McAlistair's Fortune (14 page)

She shrugged at the expectant look. “Just a trifle tired. And unquestionably damp. How much farther is the cottage?”

“Another three hours, give or take.” He picked up the folded blanket. “We should be on our way.”

She wrung water from her skirts. “But we’re wet.”

“We were wet yesterday.”

“For less than an hour. You said it was three yet to the cottage.” She looked at the horses. “It hardly seems fair, to weigh them down unnecessarily.”

“It’s water, not rock,” he pointed out, packing the blanket into one of the saddlebags. “I suspect they’ll manage.”

“I don’t know that I will.” The chafing alone—

“If you’d rather wait a bit, we can.”

She opened her mouth to agree, then shut it again, realizing that doing so meant sitting next to McAlistair, feeling embarrassed—and embarrassingly needy—for the next half hour. It would be unbearably awkward.

“I…” She struggled to come up with a creative alternative. “I think…I think I’d like a small walk.”

“A walk,” he repeated, and really, who could blame him? As creative alternatives went, it was undeniably lame.

“Just,” she waved her hand a little at the edge of the pond, “up and down a little. The movement will help dry out my gown.” It seemed a reasonable assumption, at any rate.

McAlistair gave a minuscule shrug—which annoyed her to no end—and took a seat on the ground. “Suit yourself.”

A
s Evie began her little stroll along the edge of the pond, McAlistair let out a long, quiet breath.

He was not quite as unaffected as he would have led Evie to believe. In truth, his heart and mind were racing—
had been
racing, since the moment he’d surfaced from the pond, a struggling Evie in his arms, and heard the sound of his own laughter.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. He honestly couldn’t recall when he had stopped finding joy in his life. It had been well before he’d arrived at Haldon, he knew that much. He could remember, clearly, pretending to laugh years ago at clubs and dinners, but that had been a means to an end.

For too long, everything he did and said had been a means to someone’s end, literally, which was, of course, the very reason he’d stopped laughing.

He looked to Evie and found her carefully nudging something brown and mushy-looking with her toe. Rotted wood, he imagined, or a glob of beached pondweed. She was no doubt disgusted and no doubt too curious to turn away. He smiled at the picture she made, walking along the bank in the sun—wet, bedraggled, and beautiful.

He’d smiled a great deal these last two days, more than he generally did in a year—a very good year. But he hadn’t realized how close he’d come to being happy until he’d laughed. The sound of it had stunned him. The idea of it still amazed him.

She’d made him laugh. She’d made him forget his shadowy past, his ambiguous future, and simply enjoy the pleasure of holding a dripping, sputtering, laughing woman in his arms.

He’d enjoyed it far too much.

He’d nearly kissed her when they had reached the bank. She’d been so close, so soft, so damnably tempting, he’d imagined indulging in more than just a kiss. He’d imagined laying her down, where the water lapped the edge of land, and peeling off her wet clothes to discover the soft curves he’d dreamed of a thousand times. He’d ached to taste, feel, and touch, to cover her soft form with his own, and forget himself completely.

Forget who he was, where they were, and what was after them.

A selfish act and a foolish mistake—that’s what it would have been. Bad enough he should overlook the danger she was in for a few moments in the pond, much worse that he’d remembered and still been tempted to overlook it for another hour or two.

Though it had nearly destroyed him, he’d set Evie aside and turned away.

She hadn’t been too pleased with his decision. Perhaps he was a little out of practice when it came to reading the moods of women—he certainly hadn’t seen that little dip in the pond coming—but he knew desire when he saw it, and he knew wounded pride and disappointment when they were staring him in the face.

He rolled his shoulders. It stung him to injure Evie’s feelings, but it couldn’t be helped. She was an innocent. She hardly knew what she asked for, surely didn’t realize of whom she was asking it. She knew too little, and perhaps he knew too much.

What he’d done was for the best. And she was the resilient sort—she wouldn’t let a few uncomfortable minutes sour her mood for long. By the time she was done with her little walk, she’d be smiling again. By the time they were on the horses, she’d be chattering.

In a few short hours, they would reach the cottage and she’d have Mrs. Summers to keep her company. As the only two women in the house, they would likely seclude themselves away to…well, he hadn’t the foggiest—to do whatever it was ladies did when they secluded themselves away.

It was possible he’d only see her for meals, or perhaps passing in the hall. The thought of no longer having her completely to himself tore at his heart, but not nearly as much as knowing he would one day be little more to her than a memory of passing adventure and flirtation. And that tore less than knowing that anything else would be a terrible mistake.

McAlistair was right on one score. Evie was smiling by the time she deemed her gown dry enough—and adequately brushed free of pondweed—to endure a long ride in the saddle. She wouldn’t have described herself as happy, and she hadn’t suddenly forgotten that McAlistair had chosen not to kiss her. It was simply that, in Evie’s opinion, smiling was the most advantageous of the limited options available to her.

Feigning a pleasant mood was the most expedient way to hide her injured vanity. Reason told her that if McAlistair found her unattractive, he wouldn’t have already kissed her twice. But reason and vanity often existed independently of each other, and while she accepted and generally refused to dwell on the matter of her flawed countenance, it was impossible to wholly ignore the ugly scar that marred her face and the leg that was more often hindrance than help. It was similarly impossible to keep from wondering if McAlistair had kissed her not because he found her attractive, but because he pitied her.

That idea, however irrational, wounded deeply. And because it did, she searched out other excuses for his behavior.

Perhaps McAlistair had failed to kiss her for no other reason than that he hadn’t realized kissing had
clearly
been in order. He’d been a hermit a very long time, after all, and he’d already made it apparent he was rather out of practice when it came to reading the moods of others. Hadn’t she tossed him in the pond for that very reason? True, he’d noticed she was put out before her walk, but temper was easier to see than desire. Anger was an emotion recognized from earliest childhood.

It was a much simpler matter to smile as they rode away from the pond, once Evie took into consideration McAlistair’s lack of exposure to…well,
anyone
in recent years.

Chatting, however, was beyond her. She felt better, even reconciled, but not cheerful. They spent the next hour in silence, with McAlistair once again dashing off this way and that—not that he
looked
dashing, he was merely engaged in the act of dashing—and Evie watching the scenery.

They followed the same meandering stream until it joined a small river, and then followed the river until it emptied into a small cove of salt water. Beyond the cove, Evie could see the more turbulent waters of the North Sea and its long beaches of golden sand.

It was a picturesque scene—the pristine shore, the bright flashes of amber light from the setting sun reflecting off the waves. She stopped her horse, turned her face into the soft breeze coming off the water, and breathed in the sea air.

McAlistair rode up beside her. “Something the matter?”

She shook her head. “It’s lovely.”

“It’s lovely from the cottage as well.”

“Is that a hint for me to move?” she asked with a laugh.

“Merely a reminder the cottage isn’t far.”

“I see.” She nudged her horse forward and wondered if he was eager to be rid of her.

Rather than ride off ahead, as she expected, McAlistair pulled his horse up alongside hers. “Will you confront Mrs. Summers when we arrive?” he asked.

She bit her lip. Distracted by thoughts of McAlistair, she’d neglected to give the matter serious consideration. “I suppose…I suppose that depends.”

“On?”

“You.”

“Ah.” His mouth curved. “You want me to keep your suspicions to myself.”

“It’s fact, and that’s a very odd way of putting it, when one thinks about it. But yes, I prefer that you keep what I know about the ruse—”

“Theorize.”

“Fine, theorize,” she agreed. She wasn’t in a position to argue at the moment. “Will you keep quiet?”

He nodded once. “If you like.”

“You’ll give me your word?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked, wary of his quick agreement.

“Because you asked it of me.” He caught her gaze. “You can ask anything of me, Evie.”

What an interesting thing to say. And what a remarkably effective balm on her injured feelings. She tilted her head at him. “Would you
do
anything for me?”

“No.” The corner of his mouth hooked up, even as his eyes remained guarded. “But you can ask.”

She laughed. “Very well, I am asking you not to mention what I told you about the matchmaking.”

“Done.”

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence for a few moments, before something else occurred to her.

“McAlistair?”

“Hmm?”

She shifted in her saddle, wishing very much she possessed even a fraction of Kate’s talent for beguiling the male of the species. “Would it…would it be too much to ask that you also keep the unfortunate incident at the blacksmith’s to yourself?”

“Completely to myself or just from Mrs. Summers?”

“Either will do.”

“I suppose I can manage it.”

She let out a quiet breath of air.
Excellent.
“And you needn’t mention the business with the adder.”

“Needn’t I?”

She pretended not to hear the amusement in his voice. “Or that my leg gave me trouble.”

“I see.”

“Or—”

“What
can
I tell Mrs. Summers?”

She gave him a hopeful smile. “That aside from a spot of wet weather, we had a lovely yet uneventful trip?”

“Are you in the habit of lying to your friend?”

Because he asked in a tone that was academic rather than accusatory, Evie found it difficult to take offense. As she found it even more difficult to actually answer the question, she adopted a curious tone of her own instead.

“Are you in the habit of passing judgment?”

“No.” He smiled oddly, as if laughing at himself. “It’s an entirely new experience for me.”

“Well, being a pawn in someone else’s game is a new experience for me.” She fiddled a little with the reins. “Divulging all to Mrs. Summers would only serve to upset her. She’d be horrified to learn their ruse put me in any real danger.”

“You’d lie to spare her feelings, then?”

“You do sound unconvinced,” she muttered.

“I am.”

“I assure you, I am quite willing to engage in some minor dissembling in order to avoid discomforting Mrs. Summers.”

He said nothing for several long seconds, which was ample time for her conscience to weigh on her. In a bid to relieve it, she lifted her arm as if to rub at her cheek and mumbled into her hand.

“And to avoid the certainty of a lecture.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Nothing,” she chirped. She’d said it, hadn’t she? No need to repeat herself.

“Something about a lecture?”

Damn it, the man’s hearing was too good by half. Resigned, she slumped in the saddle. “Mrs. Summers has a tendency to lecture.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No, but there will have been something I could have done better or something I can learn from in the experience or something I should think upon.” The possibilities were limitless. “It would be a worrier’s lecture.”

“I see. Isn’t your acquaintance with Mrs. Summers relatively new?”

It was. She’d met Mrs. Summers only two years ago, when she’d become friends with Sophie Everton, now the Duchess of Rockeforte. But the older woman had become rather like an honorary aunt as quickly as Sophie had become an honorary sister. Evie wasn’t certain McAlistair would understand such a rapid attachment, so she merely shrugged and said, “It’s the governess in her. I don’t think she can help it.”

E
vie’s first impression of Mr. Hunter’s cottage was that it was no cottage at all. Two stories and dormered attic of stone and wood sat in a field not a hundred yards from the shore. It was much smaller than Haldon Hall, certainly, and gave the appearance of being taller than it was wide, but Evie suspected it held at least a half dozen bedchambers, with more room for staff in the attic. Though it was not what she had expected, it had a sturdy, substantial look that was both reassuring and, in its own way, rather charming.

They rode up to the front of the building just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Evie dismounted just in time to see Mrs. Summers dispense with decorum and come running out the door in a swirl of green skirts.

She was quick for a woman of advancing years. Evie had no more than righted her gown and handed the reins to McAlistair before finding herself enveloped in a surprisingly fierce hug. “You’re here,” Mrs. Summers cried. “I was so terribly worried, but here both of you are, safe and sound. Christian saw you coming and…why are you damp?” She drew back and held Evie at arm’s length. “Is it raining to the west?” She cast an accusing glare at McAlistair. “Did you make her ride in the rain?”

Evie laughed, shaking her head. “The skies were clear all day. It’s a very long story.”

“It is one I should like to hear.”

McAlistair mumbled a comment about seeing to the horses.

“You will find Mr. Hunter in the stables,” Mrs. Summers said to his retreating back. “And Christian in the kitchen.” She turned back to Evie. “You are well, aren’t you? And Mr. McAlistair?”

“Yes, perfectly. And you?”

“I am much better now that you have arrived.” She sighed happily and patted Evie’s cheek. “You must be quite done in.”

“Rather,” Evie admitted, taking Mrs. Summers’s hand and leading her toward the house, “but the journey wasn’t entirely terrible. After a bath and change of clothes, I might go so far as call it…memorable. It’s not often one has an adventure such as this.”

Mrs. Summers eyed her with suspicion. “You enjoyed yourself?”

Realizing it was too late to feign distress, Evie mentally winced and hoped she might be able to pull off bravery with a hint of indignation. “Better that I should have been miserable?”

“Best that you be sensibly alarmed.”

Evie stepped in front of Mrs. Summers to the front door, and used the opportunity to discreetly roll her eyes. “I assure you, there is little about this business I do not find alarming.”

The attempt to marry her off, sending her into the woods with a man who was not her husband, the encounter with the blacksmith’s apprentice, not to mention the adder—it was all exceedingly alarming.

And then there was McAlistair. Evie rather thought her feelings toward him qualified as alarming as well.

“I am relieved to hear it,” Mrs. Summers replied.

It took Evie a moment to realize Mrs. Summers was referring to being alarmed, and not to Evie’s growing attachment to the Hermit of Haldon Hall. The momentary confusion left her flustered, and she strove to change the subject.

She waved her hand about. “This is a lovely cottage…er…house.”

The interior removed any doubt that it was, in fact, a house and not a cottage. Where she had expected comfortably worn and rustic furnishings, she found instead furniture and décor that still had all the hallmarks of being new and expensive. Peeking into the parlor, Evie noticed there wasn’t so much as a snag in the gold upholstery, a stain on the dark green carpet, or a wrinkle in the lush red drapes.

The room was a testament to wealth, she mused, eyeing the ornate marble mantel and the elaborate crystal chandelier she thought was somewhat out of place in a coastal parlor.

“Are all the rooms like this?”

“Most,” Mrs. Summers replied. “Though some of the bedrooms are slightly less ostentatious.”

Evie looked down and slid a toe across the wood floor of the front hall. The thin layer of dust she found there was absent from the furniture. She suspected the latter had been covered with dust cloths before their arrival.

“Is there staffhere?” she inquired.

Mrs. Summers followed her gaze to the gleaming wood of a side table. “No. We uncovered the furniture ourselves when we arrived.”

Evie envisioned the sophisticated Mr. Hunter engaging in mundane domestic chores. She was rather sorry she had missed it.

On the way to Evie’s bedroom, Mrs. Summers offered something of an abbreviated tour of their temporary residence. Though it was no great estate, it was fitted out to resemble one, and before they were even halfway to her room, Evie found herself appreciating, even approving of Mr. Hunter’s house. It was so delightfully unapologetic in its splendor. And it fit its master perfectly. He too had come from humble beginnings and could now lay claim to the very finest life had to offer.

They stopped to peek into a small library where luxury had taken the form of comfort rather than opulence. There were plush rugs, plusher chairs, and a window seat so thickly cushioned, Evie imagined that climbing in and out of it would be something of a challenge.

“This is a lovely room,” she sighed.

“Isn’t it?” Mrs. Summers agreed before leaning down to whisper softly, “Have a care with the window seat. It’s rather complicated to maneuver.”

Evie laughed softly. “Did you become stuck?” What a delightful picture.

“Very nearly called out for help,” Mrs. Summers admitted. “The seat, like everything else in the house, was clearly designed to be used by a man.”

Though her damp gown weighed nearly as heavily on her as exhaustion, Evie was too charmed by the room to resist wandering to the window. She drew her hand across the dark green cushions. “I suppose you’re right. Was it difficult for you, traveling with just the gentlemen for company?”

“Not in the least. They were most attentive.”

Evie glanced out the window toward the sea beyond. She could hear the rhythmic wash of waves hitting the beach, but the water was barely visible in the rapidly dimming light.

“What happened after McAlistair and I left?”

“We untangled the horses and then imposed on a very nice man passing in his cart. He took us into the nearest village. From there, we sent a letter to Haldon and proceeded on horseback in a very roundabout way to the cottage.”

Evie turned from the window. “How do you know you weren’t followed?”

“How do you?”

“McAlistair and I traveled almost exclusively off the road.”

“As did we.”

“Oh.” Evie tried to picture Mrs. Summers traversing the countryside on horseback and sleeping under the stars, and just couldn’t do it. “What of our things on the carriage?”

Mrs. Summers gave a pained expression. “I’m afraid the majority of it was returned to Haldon. We brought only what we could carry.”

“Returned?” Oh, bloody hell. There were things in her trunks she needed, absolutely needed. “But I carried nothing of my own. I haven’t so much as a clean change of clothes. I can’t possibly—”

“You needn’t worry, dear. Our departure was not so rushed as yours. I was able to pack a number of your things.”

“Which things?”

“Three gowns, a night rail—”

“Oh, bless you.” She was more than eager for a change of clothes.

“Also several undergarments,” Mrs. Summers continued, “a brush and pins, and your ledger.”

Evie exhaled an audible side of relief. “My ledger. Thank heavens.”

Mrs. Summers motioned for Evie to follow her from the room. “I thought you might like to have it with you.”

Evie was a little upset at not having thought to bring it along herself. She stretched up in the doorway to give Mrs. Summers a peck on the cheek. “Thank you for thinking of it. I promised the ladies I’d have a new budget drawn up by the end of the month.” And while the information in the ledger was anonymous, and therefore unlikely to be dangerous, the idea of it being made public was nonetheless unnerving.

Mrs. Summers waved away the gratitude and led Evie to her bedroom, a spacious chamber decorated in soft blues and yellows.

“You’ll find your gowns already put away,” Mrs. Summers told her. “I imagine you are eager to be out of that one.”

“You’ve no idea.” Evie plucked at her skirts. “I’ll need to wash it out. I doubt a simple brushing will do.” She blew out a tired breath, realizing suddenly that if she wanted a hot bath, she’d need to go back downstairs and fetch the supplies herself. “We shall certainly be fending for ourselves for a time, won’t we?”

“I am afraid so.” Mrs. Summers pressed her lips into a line. “And there has been some disagreement over the distribution of responsibilities.”

Evie stifled a yawn. “What sort of disagreement?”

Mrs. Summers sniffed. “The gentlemen were laboring under the impression that I could cook.”

“I see.” Well, no, she didn’t, really. “Can’t you?”

“No.” Mrs. Summers sent her a skeptical look. “Can you?”

“I…I can manage some of the basics. Toast, for example, and eggs. I can make sandwiches.” She scrambled for something else, something a bit more impressive. “I assisted Cook in baking a cake once.”

“And how old were you at the time, dear?”

She’d been eleven, if memory served. “That’s not at issue. Surely you haven’t roused the staff every time you’ve had a mind for a snack, or early meal, or—”

“Certainly not. I am capable of waiting until it is convenient for everyone, or assuaging my hunger with a bit of bread and cheese.”

“Ah. Well, what responsibilities would you prefer?”

“I am to make tea, see to the linens, and otherwise keep the cottage tidy.”

“That seems reasonable.” She was wary of asking her next question. “What am I to do?”

“You are to clean up after meals.”

Evie winced. “I should rather try my hand at cooking.”

“You may take that up with Christian, if you like. He’s been given that task at present. As men seem to have a natural aversion to using the stove, I suspect he would be more than welcome to cede the responsibility to you.” Mrs. Summers glanced at the door and lowered her voice. “It might be best if he did. Breakfast this morning consisted of one part egg, six parts salt, and an appalling amount of butter.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I am still recuperating.”

“Did Mr. Hunter comment on it?”

Mrs. Summers brow furrowed in a perplexed expression. “No. He ate quite heartily, actually. They both did. And spent the whole of the meal discussing animal husbandry…I’m so very glad you’re here, dear.”

“I am as well, though
here
turned out to be someplace altogether different from what I was expecting.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Summers’s hands fluttered up to toy with the lace at her bodice. “Yes. Hmm.”

“You
knew
,” Evie accused.

“Yes, well…hmm.”

“And didn’t tell me.”

Mrs. Summers dropped her hands. “It was for the best.”

“You know very well I can, and will, keep a secret.”

“When it is important to you, yes.”

“When it is
asked
of me,” Evie corrected with a bit of heat.

Mrs. Summers put up her hands in a sign of defeat. “You are quite right. It was wrong of me to doubt your word. I apologize for it and for not informing you of the change of plans.”

Evie couldn’t stand against such sincere regret. She stepped up to give Mrs. Summers another peck on the cheek. “I’m not truly angry with you. It’s only that fatigue has made me cross. Please don’t trouble yourself.” An idea occurred to her. She smiled hopefully. “Although…if you were to assist me in fetching the tub from downstairs, I might see my way clear to forgetting the incident entirely.”

Half an hour later, Evie had her bath. But rather than change into a fresh gown when she’d finished, she chose the comfort of her night rail instead. She’d have a brief nap and be up for dinner…or so she thought.

The moment her head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. She never heard the knock on her door signal it was time for dinner, didn’t so much as stir when Mrs. Summers peeked in on her. She slept for sixteen straight hours.