McAlistair's Fortune (12 page)

“No need for all this,” he hissed when she squirmed. “No need. Only wanted a taste.”

Her mind filled with fear and revulsion. The arm around her waist squeezed like a band of iron. The smell of smoke, sweat, and onions assaulted her nose, bringing on a wave of nausea.

She struggled, kicking at his shins, twisting an arm half free and throwing an elbow back into his stomach. But she hadn’t the strength to break away, and there wasn’t enough space between them for her blows to have any real power. Her efforts gained a single grunt from him and then a long, infuriating giggle.

“Cat still got your tongue?” he panted, pressing his fingers harder against her mouth. “I’ve somethin’ better for it than that.”

He moved to push off her hood with his chin.

She moved to bite his hand.

And then he was simply gone. In a single heartbeat, the hard fingers and rotten breath vanished.

Blinded by her hood, she whirled around and threw her hands up, expecting a blow or another grab.

“Evie? Are you hurt?”

McAlistair’s voice cut through the panic. But with her own fingers trembling, it took several tries before she managed to pull the hood away from her eyes to find him standing four feet away, his arm locked around the apprentice’s neck.

She hadn’t heard him come from the workshop, hadn’t even been aware of his presence as he pulled her assailant away. He’d just…appeared.

“Evie?”

She stared at him as her breathing evened, and her racing heart slowed. A strange sort of calm stole over her.

“
Evie.
”

She blinked slowly, finding her vision a little dim. It took a moment before she remembered his question. She shook her head at him.

“Certain?”

She nodded. Wasn’t she certain? She felt fine…No, that wasn’t quite true. She didn’t feel fine, or calm, as she’d thought a moment ago. What she felt was oddly numb.

She watched, almost as if from a distance, as McAlistair turned his attention to his captive. The young man’s face was turning red, his mouth gaping as he struggled to take in air around McAlistair’s arm. He struggled once, only to have McAlistair briefly increase the pressure, cutting off his breath entirely. The man stilled, then gasped when the stingy amount of air returned.

“Apologize to the lady,” McAlistair ordered.

She thought he sounded remarkably calm and wondered—rather stupidly, she would admit later—if he was experiencing the same sort of numbness that she felt.

But then she saw it—the cold fury in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw, and the taut coil of his muscles. He wasn’t merely calm. He was
deadly
calm. His movements were smooth and precise, his voice soft and terrifyingly indifferent—as if he might snap the young man’s neck at any second. Or not. It made very little difference to him.

This was no longer the McAlistair she had teased and flirted and argued with for days. This was the wild, dangerous man she’d almost forgotten was there under the clothes and manners of a gentleman. Here was the untamed hermit, the disciplined soldier, the lethal cat.

“Apologize.” A knife appeared in McAlistair’s hand. He ran it down the apprentice’s cheek until the tip of it pressed into the underside of his jaw.

The young man strained his neck back to avoid the blade. “But she’s only a bit o’ muslin!”

Evie saw McAlistair shift and felt her stomach drop to her toes. She stepped forward, intent on pulling him away. His name formed on her lips, but one bone-chilling look from McAlistair had her swallowing the words and stopping in her tracks. There was such violence in his eyes that she felt a shiver of fear along her spine and guilty relief when he turned his attention back to the apprentice.

“You’ll use that black tongue to form an apology,” McAlistair said softly. He brought the knife up to the man’s gasping mouth and poised it between his lips in a vicious mockery of a kiss. “Or I’ll cut it out of your head.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry!”

McAlistair looked to her, but it took several seconds for her to realize he was waiting for her to accept or refuse the apology. She nodded frantically.

She let out a slow breath as McAlistair put his knife away. It was done, then. It was over. They could leave and—

“What’s all this? Let the boy go.”

The relief Evie had just begun to feel drained away at the appearance of the burly Mr. Thomas. He’d seemed large to her before, when the matter was only a business transaction, but now, with his friendly smile replaced by a glower, and his enormous hands curled into fists, he looked a veritable giant.

He’ll tear McAlistair in two.

She braced herself, for what she didn’t know—to run, to pull McAlistair away, to pull the blacksmith away.

McAlistair threw a hard glance at Mr. Thomas.

“You’ll stay out of this,” he said, very much like a man who didn’t merely expect to be obeyed but knew without question that he would be.

Mr. Thomas didn’t appear inclined to disabuse him of that notion. He stopped in his tracks. “What’s the boy done?”

“Accosted the lady.”

To her surprise, the blacksmith looked first to her for confirmation. Her nod elicited a string of desperate denials from the apprentice.

“I weren’t doing nothin’! They lie! They’re liars! She—” He had no choice but to cut off his words when McAlistair once again tightened his hold.

“Let the boy go,” Mr. Thomas said. “I’ll see to him.”

McAlistair seemed to consider it.

“Your horses are ready,” Mr. Thomas added. “And if you hold him much longer, you’ll kill him.” He rubbed the side of his jaw and his gaze turned speculative. “Don’t think I could stop the likes of you, if you’ve a mind to murder.” He dropped his hand. “But I’m a law-abiding man. Damn if I won’t turn you in after the fact.”

McAlistair waited a heartbeat more before releasing his captive. The apprentice dropped to his knees in the dirt yard, holding his throat and breathing in ragged gasps.

He was still there gasping, with a very unsympathetic-looking Mr. Thomas standing over him, when Evie and McAlistair mounted their horses and left.

T
hey rode in silence, skirting the same wide stream they’d followed most of the morning. The birds were still singing, the sun still bright, and the gentle beat of horse hooves on the soft ground provided a familiar and somehow reassuring rhythm. But it wasn’t the same.

McAlistair had asked Evie once more if she were unharmed, as he’d helped her to mount her horse. She’d said yes, and neither had spoken another word in the twenty minutes since.

Evie was vaguely aware of him keeping close to her and of the concerned glances he sent her way, but most of her concentration was focused inward.

She was shaking. Letting go of the reins with one hand, she watched as her fingers trembled. Only part of the reaction was caused by a lingering fear and disgust of the attacker, and perhaps some of it was shock at what she had seen in McAlistair’s eyes. But the majority of it stemmed from anger.

She gripped the reins again and gritted her teeth in impotent fury. There was nothing she could have done, or very nearly nothing, to save herself from the apprentice.

True, she’d learned the best ways to fend off an overly ardent suitor—a quick knee to the groin, she had been informed, would usually do the trick. But she hadn’t been in a position to try that tactic at the blacksmith’s. And even if she could have maneuvered to the proper angle, what if she had missed, or he had moved, or it wasn’t as effective as she’d been told?

The sobering truth was, she very likely would not have escaped if McAlistair hadn’t come along. She wasn’t big enough, she wasn’t strong enough, and she quite obviously didn’t know how.

The incident left her feeling small and weak…and increasingly furious.

How dare he?

How dare any man? What did it matter if she
were
a mistress? She’d made it patently obvious she wanted nothing to do with him or his coin. He had no right to ignore that, to push her resistance aside as if it meant nothing. As if
she
meant nothing.

But he had.

Because he was a man, she was a woman, and he could.

Because she’d let him.

“To hell with that,” she heard herself mutter. “To bloody hell with that.”

Without signaling to McAlistair, she drew her horse to a stop, and twisted in the saddle to dig through the bags.

So intent was she on her mission that she didn’t notice McAlistair had drawn his horse up alongside until he spoke.

“What are you looking for?”

She pulled out the gun Mrs. Summers had given her. “
This
.”

“Put it away.”

“Oh, I will.
After
I shoot him.”

He reached over and grabbed the reins of her horse. “Now.”

“No. Let go. I’m going back.”

He swung off his horse, keeping a hold of her reins. Evie had no opportunity to ask what he was doing before he reached up and lifted her down from the horse.

As soon as her feet were on the ground, she shoved at him. Not hard and more with mindless frustration than an intention to harm. “I have had more than enough of being pushed about for one day,” she snapped.

“I know. Give me the gun, Evie.” His voice was filled with understanding, and the grip he retained on her waist was both implacable and impossibly gentle.

She wanted to brain him with the butt of the gun.

Sympathy and kindness were the very last things she wanted at present. They ate away at her fury, and that fury was the one thing standing between her and the unbearable feeling of helplessness.

“It’s not your gun.” Now she was just being juvenile, but that too was preferable to the alternative.

“I know,” he said softly.

“Mrs. Summers gave it to me to use as I saw fit.” And she could very clearly see herself shooting the loathsome apprentice precisely where it would give the man the most pain for the longest amount of time.

“You wouldn’t let me hurt him.”

“He didn’t come after
you
, did he?” She heard her voice crack, and it frightened her. A bubble formed in her throat, and tears welled and burned in her eyes. She shoved the gun at him. “Here, then. Take it.”

“I’m sorry, Evie.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Without another word, she pulled away, spun around, and stalked off in the direction of the stream. Her body itched to run, to get as far away as fast as possible, but there was so little dignity to be had in running—particularly when one was burdened with a weak leg—and she was in desperate need of what little dignity she could muster.

McAlistair fought the urge to chase after Evie. It didn’t seem right to let her go off, hurting and alone. He scowled as her form disappeared into the shade of trees that bordered the stream, but aside from leading the horses near enough that he could easily hear her call out if she needed him, he made no other move to follow. She wanted solitude, and he could give her that—give her a few minutes to storm off the worst of her temper and pull herself together.

Bloody hell, he hardly knew what to say to her, or what to do for her. He had no experience with this sort of thing. He’d grown up with brothers. He’d lived as a soldier, an assassin, and a hermit. What did he know of comforting women?

Frustrated, he shoved her gun back into the pouch behind her saddle. He needed a few minutes as well—to calm the animal still pacing inside, to bank the fury that still pounded in his blood.

He’d wanted to snap the apprentice in two.

His arms had itched to squeeze the man’s neck tighter. The hand holding the knife had ached to push deeper.

He’d wanted vengeance, and eight years ago, he would have taken it. One slice of the knife or twist of the neck, and that would have been it.

But he wasn’t the same man he’d been eight years earlier.

He’d killed for vengeance once. He knew better than most what little consolation it brought.

And then there’d been Evie, staring at him with those wide, frightened eyes. He couldn’t very well slice the bastard open with her watching, could he?

She’d already been through enough.

He looked toward the stream and decided Evie had had enough solitude.

He couldn’t tolerate the thought of her standing there alone—hurt, afraid, and angry. Maybe he didn’t know what to say, but he could at least be nearby if she needed him.

He wondered if he should force her to talk to him. It seemed the sort of thing to make her feel better. Evie was inordinately fond of talking.

He tied the horses and picked his way toward the water.

Would she be weeping? He felt his hands grow clammy.

Please, God, don’t let her be weeping.

He could make conversation, stilted perhaps, but he knew the basics. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do with a crying woman.

To his immense relief, he found her sitting at the very edge of the stream, her arms wrapped around her knees, and her perfectly dry eyes fixed on the water.

He sat next to her and struggled to find something to say—anything that might erase the glum frustration etched on her face.

“Feel any better?” The question was, to his regret, the very best he could come up with.

She gave the smallest of shrugs. “A little. I threw rocks at the water.”

He looked to the stream. It was narrow here, the water flowing deep and fast. He imagined a good-sized rock would produce a respectable splash. “That can help.”

“And I kicked a tree.”

“Also beneficial.”

“I don’t like it,” she said, her voice sounding heartbreakingly fragile. “I don’t like the way it made me feel.”

He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to rub at the pain in his chest. He wanted to go back to the blacksmith’s and kill the apprentice. Feeling awkward and helpless, he reached out to gently stroke her back.

“Angry?” he asked, hoping beyond hope that talking really would make her feel better.

“Well, yes, but…” She swallowed hard, and he felt her lean, just a little, into his touch, “…but mostly weak…and helpless.”

He led his hand slide up to her neck to gently knead knotted muscles. “You were fighting.”

She sighed quietly at the comforting pressure of his fingers. “I wasn’t winning.”

“You might have, if you’d gotten that bite in.”

She turned to look at him for the first time, resting her cheek on her knee. “You saw that?”

“You missed him by an inch—and only because I’d pulled him away.”

She smiled, just a little, and only for a second, but he’d seen it. It made him feel positively heroic.

“Still…” she said softly, and looked back to the stream, “I want him to suffer. I want him to pay.”

“You’d rather I had cut out his tongue,” he guessed.

“No.” She unwrapped her arms to pick up a smooth pebble. “I’d rather I had done it.”

“A compromise then,” he offered, letting his hand fall away. “I’ll hold him down. You cut out his tongue.”

The smile returned, a hair wider this time. “He could still die from infection.”

“He’s a blacksmith’s apprentice. Ample opportunity to cauterize his own wound.”

The smile was joined by a small laugh. “What an image.”

“Satisfying, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” She toyed with the stone in her hand, staring at it thoughtfully. “Would you do that?”

“Hold him down for you?”

She nodded.

“With pleasure.” He couldn’t help himself; he reached over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. He left his fingers there, toying with the softness of her tresses. “If it would make you feel better.”

He didn’t think it would, but if it was what she needed…

She blew out a short breath and tossed the rock into the water. “It would make me sick, likely as not.”

The first time always does, he thought, and, disgusted with himself, dropped his hand.

Evie didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “I suppose an act of revenge loses something if one tosses one’s crumpets in the midst of it.”

He smiled because he knew she needed it. “Depends on where the crumpets are tossed. Aim for his shoes and you have insult added to injury.”

She laughed in earnest this time. “There’s an idea.”

“Now are you feeling better?”

“A little.” She blew out a short breath. “Better than when I kicked the tree.” She brushed her hands on her skirts. “I suppose we need to go.”

“We’ll stay as long as you like.”

She shook her head and stood. “I’d just as soon get as far away from this as possible.”

In truth, Evie felt more than marginally better. It couldn’t be said that she felt entirely well, but the red haze of anger had passed—most of it after she’d thrown the rocks and kicked the tree—and the fear and frustration had been blunted by the simple act of talking and laughing. She had McAlistair to thank for that.

She glanced at him as they made their way back through the trees to where the horses were tied. Comfort in the form of laughter wasn’t something she would have expected from him. To be honest, comfort in
any
form wasn’t something she would have expected of him.

Apparently, he wasn’t quite the man she’d thought him to be—which reminded her…

“Why were you different?” she asked him as they skirted a large tree. “When we first arrived at the blacksmith’s, I mean. You changed your voice and your behavior.” She laughed a little at the memory. “You sounded like a London dandy.”

He actually winced, which she very much enjoyed witnessing. “I wanted him to recall a London dandy, should anyone ask after us.”

“You were yourself at the inn,” she pointed out. “What if someone should ask after us there?”

“Our meeting with the innkeeper was short, and he is accustomed to dealing with strangers. We wouldn’t have stood out to him.”

She nodded, following his line of reasoning. “But the arrival of visitors must be an unusual event for Mr. Thomas. He’ll remember us.”

And not, she thought, in the way McAlistair had intended. As there was nothing to be done about it now, she pushed the matter aside, mounted her horse, and followed McAlistair east.

With each mile that passed, she felt a little more like herself. She wouldn’t have cared to admit it aloud, but it helped that McAlistair chose to ride at her side. She already felt a trifle foolish for her outburst—digging out her gun,
honestly
—and if McAlistair had chosen to gallop about in his usual manner, she would again be left to question whether he was avoiding her, and to wonder why.

But McAlistair seemed content with her company. And, if not content, at least willing to scan the countryside in long sweeping glances from his place beside her.

As a conversationalist, he was…well, not a
dead
loss, not exactly. It could safely be said, however, that he would never be considered one of the great orators of the
ton.
But what he lacked as an active contributor, he made up for as a passive participant. As Evie rambled from topic to topic—and after the stressful events of that morning and two days of riding in silence, she couldn’t seem to keep herself from rambling—McAlistair nodded, commented, and even asked the occasional question. In short, he listened.

And not in the way that Whit, and even Alex, sometimes listened when manners and familial loyalty dictated they feign interest in a topic they cared very little about. Just the other week, she’d seen Whit listen to Lady Thurston discuss Kate’s upcoming Season in just that way—the glazed eyes, the tapping finger, the covert glances of longing at the nearest exit.

No, McAlistair paid attention—as if he cared, as if what she said and what she thought were important. It was just what she needed after being made to feel small and helpless.

She spoke of her friends and family, of her work and her hobbies. She was so engaged in the exchange—she really didn’t know what else to call it—that it took her several minutes to realize he’d led them onto a narrow road.

She lapsed into silence. Until now, McAlistair had taken pains to keep them away from all signs of civilization whenever possible.

The road was little more than two long ruts separated by a line of tall grass. Still it was, by definition, a road, and she was surprised to be on it. She was even more surprised when they came upon a small hunting box settled back in a stand of trees. The lack of chimney smoke and the shuttered windows indicated it was unoccupied, but how could McAlistair possibly have known?