McAlistair's Fortune (19 page)

M
cAlistair searched the grounds closest to the house, and he searched the house itself, checking and rechecking the locks on the doors and windows. He knew full well there was nothing wrong with them. Just as he knew full well that anyone determined to get inside would find a way. But he needed
something
to do while Mrs. Summers settled Evie in her room.

It seemed to take a prodigious amount of time.

In truth, it may have been no more than half an hour, but it felt like an eternity passed before Mrs. Summers slipped out through Evie’s door and headed to her own. And another eternity before a soft snore emanated from Mrs. Summers’s room.

He considered what he knew regarding the lady and her naps, and estimated he’d have at least two hours.

What he meant to do in those hours, he hadn’t decided. He only knew he needed to spend them with Evie.

Unwilling to knock and risk the chance of being turned away, McAlistair pushed open Evie’s door. Decisively at first, then cautiously when it occurred to him she might be sleeping—or changing.

She was standing by the window, but
not
, he noted, directly in front of it. She stood a good four feet back from the glass. A good, safe distance that kept her hidden from anyone who might be looking from the ground.

She was afraid now. It occurred to him that he might have been mistaken in his efforts to convince her that the threat was real. He hated that she’d been made to feel afraid. Better he had kept a closer eye on things, caught the bastard, and
then
convinced her.

She turned as he stepped into the room. “Did you find him? Did you—?”

“No. We will.” He shut the door behind him. “How are you?”

“Aside from embarrassed, I’m perfectly well.” She walked over to fiddle with a piece of paper on a desk. “Mrs. Summers isn’t feeling quite the thing after all the excitement. She’s gone to lie down.”

“I know.”

“Oh. Well. I…” She cleared her throat before continuing in a soft voice. “I owe you an apology. You were right, it would seem, about the ruse. You must be—”

“I don’t care.”

“Oh. Right.” Her eyes darted away from his. “Of course. You’ve every call to be angry. I—”

“That’s not what I meant.” He didn’t bloody care who’d been right and who had been wrong. “That’s not what matters. I’m not angry with you, I…” He drew a hand through his hair. “I thought you’d been shot. I thought…”

He wasn’t surprised to see her mouth fall open a little at his lack of composure. “I’m fine,” she said carefully. “Honestly. I’ve little more than a few scratches to show for the incident.”

“You were lucky.” He hadn’t realized quite how lucky until he’d returned to the spot where she’d been standing and found the bullet mark in the rock less than a foot away. The bullet had missed her by inches. Mere
inches.

He’d noticed her absence too late. She was already at the rocks by the time he’d left the house, and when the first shot rang out, he’d still been a solid fifty yards away. It felt like fifty miles, and might just as well have been, for all the good he could do her from that distance—close enough to see the largest flecks of rock go flying, but too far away to protect her.

He’d never run so fast in his life, and never felt so slow. His legs had felt impossibly heavy and his heart and lungs had begun laboring before he’d taken the first step.

He’d been certain he was going to lose her, terrified the bullet had cut through her before hitting the rock.

It nearly had. Bloody hell, it nearly had.

“I need…I…” He strode forward and wrapped his arms around her. She came willingly into the embrace, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing her face against his chest. She was warm, soft, and alive, and he took some measure of comfort from the beat of her heart and the rise and fall of her chest.

But it wasn’t enough. She was alive, yes. She was unhurt, yes. But both only by sheerest margin of luck.

“You nearly…you could have…” He pulled back to cup her face in his hands. “I have to,” he whispered, lowering his head to hers. “I have to.”

The kiss, like each before, was unique.

He kissed her with the desperation of a man who had nearly lost what he loved most, and with the aching tenderness of a man terrified to harm. He kissed her with the desire to make up for every soft word he’d wanted to offer, but hadn’t been able to find. He kissed her with passion and need, affection, and reverence. And he kissed her as if his very life depended on the next whispered breath, the next ragged sigh, the next trembling moan.

She offered all of those and more—a quiet breath when he shifted to trail soft kisses down the side of her neck, a quick gasp when he gently nipped her shoulder with his teeth, a soft hum of pleasure when his hands moved to form her curves.

He was lost in a fog of fear and pleasure. He knew at some point he unfastened the buttons on her gown and slipped off her dress. He was almost certain it was she, and not he, who stripped him down to his shirtsleeves. And he was vaguely aware of lifting her in his arms and placing her gently on the bed. The removal of his boots was something he would never be able to recall clearly in the future, but he would always remember bunching the hem of her chemise and slowly, ever so slowly, dragging it up to reveal the heated skin beneath.

It was his every fantasy come to life.

Every desire he’d thought hopeless, every dream he’d thought unattainable, was given to him in that moment, and he relished it, even as his fear urged him to hurry.

Take more. Take all.

Take while you can.

He yanked it back, chained it down, and allowed himself the pleasure of savoring.

He let his hands explore without hurry and his mouth wander without direction. His fingers brushed the tender spot behind her knee. His lips trailed up the inside of her thigh to the ivory skin of her belly. He lingered over the generous flair of her hips, the subtle tuck of her waist, the soft weight of her breasts.

Evie’s hands moved over him with more eagerness than skill, and he reveled in that as well. The sensation of her small fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt and the heat of her palms against his chest sent his blood roaring.

He waited until he was certain she was absorbed in pleasure before removing his breeches and covering her body with his.

“Evie. Evie, look at me now.” He caught her face in his hands, pressed a soft kiss to her brow and clung to his last shred of control. “We can stop. I will stop. If you ask it of me—”

“Don’t stop.”

He was a bastard for waiting so long to offer her a chance to back away. A bastard twice over for taking her at her word and going forward. He couldn’t find it in himself to be sorry for either. He was bloody
tired
of fighting against what he wanted most.

His hand moved down to cup the back of her knee. Gently, he hooked her leg over his hip.

There would be pain. He knew there was no way to avoid it entirely, but he tried his best anyway—entering her in small, careful strokes, searching her face for any sign of discomfort. He couldn’t find any. Evie arched and moaned, wrapped her other leg over him, and gripped his shoulders hard enough to dig her nails into the skin.

He relished in the sight of her lost to her desire and cringed when he reached her maidenhood.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He pushed through with a hard press of his hips to bury himself inside.

He heard his own long groan of bliss.

And Evie’s sharp yelp of discomfort. Her lids flew open. “Bloody hell.”

Her chocolate eyes, which had been glazed with pleasure only a moment ago, widened, cleared, and—unless he was much mistaken—took on the sharp edge of annoyance.

He wondered if she would start swearing. He worried she might cuff him.

“I’m sorry.” He lowered his head to take her mouth in a long, lingering kiss. He ran his hands over her, seeking out the places that had made her moan and writhe earlier. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. No, lie still. Just wait…wait.”

He set about seducing her all over again. The process was both a delight and a torture. He wanted to move. He
needed
to. But he didn’t, not until her eyes once again clouded over. Not until he was certain she could feel, if not all, at least some of the ecstasy he knew.

When he was certain she did, when she began to arch beneath him in wordless demand, he allowed himself to pull out and slide back. He set an excruciatingly slow rhythm, both in consideration of Evie and for his own selfish desire to draw the moment out.

Evie wasn’t having it. She struggled to pull him closer, struggled to grasp what he was holding out of reach. Her breathing grew more labored, her struggles more frantic.

“Please.”

He gave in to her demands, increasing the pace, driving deep. He listened and watched and filed away in his memory every exquisite heartbeat of Evie Cole reaching for rapture in his arms. When she found it, when she shuddered beneath him, he pressed his face against her neck and took his own.

Evie had never before experienced such an incongruent mix of emotions. She felt elated, anxious, vulnerable, replete, and a host of other things she couldn’t hope to name.

She wanted to dive under the covers to hide, almost as much as she wanted to bound out of bed and dance about, but not
quite
as much as she wanted to close her eyes and immediately give in to the sleep tugging at her weighted body.

McAlistair shifted, rolling onto his back and gently tucking her against his side. He pulled the edge of the counterpane and wrapped it over her. “Are you all right, Evie?” She nodded against his shoulder as a thousand questions raced through her mind.

Had she done the right thing?

Had she done the thing
right?

The first question would require a more sedate frame of mind to figure through. As for the second…she looked up at McAlistair. He had one arm bent behind his head, one hand trailing soft brushes up and down her spine, and the single most serene expression she’d ever seen on his face.

At a guess, she’d done
something
right.

Emboldened by the modesty the counterpane allowed, she let her hand reach up to touch the white jagged scar on his chest she’d noticed earlier. The man had a frightful number of scars on his body, and it occurred to her that she hadn’t any idea how he’d received even one of them. Frowning a little, she traced the white edges of the skin.

“How did this happen?”

McAlistair felt laughter tickle the back of his throat. Evie would, of course, want to talk. Rather than respond, he drew a hand down her hair, hoping to lull her into the sleep she needed.

“I know very little of your life before you came to Haldon,” she prompted.

His hand stilled. “It’s important to you? My past?”

Let her say no.
Please
let her—

“Yes.”

Damn.

“It’s part of who you are,” she whispered.

“No. I am a different man than I was eight years ago.”

“All right, then it is a part of what made you that man.” She lifted her head to look at him, a crease appearing across her brow. “You don’t want to tell me.”

He bloody well didn’t, but though he could stand against her displeasure, he was no match for the disappointment he saw in her eyes.

He cleared his throat. “I left home at fourteen.” This, at least, he could try to tell her.

“For school?”

He shook his head. “Just left.” He pulled her closer. He wanted—needed—to have his arms about her as he told the story. “My mother had fallen in love, again. Mr. Carville. Young, wealthy, and demanding of her time.”

“Was he unkind to you?”

“No, he wasn’t the sort to intentionally wound a child.” Not intentionally. “But they were in love, and…selfish with it.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“He took my mother to the Continent and sent us, the children, to live at one of his country estates.”

She lifted a hand to brush at a lock of his hair. “Were you not treated well there?”

“Yes and no. We had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs. There was a skeletal staff on hand. Some of them were…not unkind.” Cowed, but not unkind.

“Some?”

“Our care was overseen by the estate manager and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Burnett.” Even saying the name aloud turned his stomach. “They didn’t care for the intrusion.”

Or perhaps they had. Perhaps they had enjoyed it very much. They’d been mad enough for that.

“They hired and dismissed tutors and governess on whims. Complained they were too lax in discipline. They wanted their house—they saw it as theirs—to be well ordered, spotless, and silent.

“That’s not possible with seven children.”

“Just six of us at the time, but no, it wasn’t possible.” Absently, he fingered the scar she’d asked about. “Punishment was severe.”

Her breath caught. “That’s from—”

“Horsewhip,” he supplied. “Mrs. Burnett liked to grab whatever was handy. At the time of my infraction, I’d been in the stable.” The corner of his mouth hooked up. “Devil’s own temper, that woman.”

“How can you jest about this?”

Because short bursts of temper could be outlasted. Blows could be dodged, or endured for those first few moments when the pain was sharp and new, and then ignored when it dulled.

“Mr. Burnett’s brand of punishment was worse.” It had been cold, extensive, and inescapable.

“Worse than a horsewhip?”

He spoke before the resolve to do so left him. “He used the bottom shelf of a small linen closet.”

“Used it…” Evie’s voice weakened into a trembling whisper. “Used it for what?”

He waited as the memory of those dark times brought on echoes of fear and pain. Waited until those echoes dimmed. “There was just enough room to lie on your side and tuck your knees up to your chin.” Just barely enough room.

He’d fought those first few times, but Mr. Barnett had been a giant of a man, or so it had seemed to a boy of thirteen. After a while, he’d given up trying to best him physically and clung to what little pride could be found in marching to the closet, flinging open the door, and climbing inside of his own accord. As if he hadn’t cared. As if it hadn’t mattered to him one jot. As if pretending indifference was, in itself, an act of defiance.