McAlistair's Fortune (10 page)

A sensible decision, he was forced to admit. In fact, everything she’d told him so far struck him as being fairly sensible. And
that
struck him as infuriating. He didn’t want her to be sensible. He wanted her to have been careless in some way. How else could he be angry with her for putting herself in danger? Never mind the fact that he admired her work; a small, selfish part of him wanted a reason to demand she stop.

And that small part of him was determined to have its way. “How is your mail delivered to you?”

Her brow furrowed a little at his sudden change of subject. “It is delivered to a small, unoccupied cottage at the far outskirts of Benton, where it is slipped under the door until I retrieve it. And before you ask, I am there no more than once a month.”

“The cottage is in your name?”

“No, it belongs to a fictional widow by the name of Mrs. Eades. She lives with her sister in Wales. You’ll have to ask Lady Thurston, or perhaps Whit, how she managed to arrange for that.” She paused to yawn. “I couldn’t say.”

McAlistair could have come up with a half dozen other questions for her, but knew now wasn’t the time. Evie’s eyes had gone from merely sleepy to red-rimmed, and her posture from defensive, to weary, to half asleep.

“We’ll continue this later. It’s time for bed.”

“In a moment,” she said, perking up a little in her seat. “I’ve a few questions for you as well.”

Bloody hell.
“It’s late.”

“It can’t be much more than half past nine.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Hasn’t it just.” She pinned him with a hard look. “I answered your questions, McAlistair. It’s only fair you answer mine.”

“I’m not the one in danger.” And he wasn’t in the habit of playing fair.

She completely ignored that statement. “Why did you become a hermit?

“I was done being a soldier.”

“Why did you become a soldier?”

He’d been unbearably angry. “I was good at it.”

“You couldn’t have known that until you joined.” She scowled at him and slumped against the back of her chair once more. “You’re not going to cooperate, are you?”

Since he knew she wouldn’t care for the answer, he chose to say nothing at all.

Evie pressed her lips into a thin line, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at him through narrowed eyes.

While he waited for the lecture that was sure to come, he let his eyes wander over her face—the high arch of her brows, the long sweep of her lashes, the soft sprinkle of freckles across her nose. The freckles were new, he realized, a result of riding without a bonnet. He should probably remedy that tomorrow. Or maybe not. He liked the look of them, nearly as much as he’d enjoyed seeing her soft brown hair tied in a loose braid down her back. If he found her a bonnet, she’d hide the braid and the freckles. Then again, if she hid the braid and freckles, maybe he would stop fantasizing about unraveling the first and trailing his lips along the second. Then again—

He blinked, cutting off his own line of thought. Why was it so quiet? Hadn’t Evie been about to lecture him? He took in her cross-armed, narrowed-eyed posture. She hadn’t moved a muscle in the last five minutes. And she hadn’t said a thing.

Not a word. Not a syllable. Not a single solitary sound.

Holy hell, the chit was trying to stare him down.

Evie knew she didn’t have a prayer of succeeding.

McAlistair had probably gone days, weeks, even months without speaking. Her record for silence, on the other hand, was directly correlated with the longest amount of time she’d ever spent asleep.

But she hadn’t been able to come up with an alternative solution to his infuriating reticence. And fighting fire with fire had a certain expediency she appreciated. Pity it seemed to have so little effect on McAlistair.

He leaned back in his chair, appearing perfectly at ease and, unless she was entirely mistaken, a little pleased.

Her eyes narrowed further.

A corner of his mouth curved up.

The silence stretched out.

Woefully ill-equipped for such a contest, Evie tried fisting her hands, shifting her weight, and tapping her foot in an effort to alleviate her discomfiture. All to no avail. She was on the verge of surrender when, much to her surprise, he spoke.

“Are we to sit here the remainder of the night?”

It wasn’t an admitted capitulation—likely as not, it was an act of mercy—but she’d take it. “That depends on you.” Realizing that gave him more power than she had intended, she added a rather lame, “Somewhat.”

“What is it you want, Evie?”

She uncrossed her arms. “To have my ideas, my concerns, and my questions taken seriously.”

“I do take them seriously.”

“Bollocks,” she snapped, and refused to feel guilty for being vulgar. “You ask personal questions but refuse to answer any in return. You haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said about this ruse—”

“I have. I don’t agree with what I’ve heard, but I’ve listened.”

She threw up her hands. “Well, how am I to tell? You won’t speak.”

“I’m speaking now,” he pointed out.

“Yes, you are, but who’s to say when you will again? I don’t care to be at such a disadvantage, and your taciturn disposition combined with your insistence on my being forthcoming on every bit of information you deem of interest, most certainly puts me at a disadvantage.”

He cocked his head, considering.

“Well?” she prompted.

“I’m trying to puzzle out how one can be simultaneously taciturn and insistent.”

He had a point, but she was sure little good would come from admitting it, particularly as it wasn’t the point
she
was trying to make. “That may be the longest sentence you’ve ever uttered in my presence.”

“I suspect it is.” He ran his knuckles across his jaw, keeping his eyes on her. “I am unaccustomed to conversation.”

He wasn’t just unaccustomed, she realized; he was uncomfortable. Guilt niggled at her conscience and had her fingers working into the folds of her wrap. “Yes, of course. And I am sorry to make such an issue of it, but we cannot keep on this way.”

He nodded once. “I will attempt to be more vocal.”

“Thank you.” She relaxed her fingers and offered him a smile.

He didn’t offer one in return. “In exchange, you will adhere to the safety precautions I set, without complaint.”

“I…I’ll adhere to them…but I reserve the right to complain.”

“Fair enough,” he agreed, and this time, his lips curved just a hair. He rose and held out a hand to help her up. “You need to sleep. We’ve a long day tomorrow.”

Evie would have needed to sleep if they’d had nothing more grueling than a full day of napping planned for tomorrow. She couldn’t remember ever being so exhausted. While McAlistair put out the candles, she crawled into bed, sighing at the exquisite feel of soft sheets and plump pillows. She was under the covers and her lids already drooping when he pulled off the extra blanket folded at her feet and tossed it on the floor.

She frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

“Going to bed.”

It bothered her to think of him sleeping on the unforgiving wooden floor while she stretched out on an enormous feather mattress. It seemed terribly unfair and a little absurd, given that they’d slept side by side the night before.

“There’s no reason for you to sleep on the floor when there’s plenty of room on the bed.”

“Floor will do.” He grabbed a pillow and tossed it on the blanket.

“If it’s the proximity that troubles you, I should like to point out that last night—”

“I know,” he fairly growled.

She bit her lip, wary of his gruff tone, but unwilling to let the matter drop. “There are households where the entire family sleeps in one bed—if they’re lucky enough to have one. The children, mother, father—”

“Mother and father. They’re married.”

“Usually. And tonight we are as well. Moreover, what if one of the maids were to come in?”

“The door is locked.”

“Yes, but there are keys, aren’t there? And it’s customary for someone to come in the morning and light—”

“She’ll knock first.”

“But what if you don’t wake, and—”

“I’ll wake.”

It was impossible to argue with that sort of arrogance. “What if…Couldn’t you…” Her tired mind struggled to come up with another reason for him to take the bed.

McAlistair stepped closer to the bed, his voice turning gentle. “What is it, Evie? Are you frightened?”

She sent him a dry look. It may have been more convenient to tell him yes, she was very afraid, but she had her pride. “My greatest fear at the moment is that you’ll wake up stiff, sore, and cranky. Cranky individuals make for unpleasant traveling companions.”

“Yes, I know,” he said wryly.

She smiled around a yawn. She’d deserved that small jab. And he deserved the truth, she decided. There wasn’t a good reason for her to be dissembling. She wasn’t certain as to why she was, except that admitting it bothered her felt too similar to admitting she cared, and that made her feel vulnerable.

She picked at a small tear in her blanket. “I…I don’t care for the idea that you’re to be down there on the hard floor whilst I’ve all this room up here.”

“Trade?”

“No,” she replied without a second’s thought. “
I’m
not the one being stubborn.”

His lips curled up in humor. “It honestly bothers you?”

She nodded again, but found it hard to meet his gaze. “It does, yes.”

He didn’t sigh, but he hesitated, which made Evie suspect he wanted to sigh. And that was very nearly the same thing. Despite his obvious misgivings, he scooped up the blanket and pillow and tossed them back on the bed.

“Roll over. Go to sleep.”

She didn’t care for the implication that perhaps she had planned on doing something
other
than going to sleep. Well, in all honesty, she wasn’t
completely
averse to the idea of doing something else—kissing him again came to mind—but she hadn’t
planned
on it. And no matter how much the idea of kissing McAlistair might appeal to her, at the moment, she was too exhausted to give any real thought to turning theory into reality.

She scooted over and turned her back without comment. The mattress dipped as he settled on the bed.

“Get some sleep,” she heard him say from what sounded like the very far edge of the mattress. “We’ll leave at first light.”

She made a face into her pillow. Why did people always feel the need to leave at first light? “What’s wrong with second or third?” she mumbled.

“Beg pardon?”

“Nothing. Good night, McAlistair.”

She fell asleep without hearing his response.

*    *    *

McAlistair lay in bed, listening to the patter of rain and the last distant rolls of thunder. It was somewhere near four in the morning, he estimated, and he’d accumulated somewhere near three hours of sleep.

The creak of floorboards in the hall had woken him from a light doze. It had only been a late-arriving guest, but it had warranted investigation—as had the creak an hour before, and the sound of voices from the yard the hour before that.

He’d slept better the night before, surrounded by the comforting sounds of the woods. And with a little more distance between himself and Evie. Within minutes of falling asleep, she’d turned toward him and rolled over to his side of the bed. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her, and he had no intention of moving to the other side of the bed, leaving her closer to the door. But it was damn hard trying to sleep with her legs brushing his, the scent of her hair on the pillow, and her sweet face just inches away. She was a sound sleeper, he noted. After that first migration to his side of the mattress, she hadn’t moved except to wrap her arms around her pillow.

He’d noticed last night that she hugged in her sleep—only then it had been his waistcoat. He’d taken it off and slipped it under her head in the night. He’d even had to shift her a bit to untangle a curl of her hair from a button. But she hadn’t woken, and she hadn’t said a word about it in the morning.

Likely as not, she hadn’t noticed, he thought with a small smile. The woman was hopeless before noon.

He hadn’t expected that. He would have guessed—in fact, he
had
guessed—that morning was her favorite time of day. Morning fit her. It was soft and gentle, as she was. It had always reminded him of Evie.

There was nothing more pure, more promising than the first light of morning.

He suspected she wouldn’t understand the comparison. He wondered if anyone else did or would. Her friends? Her family?

Her future husband?

He frowned at nothing in particular. What if she were right about the ruse? He didn’t think it likely; there were too many holes in that theory. But what if? What if the events of the last two days were nothing more than a supremely idiotic way to see her matched? A hard burn flared in his stomach. Unsurprised by his violent reaction to the idea of Evie being attached to another man, he acknowledged the pain and set it aside.

If William and the rest had set this business up, and if, despite the ridiculousness of it all, Evie found a love that would make her happy, then so be it.

He’d congratulate her. Right after he gutted William, slowly, and with his dullest knife. Never mind that he didn’t own a dull knife; he’d buy one just for the occasion. Something with a bit of rust on it.

He watched her sleep, knowing that after they reached the cottage, he’d never again have the opportunity.

Because she was never meant for him.

He lifted a finger and traced it a fraction of an inch above her cheek. He knew the pale ivory skin would feel soft and fragile—easily bruised with rough palms, easily soiled with dirty hands.

He drew his hand back.

No, she wasn’t meant for him. And he wouldn’t take her if she were.

A man didn’t destroy what he loved.

He rolled to his back and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. A man could, however, buy a rusty knife and slice through the one responsible for giving that loved one away to someone else. And for playing him for a fool.

Even if it was only in his head.