’t know why we need to say he’s dead,” Abigail muttered into the silence.
“Because he mustn’t trace us, dear.” Helen swallowed and leaned forward to pat her daughter’s knee. “It’s all right. If we
can—”
The carriage door was wrenched open, and the coachman’s scowling face peered in. “Are ye getting out or not? It looks like
rain, an’ I want to be back in th’ inn safe and warm when it comes, don’t I?”
“Of course.” Helen nodded regally at the coachman—by far the surliest driver they’d had on this wretched journey. “Please
fetch our bags down for us.”
The man snorted. “Already done, innit?”
“Come, children.” She hoped she wasn’t blushing in front of the awful man. The truth was, they had only two soft bags—one
for herself and one for the children. The coachman probably thought them desolate. And in a way, he was right, wasn’t he?
She pushed the lowering thought away. Now was not the time to have discouraging thoughts. She must be at her most alert and
her most persuasive to pull this off.
She stepped from the rented carriage and looked around. The ancient castle loomed before them, solid and silent. The main
building was a squat rectangle, built of weathered soft rose stone. High on the corners, circular towers projected from the
walls. Before the castle was a sort of drive, once neatly graveled but now uneven with weeds and mud. A few trees clustered
about the drive struggled to make a barricade against the rising wind. Beyond, black hills rolled gently to the darkening
horizon.
“All right, then?” The coachman was swinging up to his box, not even looking at them. “I’ll be off.”
“At least leave a lantern!” Helen shouted, but the noise of the carriage rumbling away drowned out her voice. She stared,
appalled, after the coach.
“It’s dark,” Jamie observed, looking at the castle.
“Mama, there aren’t any lights,” Abigail said.
She sounded frightened, and Helen felt a surge of trepidation as well. She hadn’t noticed the lack of lights until now. What
if no one was home? What would they do then?
I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. She was the adult here. A mother should make her children feel safe.
Helen tilted her chin and smiled for Abigail. “Perhaps they’re lit in the back where we can’t see them.”
Abigail didn’t look particularly convinced by this theory, but she dutifully nodded her head. Helen took the bags and marched
up the shallow stone steps to the huge wooden doors. They were within a Gothic arch, almost black with age, and the hinges
and bolts were iron—quite medieval. She raised the iron ring and knocked.
The sound echoed despairingly within.
Helen stood facing the door, refusing to believe that no one would come. The wind blew her skirts into a swirl. Jamie scuffed
his boots against the stone step, and Abigail sighed almost silently.
Helen wet her lips. “Perhaps they can’t hear because they’re in the tower.”
She knocked again.
It was dark now, the sun completely gone, and with it the warmth of day. It was the middle of summer and quite hot in London,
but she’d found on her journey north that the nights in Scotland could become very cool, even in summer. Lightning flashed
low on the horizon. What a desolate place this was! Why anyone would willingly choose to live here was beyond her understanding.
“They’re not coming,” Abigail said as thunder rumbled in the distance. “No one’s home, I think.”
Helen swallowed as fat raindrops pattered against her face. The last village they’d passed was ten miles away. She had to
find shelter for her children. Abigail was right. No one was home. She’d led them on a wild-goose chase.
She’d failed them once again.
Helen’s lips trembled at the thought. Mustn’t break down in front of the children.
“Perhaps there’s a barn or other outbuilding in—” she began when one of the great wood doors was thrown open, startling her.
She stepped back, nearly falling down the steps. At first the opening seemed eerily black, as if a ghostly hand had opened
the door. But then something moved, and she discerned a shape within. A man stood there, tall, lean, and very, very intimidating.
He held a single candle, its light entirely inadequate. By his side was a great four-legged beast, far too tall to be any
sort of dog that she knew of.
“What do you want?” he rasped, his voice low and husky as if from disuse or strain. His accent was cultured, but the tone
was far from welcoming.
Helen opened her mouth, scrambling for words. He was not at all what she’d expected. Dear God, what was that thing by his
side?
At that moment, lightning forked across the sky, close and amazingly bright. It lit the man and his familiar as if he was
on a stage. The beast was tall and gray and lean, with gleaming black eyes. The man was even worse. Black, lank hair fell
in tangles to his shoulders. He wore old breeches, gaiters, and a rough coat better suited for the rubbish heap. One side
of his stubbled face was twisted with red angry scars. A single light brown eye reflected the lightning at them diabolically.
Most horrible of all, there was only a sunken pit where his left eye should have been.
Abigail screamed.
THEY ALWAYS SCREAMED.
Sir Alistair Munroe scowled at the woman and children on his step. Behind them the rain suddenly let down in a wall of water,
making the children crowd against their mother’s skirts. Children, particularly small ones, nearly always screamed and ran
away from him. Sometimes even grown women did. Just last year, a rather melodramatic young lady on High Street in Edinburgh
had fainted at the sight of him.
Alistair had wanted to slap the silly chit.
Instead, he’d scurried away like a diseased rat, hiding the maimed side of his face as best he could in his lowered tricorne
and pulled-up cloak. He expected the reaction in cities and towns. It was the reason he didn’t like to frequent areas where
people congregated. What he didn’t expect was a female child screaming on his very doorstep.
“Stop that,” he growled at her, and the lass snapped her mouth shut.
There were two children, a boy and a girl. The lad was a brown birdlike thing that could’ve been anywhere from three to eight.
Alistair had no basis to judge, since he avoided children when he could. The girl was the elder. She was pale and blond, and
staring up at him with blue eyes that looked much too large for her thin face. Perhaps it was a fault of her bloodline—such
abnormalities often denoted mental deficiency.
Her mother had eyes the same color, he saw as he finally, reluctantly, looked at her. She was beautiful. Of course. It would
be a blazing beauty who appeared on his doorstep in a thunderstorm. She had eyes the exact color of newly opened harebells,
shining gold hair, and a magnificent bosom that any man, even a scarred, misanthropic recluse such as himself, would find
arousing. It was, after all, the natural reaction of a human male to a human female of obvious reproductive capability, however
much he resented it.
“What do you want?” he repeated to the woman.
Perhaps the entire family was mentally deficient, because they simply stared at him, mute. The woman’s stare was fixated on
his eye socket. Naturally. He’d left off his patch again—the damned thing was a nuisance—and his face was no doubt going to
inspire nightmares in her sleep tonight.
He sighed. He’d been about to sit down to a dinner of porridge and boiled sausages when he’d heard the knocking. Wretched
as his meal was, it would be even less appetizing cold.
“Carlyle Manor is a good two miles thataway.” Alistair tilted his head in a westerly direction. No doubt they were guests
of his neighbors gone astray. He shut the door.
Or rather, he tried to shut the door.
The woman inserted her foot in the crack, preventing him. For a moment, he actually considered shutting her foot in the door,
but a remnant of civility asserted itself and he stopped. He looked at the woman, his eye narrowed, and waited for an explanation.
The woman’s chin tilted. “I’m your housekeeper.”
Definitely a case of mental deficiency. Probably the result of aristocratic overbreeding, for despite her lack of mental prowess,
she and the children were richly dressed.
Which only made her statement even more absurd.
He sighed. “I don’t have a housekeeper. Really, ma’am, Carlyle Manor is just over the hill—”
She actually had the temerity to interrupt him. “No, you misunderstand. I’m your new housekeeper.”
“I repeat. I. Don’t. Have. A. Housekeeper.” He spoke slowly so perhaps her confused brain could understand the words. “Nor
do I wish for a housekeeper. I—”
“This is Castle Greaves?”
“Aye.”
“And you are Sir Alistair Munroe?”
He scowled. “Aye, but—”
She wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, she had stooped to rummage in one of the bags at her feet. He stared at her, irritated
and perplexed and vaguely aroused, because her position gave him a spectacular view down the bodice of her gown. If he was
a religious man, he might think this a vision.
She made a satisfied sound and straightened again, smiling quite gloriously. “Here. It’s a letter from the Viscountess Vale.
She’s sent me here to be your housekeeper.”
She was proffering a rather crumpled piece of paper.
He stared at the paper a moment before snatching it from her hand. He raised the candle to provide some light to read the
scrawling missive. Beside him, Lady Grey, his deerhound, evidently decided that she wasn’t getting sausages for dinner any
time soon. She sighed gustily and lay down on the hall flagstones.
Alistair finished reading the missive to the sound of the rain pounding steadily on his drive. Then he looked up. He’d met
Lady Vale only once. She and her husband, Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, had visited his home uninvited a little over a month
ago. She hadn’t struck him at the time as an interfering female, but the letter did indeed inform him that he had a new housekeeper.
Madness. What had Vale’s wife been thinking? But then it was near impossible to fathom the workings of the female mind. He’d
have to send the too-beautiful, too-richly-dressed housekeeper and her offspring away in the morning. Unfortunately, if nothing
else, they were protégés of Lady Vale, and he couldn’t very well send them off into the dark of night.
Alistair met the woman’s blue eyes. “What did you say your name was?”
She blushed as prettily as the sun rising in spring on the heath. “I didn’t. My name is Helen Halifax. Mrs. Halifax. We are becoming quite wet out here, you realize.”
A corner of his mouth kicked up at the starch in her tone. Not a mental deficient after all. “Well, then, you and your children
had better come in, Mrs. Halifax.”
THE TINY SMILE curving one side of Sir Alistair’s lips startled Helen. It drew attention to a mouth both wide and firm, supple and masculine.
The smile revealed him as not the gargoyle she’d been thinking him, but a man.
It was gone at once, of course, as soon as he caught her looking at him. In an instant, his expression turned stony and faintly
cynical. “You’ll continue to get wet until you come in, madam.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed and stepped into the dim hall. “You’re most kind, I’m sure, Sir Alistair.”
He shrugged and turned away. “If you say so.”
Beastly man! He hadn’t even offered to carry their bags. Of course, most gentlemen didn’t carry the belongings of their housekeepers.
Even so, it would’ve been nice to at least offer.
Helen grasped a bag in each hand. “Come, children.”
They had to walk quickly, almost jogging, to keep up with Sir Alistair and what appeared to be the only light in the castle—his
candle. The gigantic dog padded along at his side, lean, dark, and tall. In fact, she was very like her master. They passed
out of a great hall and into a dim passage. The candlelight bobbed ahead, casting eerie shadows on grimy walls and high, cobwebbed
ceilings. Jamie and Abigail trailed on either side of her. Jamie was so tired that he merely trudged along, but Abigail was
looking curiously from side to side as she hurried.
“It’s terribly dirty, isn’t it?” Abigail whispered.
Sir Alistair turned as she spoke, and at first Helen thought he’d heard. “Have you eaten?”
He’d halted so suddenly, Helen nearly trod on his toes. As it was, she ended up standing much too close to him. She had to
crane her neck to look him in the eye, and he held the candle near his chest, casting the light diabolically over his face.
“We had tea at the inn, but—” she began breathlessly.
“Good,” he said, and turned away. He called back over his shoulder as he disappeared around a corner, “You can stay the night
in one of the guest rooms. I’ll hire a carriage to send you back to London in the morning.”
Helen gripped the bags higher and hurried to catch up. “But I really don’t—”
He’d already started up a narrow stone stair. “You needn’t worry about the expense.”
For a second, Helen paused at the bottom of the stair, glaring at the firm backside steadily receding above them. Unfortunately,
the light was receding as well.
“Hurry, Mama,” Abigail urged her. She’d taken her brother’s hand like a good older sister . . .
Alistair looked at Helen, his eye cynical. “Why would you care?”
Did he think she’d back away at his harsh words?
She leaned into his face, still holding his hand. “What kind of woman do you think I am? Do you think I let just any man kiss
me?”
His eye narrowed. “I think you’re a nice woman. A kind woman.”
The patronizing answer nearly drove her to violence. “A nice woman? Because I kissed you? Because I let you touch me? Are
you mad? No woman is that nice, and certainly not I.”
He simply looked at her. “Then why?”
“Because.” She took his face in her palms. “I do care. And so do you.”
And she set her lips against his. Deliberately. Softly. Putting all her longing, all her loneliness into the gesture. She
started the kiss lightly, but he tilted his head beneath hers, angling and opening his mouth, and somehow she found herself
on his lap.
She’d been waiting for this for days now, and the reality set her limbs to trembling . . .
“Elizabeth Hoyt writes with flair, sophistication, and unstoppable passion.”
—JULIANNE MACLEAN, author of Portrait of a Lover
PRAISE FOR ELIZABETH HOYT’S NOVELS
To Seduce A Sinner
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Hoyt’s magical fairy-tale romances have won the hearts of readers who adore sizzling sensuality perfectly
merged with poignancy. Her latest showcases her talent for creating remarkable characters and cherished stories that make
us believe in the miracle of love.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Hoyt expertly sifts a generous measure of danger into the latest intriguing addition to her Four Soldiers, Georgianera series.
Her ability to fuse wicked wittiness with sinfully sensual romance is stunning.”
—Booklist
“I thoroughly enjoyed this story of action, mystery, and hot, hot romance. Be prepared to sizzle through this sensuous and
exciting story that’s impossible to put down until the last page is finished.”
—FreshFiction.com
“5 Stars! Sensational . . . One of the things I love most about Elizabeth Hoyt’s book is the lushness of the writing. A story
well worth digging into and enjoying. A thrilling historical romance!”
—ARomanceReview.com
“A wonderful story.”
—JandysBooks.com
“Hoyt masterfully throws you into the setting, characters, and plot . . . A skillfully wicked and sensuous tale, guaranteed
to capture your attention and heart.”
—BookPleasures.com
“Fans of Georgian romances will relish this fine tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
“This story will grab you and not let you go until the last page is turned. Hoyt’s unique storytelling style . . . makes you
think, makes you smile, and also keeps your curiosity piqued as you move along the story.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“A great series.”
—GoodBadandUnread.com
“Funny and heartbreaking, sexy and poignant . . . wrenching and riveting reading . . . Jasper and Melisande are full, vibrant
characters. I loved the unusual setting, the intriguing and complex characters, the emotional struggles and connections, the
lush love scenes, the mystery . . . all in all, a remarkable book.”
—LikesBooks.com
“Falls firmly into the ‘love it!’ category . . . Our hero and heroine’s relationship leaps off the page. Watching the two
try to sort each other out while uncovering their true selves was wonderful.”
—Rakehell.com
“4½ Stars! I continue to be blown away by Elizabeth Hoyt. [She] writes the most remarkable characters. I couldn’t have been
happier at how the story was told and how it ended.”
—TheBookBinge.com
To Taste Temptation
“Hoyt . . . is firmly in control of her craft with engaging characters, gripping plot, and clever dialogue.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hoyt’s new series . . . begins with destruction and ends with glorious love. She begins each chapter with a snippet
of a legend that beautifully dovetails with the plot and creates a distinct love story that will thrill readers.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Stars! There’s an interesting suspense embedded in this book . . . The sensuality is breathtaking and the reader is carried
into the headiness of growing love . . . I loved this book, the high quality of the writing, the engaging plot, and, most
of all, the character development. A terrific novel . . . highly recommended.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“[A] brilliant start to a sexy new historical romance series. I thoroughly enjoyed this story of action, mystery, and steamy
romance. Her love scenes are scorching hot . . . Hang on to your seat and have a cold glass of water handy.”
—FreshFiction.com
“A suspenseful romantic tale that keeps the reader intrigued. The romance . . . is gratifying and grabs the most romantic
heart. The added touch of the folk tale at the beginning of each chapter is great.”
—JandysBooks.com
“Enchanting . . . Hoyt stuns with this marvelous romance. Emotionally charged and beautifully written. Samuel and Emeline
come alive on the pages, truly taking life as three-dimensional, provocative, and complex characters. Hoyt weaves threads
of this story seamlessly into anything but typical historical romance . . . Utterly impossible to put down. I am so excited
for the next book in this series.”
—RomanceJunkieReviews.com
“Volatile romance . . . involving mystery . . . readers will become completely engrossed in the fast-paced plot. With its
vividly drawn characters, neat plotting, and heated romance, it’s sure to satisfy.”
—RomRevToday.com
“I have been a fan of Elizabeth Hoyt’s writing since the release of her first book. Her writing catches you from the first
sentence and you are always taken on a wonderful journey.”
—ALadysDesire.com
“A strong tale . . . a fine Georgian romance.”
—HarrietKlausner.wwwi.com
“Hoyt is a talented writer . . . I loved the historic detail and the slow reveal of what happened to the men at Spinners Falls.”
—Rakehell.com
The Serpent Prince
“Exquisite romance . . . mesmerizing storytelling . . . incredibly vivid lead characters, earthy writing, and an intense love
story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Wonderfully satisfying . . . delightfully witty . . . with just a touch of suspense. Set in a lush regency background, Elizabeth
spins a story of treachery, murder, suspense, and love with her usual aplomb.”
—RomanceatHeart.com
“Delectably clever writing, deliciously complex characters, and a delightfully sexy romance between perfectly matched protagonists
are the key ingredients in the third book in Hoyt’s superbly crafted, loosely connected Georgian-era Prince trilogy.”
—Booklist
“With an engrossing plot centered on revenge and a highly passionate romance between Simon and Lucy, The Serpent Prince delivers a steamy tale that packs an emotional punch. The three-dimensional characters, high drama, and sensuous love story
make it a page-turner.”
—RomRevToday.com
The Leopard Prince
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! An unforgettable love story that ignites the pages not only with heated love scenes but also with a mystery
that holds your attention and your heart with searing emotions and dark desire.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“The new master of the historical romance genre.”
—HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“An exhilarating historical romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
“4½ Stars! Absolutely fantastic . . . filled with witty dialogue and sparkling characters.”
—TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
“A refreshing historical romance . . . Elizabeth Hoyt weaves a superb tale that will keep you reading long into the night.”
—Bookloons.com
The Raven Prince
“A sexy, steamy treat! A spicy broth of pride, passion, and temptation.”
—CONNIE BROCKWAY, USA Today bestselling author
“Hoyt expertly spices this stunning debut novel with a sharp sense of wit and then sweetens her lusciously dark, lushly sensual
historical romance with a generous sprinkling of fairy-tale charm.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will leave you breathless.”
—JULIANNE MACLEAN, author of Portrait of a Lover
Now dark began to fall as Truth Teller made the crest of the mountain and saw a magnificent castle, black as sin. . . .
—from TRUTH TELLER
SCOTLAND
JULY 1765
It was as the carriage bumped around a bend and the decrepit castle loomed into view in the dusk that Helen Fitzwilliam finally—and
rather belatedly—realized that the whole trip may’ve been a horrible mistake.
“Is that it?” Jamie, her five-year-old son, was kneeling on the musty carriage seat cushions and peering out the window. “I
thought it was ’sposed to be a castle.”
“’Tis a castle, silly,” his nine-year-old sister, Abigail, replied. “Can’t you see the tower?”
“Just ’cause it has a tower don’t mean it’s a castle,” Jamie objected, frowning at the suspect castle. “There’s no moat. If
it is a castle, it’s not a proper one.”
“Children,” Helen said rather too sharply, but then they had been in one cramped carriage after another for the better part of a fortnight. “Please don’t bicker.”
Naturally, her offspring feigned deafness.
“It’s pink.” Jamie had pressed his nose to the small window, clouding the glass with his breath. He turned and scowled at
his sister. “D’you think a proper castle ought to be pink?”
Helen stifled a sigh and massaged her right temple. She’d felt a headache lurking there for the last several miles, and she
knew it was about to pounce just as she needed all her wits about her. She hadn’t really thought this scheme through. But,
then, she never did think things through as she ought to, did she? Impulsiveness—hastily acted on and more leisurely regretted—was
the hallmark of her life. It was why, at the age of one and thirty, she found herself traveling through a foreign land about
to throw herself and her children on the mercy of a stranger.
What a fool she was!
A fool who had better get her story straight, for the carriage was already stopping before the imposing wood doors.
“Children!” she hissed.
Both little faces snapped around at her tone. Jamie’s brown eyes were wide while Abigail’s expression was pinched and fearful.
Her daughter noticed far too much for a little girl; she was too sensitive to the atmosphere adults created.
Helen took a breath and made herself smile. “This will be an adventure, my darlings, but you must remember what I’ve told
you.” She looked at Jamie. “What are we to be called?”
“Halifax,” Jamie replied promptly. “But I’m still Jamie and Abigail’s still Abigail.”
“Yes, darling.”
That had been decided on the trip north from London when it became painfully obvious that Jamie would have difficulties not calling his sister by her real name. Helen sighed. She’d just have to hope that the children’s Christian names were ordinary
enough not to give them away.
“We’ve lived in London,” Abigail said, looking intent.
“That’ll be easy to remember,” Jamie muttered, “because we have.”
Abigail shot a quelling glance at her brother and continued. “Mama’s been in the dowager Viscountess Vale’s household.”
“And our father’s dead and he isn’t—” Jamie’s eyes widened, stricken.
“I don’t know why we need to say he’s dead,” Abigail muttered into the silence.
“Because he mustn’t trace us, dear.” Helen swallowed and leaned forward to pat her daughter’s knee. “It’s all right. If we
can—”
The carriage door was wrenched open, and the coachman’s scowling face peered in. “Are ye getting out or not? It looks like
rain, an’ I want to be back in th’ inn safe and warm when it comes, don’t I?”
“Of course.” Helen nodded regally at the coachman—by far the surliest driver they’d had on this wretched journey. “Please
fetch our bags down for us.”
The man snorted. “Already done, innit?”
“Come, children.” She hoped she wasn’t blushing in front of the awful man. The truth was, they had only two soft bags—one
for herself and one for the children. The coachman probably thought them desolate. And in a way, he was right, wasn’t he?
She pushed the lowering thought away. Now was not the time to have discouraging thoughts. She must be at her most alert and
her most persuasive to pull this off.
She stepped from the rented carriage and looked around. The ancient castle loomed before them, solid and silent. The main
building was a squat rectangle, built of weathered soft rose stone. High on the corners, circular towers projected from the
walls. Before the castle was a sort of drive, once neatly graveled but now uneven with weeds and mud. A few trees clustered
about the drive struggled to make a barricade against the rising wind. Beyond, black hills rolled gently to the darkening
horizon.
“All right, then?” The coachman was swinging up to his box, not even looking at them. “I’ll be off.”
“At least leave a lantern!” Helen shouted, but the noise of the carriage rumbling away drowned out her voice. She stared,
appalled, after the coach.
“It’s dark,” Jamie observed, looking at the castle.
“Mama, there aren’t any lights,” Abigail said.
She sounded frightened, and Helen felt a surge of trepidation as well. She hadn’t noticed the lack of lights until now. What
if no one was home? What would they do then?
I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. She was the adult here. A mother should make her children feel safe.
Helen tilted her chin and smiled for Abigail. “Perhaps they’re lit in the back where we can’t see them.”
Abigail didn’t look particularly convinced by this theory, but she dutifully nodded her head. Helen took the bags and marched
up the shallow stone steps to the huge wooden doors. They were within a Gothic arch, almost black with age, and the hinges
and bolts were iron—quite medieval. She raised the iron ring and knocked.
The sound echoed despairingly within.
Helen stood facing the door, refusing to believe that no one would come. The wind blew her skirts into a swirl. Jamie scuffed
his boots against the stone step, and Abigail sighed almost silently.
Helen wet her lips. “Perhaps they can’t hear because they’re in the tower.”
She knocked again.
It was dark now, the sun completely gone, and with it the warmth of day. It was the middle of summer and quite hot in London,
but she’d found on her journey north that the nights in Scotland could become very cool, even in summer. Lightning flashed
low on the horizon. What a desolate place this was! Why anyone would willingly choose to live here was beyond her understanding.
“They’re not coming,” Abigail said as thunder rumbled in the distance. “No one’s home, I think.”
Helen swallowed as fat raindrops pattered against her face. The last village they’d passed was ten miles away. She had to
find shelter for her children. Abigail was right. No one was home. She’d led them on a wild-goose chase.
She’d failed them once again.
Helen’s lips trembled at the thought. Mustn’t break down in front of the children.
“Perhaps there’s a barn or other outbuilding in—” she began when one of the great wood doors was thrown open, startling her.
She stepped back, nearly falling down the steps. At first the opening seemed eerily black, as if a ghostly hand had opened
the door. But then something moved, and she discerned a shape within. A man stood there, tall, lean, and very, very intimidating.
He held a single candle, its light entirely inadequate. By his side was a great four-legged beast, far too tall to be any
sort of dog that she knew of.
“What do you want?” he rasped, his voice low and husky as if from disuse or strain. His accent was cultured, but the tone
was far from welcoming.
Helen opened her mouth, scrambling for words. He was not at all what she’d expected. Dear God, what was that thing by his
side?
At that moment, lightning forked across the sky, close and amazingly bright. It lit the man and his familiar as if he was
on a stage. The beast was tall and gray and lean, with gleaming black eyes. The man was even worse. Black, lank hair fell
in tangles to his shoulders. He wore old breeches, gaiters, and a rough coat better suited for the rubbish heap. One side
of his stubbled face was twisted with red angry scars. A single light brown eye reflected the lightning at them diabolically.
Most horrible of all, there was only a sunken pit where his left eye should have been.
Abigail screamed.
THEY ALWAYS SCREAMED.
Sir Alistair Munroe scowled at the woman and children on his step. Behind them the rain suddenly let down in a wall of water,
making the children crowd against their mother’s skirts. Children, particularly small ones, nearly always screamed and ran
away from him. Sometimes even grown women did. Just last year, a rather melodramatic young lady on High Street in Edinburgh
had fainted at the sight of him.
Alistair had wanted to slap the silly chit.
Instead, he’d scurried away like a diseased rat, hiding the maimed side of his face as best he could in his lowered tricorne
and pulled-up cloak. He expected the reaction in cities and towns. It was the reason he didn’t like to frequent areas where
people congregated. What he didn’t expect was a female child screaming on his very doorstep.
“Stop that,” he growled at her, and the lass snapped her mouth shut.
There were two children, a boy and a girl. The lad was a brown birdlike thing that could’ve been anywhere from three to eight.
Alistair had no basis to judge, since he avoided children when he could. The girl was the elder. She was pale and blond, and
staring up at him with blue eyes that looked much too large for her thin face. Perhaps it was a fault of her bloodline—such
abnormalities often denoted mental deficiency.
Her mother had eyes the same color, he saw as he finally, reluctantly, looked at her. She was beautiful. Of course. It would
be a blazing beauty who appeared on his doorstep in a thunderstorm. She had eyes the exact color of newly opened harebells,
shining gold hair, and a magnificent bosom that any man, even a scarred, misanthropic recluse such as himself, would find
arousing. It was, after all, the natural reaction of a human male to a human female of obvious reproductive capability, however
much he resented it.
“What do you want?” he repeated to the woman.
Perhaps the entire family was mentally deficient, because they simply stared at him, mute. The woman’s stare was fixated on
his eye socket. Naturally. He’d left off his patch again—the damned thing was a nuisance—and his face was no doubt going to
inspire nightmares in her sleep tonight.
He sighed. He’d been about to sit down to a dinner of porridge and boiled sausages when he’d heard the knocking. Wretched
as his meal was, it would be even less appetizing cold.
“Carlyle Manor is a good two miles thataway.” Alistair tilted his head in a westerly direction. No doubt they were guests
of his neighbors gone astray. He shut the door.
Or rather, he tried to shut the door.
The woman inserted her foot in the crack, preventing him. For a moment, he actually considered shutting her foot in the door,
but a remnant of civility asserted itself and he stopped. He looked at the woman, his eye narrowed, and waited for an explanation.
The woman’s chin tilted. “I’m your housekeeper.”
Definitely a case of mental deficiency. Probably the result of aristocratic overbreeding, for despite her lack of mental prowess,
she and the children were richly dressed.
Which only made her statement even more absurd.
He sighed. “I don’t have a housekeeper. Really, ma’am, Carlyle Manor is just over the hill—”
She actually had the temerity to interrupt him. “No, you misunderstand. I’m your new housekeeper.”
“I repeat. I. Don’t. Have. A. Housekeeper.” He spoke slowly so perhaps her confused brain could understand the words. “Nor
do I wish for a housekeeper. I—”
“This is Castle Greaves?”
“Aye.”
“And you are Sir Alistair Munroe?”
He scowled. “Aye, but—”
She wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, she had stooped to rummage in one of the bags at her feet. He stared at her, irritated
and perplexed and vaguely aroused, because her position gave him a spectacular view down the bodice of her gown. If he was
a religious man, he might think this a vision.
She made a satisfied sound and straightened again, smiling quite gloriously. “Here. It’s a letter from the Viscountess Vale.
She’s sent me here to be your housekeeper.”
She was proffering a rather crumpled piece of paper.
He stared at the paper a moment before snatching it from her hand. He raised the candle to provide some light to read the
scrawling missive. Beside him, Lady Grey, his deerhound, evidently decided that she wasn’t getting sausages for dinner any
time soon. She sighed gustily and lay down on the hall flagstones.
Alistair finished reading the missive to the sound of the rain pounding steadily on his drive. Then he looked up. He’d met
Lady Vale only once. She and her husband, Jasper Renshaw, Viscount Vale, had visited his home uninvited a little over a month
ago. She hadn’t struck him at the time as an interfering female, but the letter did indeed inform him that he had a new housekeeper.
Madness. What had Vale’s wife been thinking? But then it was near impossible to fathom the workings of the female mind. He’d
have to send the too-beautiful, too-richly-dressed housekeeper and her offspring away in the morning. Unfortunately, if nothing
else, they were protégés of Lady Vale, and he couldn’t very well send them off into the dark of night.
Alistair met the woman’s blue eyes. “What did you say your name was?”
She blushed as prettily as the sun rising in spring on the heath. “I didn’t. My name is Helen Halifax. Mrs. Halifax. We are becoming quite wet out here, you realize.”
A corner of his mouth kicked up at the starch in her tone. Not a mental deficient after all. “Well, then, you and your children
had better come in, Mrs. Halifax.”
THE TINY SMILE curving one side of Sir Alistair’s lips startled Helen. It drew attention to a mouth both wide and firm, supple and masculine.
The smile revealed him as not the gargoyle she’d been thinking him, but a man.
It was gone at once, of course, as soon as he caught her looking at him. In an instant, his expression turned stony and faintly
cynical. “You’ll continue to get wet until you come in, madam.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed and stepped into the dim hall. “You’re most kind, I’m sure, Sir Alistair.”
He shrugged and turned away. “If you say so.”
Beastly man! He hadn’t even offered to carry their bags. Of course, most gentlemen didn’t carry the belongings of their housekeepers.
Even so, it would’ve been nice to at least offer.
Helen grasped a bag in each hand. “Come, children.”
They had to walk quickly, almost jogging, to keep up with Sir Alistair and what appeared to be the only light in the castle—his
candle. The gigantic dog padded along at his side, lean, dark, and tall. In fact, she was very like her master. They passed
out of a great hall and into a dim passage. The candlelight bobbed ahead, casting eerie shadows on grimy walls and high, cobwebbed
ceilings. Jamie and Abigail trailed on either side of her. Jamie was so tired that he merely trudged along, but Abigail was
looking curiously from side to side as she hurried.
“It’s terribly dirty, isn’t it?” Abigail whispered.
Sir Alistair turned as she spoke, and at first Helen thought he’d heard. “Have you eaten?”
He’d halted so suddenly, Helen nearly trod on his toes. As it was, she ended up standing much too close to him. She had to
crane her neck to look him in the eye, and he held the candle near his chest, casting the light diabolically over his face.
“We had tea at the inn, but—” she began breathlessly.
“Good,” he said, and turned away. He called back over his shoulder as he disappeared around a corner, “You can stay the night
in one of the guest rooms. I’ll hire a carriage to send you back to London in the morning.”
Helen gripped the bags higher and hurried to catch up. “But I really don’t—”
He’d already started up a narrow stone stair. “You needn’t worry about the expense.”
For a second, Helen paused at the bottom of the stair, glaring at the firm backside steadily receding above them. Unfortunately,
the light was receding as well.
“Hurry, Mama,” Abigail urged her. She’d taken her brother’s hand like a good older sister . . .
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To Beguile a Beast
Elizabeth Hoyt
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