McAlistair's Fortune (20 page)

“How long?” Evie’s voice was filled with horror. “How long did he keep you in there?”

“It varied. Minutes, hours, days.”

“Days!” She shot up. “He kept you…were you given food, water—?”

She broke off when he shook his head. Reaching up, he once again tucked her head back on his shoulder. It was easier to talk, to tell her of it, without seeing his pain reflected in her eyes.

“He could have killed you,” she whispered. “You could have died.”

The thought had occurred to him at the time. Every time. “I know.”

And that thought—of dying in a small closet, huddled like an animal, had driven him nearly insane. He had a hazy memory of shouting once, of giving up his pride and calling out for help when the thirst and the pain of being unable to move had become unbearable.

No one had come. No one had answered.

Neither seen nor heard.

That had been Mr. Burnett’s rule.

“Couldn’t you write to your mother for help?” Evie asked gently.

He shook his head. “Tried. Got caught.”

“I’m so sorry.” She stroked a hand across his chest. “I’m glad you ran away.”

“I didn’t, initially. I had my brothers to consider.”

“He hurt them as well?”

“Rarely.” Not when McAlistair had been there to take the blame. “He preferred using me as an example. It was…effective in gaining their cooperation.”

“Why you?”

He gave a small shrug. “I was oldest, the most resistant.”

“How did it stop?”

“I had a growth spurt. Shot up inches in a matter of months.” He hadn’t realized it. He’d thought it was just his fear making the closet smaller and smaller. “One day, I just wouldn’t fit on the shelf.” He felt his lips curve in cold humor. “The man tried damn near everything to wedge me in, nothing worked. When I stood again, I noticed for the first time that I was looking at him eye to eye.”

Mr. Burnett had noticed it too. McAlistair remembered seeing that spark of horror come into the older man’s eyes and his hand coming up to strike him down again. “He wanted to try a new closet. I refused. We fought.”

Mr. Burnett had still been stronger, but the difference in their sizes was no longer so great that he’d been able to grab and keep hold of his quarry. And in the months since they’d last grappled, McAlistair had had ample practice of how best to elude capture and hits, thanks to Mrs. Burnett. But in the end he’d still been just a boy.

“He might have overpowered me, but…” He paused and glanced at the top of Evie’s head, wondering how she would take the next part of the story. “I grabbed a vase and hit him with it.”

“Hard?” she asked.

“Hard enough to render him unconscious.”

“Excellent.” It was impossible to miss the grim pleasure in her voice. “Did it kill him?”

“No.” Not that time, he added silently. “But it gave me time to tie him up, steal a large amount of money from his desk, and see my brothers safely out of the house.”

“What of the staff? Of Mrs. Burnett?”

“Mrs. Burnett was visiting a neighbor. The staff thought nothing of our walking to the stables. Only one of the grooms knew. I paid him a small fortune to help saddle the horses, then turn a blind eye.”

“You ran away with five brothers in tow?”

He almost laughed at that memory. “I did, and what a nightmare it was.” Charles had been no more than four. “But we had funds enough to see us through—”

“Where? Where did you go?”

“To the Scottish border. We stayed with Mrs. Seager, my brothers’ retired nanny, until Mr. Carville and my mother could be found.”

He hadn’t been certain they would return, and he’d been terrified they would, only to send the children back to the Burnetts. He hadn’t known Mr. Carville then, but he’d known his mother well enough. When she loved a man, she loved with a blind and dangerous devotion.

“What did they do, when they returned?” Evie asked.

“Sent men out to search for the Burnetts, who’d disappeared after my brothers and I had run off. Mr. Carville apologized.” McAlistair frowned thoughtfully. Apology wasn’t quite the word. The man had been swamped with remorse. He’d been appalled by what had happened and determined to see it was never repeated. McAlistair believed him, but had been too angry, too battered still, to forgive. “I ran away. I was angry.”

“And became a soldier? At fourteen?”

“No, I went to London, worked at whatever came to hand.”

“What sorts of things came to hand?”

He fought back a chuckle. She was so bloody
persistent.
“Another time, sweetheart. I have to go.” He ran his hand down her back once more, kissed her gently on the forehead, and rose from the bed.

Evie sat up, taking the counterpane with her. She stifled a sigh as McAlistair began to dress, but she didn’t argue for him to stay. She knew the others would return soon. Just as she knew that when they did, it would be over. This golden afternoon would end and, over time, it would be nothing more than a memory, stored along with the memories of all her other firsts. The first time she’d seen McAlistair, the first time they’d kissed in the woods. The first time she’d felt his hands on her skin. The first time she’d heard his deep rumble of laughter.

Only it wouldn’t be just a string of firsts for her, she realized. It would be a list of lasts and onlys as well. The first, last, and only day she and McAlistair had stood chest deep in pond water and laughed. The first, last, and only day they had made love. Her chest tightened painfully. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want just one of anything with McAlistair.

She felt McAlistair’s hand on her hair and realized she’d been staring at her lap for the last five minutes. “What is it, Evie?”

She made herself lift her head and smile. “Nothing. I’m trying to find the energy to stand.” It wasn’t a complete fabrication. She was exhausted, and it would be lovely to lose her worries in sleep for an hour or two.

“Lie back down,” McAlistair suggested. “Rest.”

“I should like that.” She gave him a wry smile. “But I can well imagine what Mrs. Summers’ reaction would be were she to find me napping without any clothes on.”

McAlistair frowned and glanced around the room until his eyes landed on the armoire. Without a word, he retrieved her night rail. She accepted it with a murmured thanks and, after a bit of maneuvering, succeeded in pulling it over her head without dropping the counterpane.

She ignored the amused expression on his face. “I suppose…I suppose I shall see you at dinner.”

He stared at her a moment, then reached down to cup her face with his hands. “And after,” he murmured before taking her mouth in long, thorough kiss.

Evie felt her heart lighten even as her blood warmed.

After.
He’d come to her again
.
It wasn’t to be just an “only.”

She was smiling a bit stupidly when he drew away.

“Lie back down,” he urged. “Sleep.”

Seeing no reason she shouldn’t, Evie did as he suggested. She was nearly asleep when something occurred to her. She opened blurry eyes to find McAlistair reaching for the door.

“McAlistair?”

He turned back. “What is it?”

“Did they ever find the Burnetts?”

“No. They didn’t.”

Had she not been so tired, she might have remarked on his hesitation. Instead, she closed her eyes and slept.

McAlistair stood at the door a few minutes longer, watching the steady rise and fall of Evie’s chest and contemplating the tightness in his own.

There was no regret in his heart for what they’d done. He refused to allow his own shame to taint the most beautiful gift he’d ever received.

What troubled him now was how he cared for that gift. He’d lied to Evie. Only minutes after taking her innocence, after sharing a piece of his past only his family knew, he’d stood four feet away and lied to her.

He’d done it out of instinct—to protect her and himself—but that didn’t alter the fact that it had been a lie, or that one day, one day soon if there was to be any chance of forgiveness, he would have to tell her the truth.

The men Mr. Carville had sent never found Mr. Burnett.

But he had.

E
vie woke smiling into her pillow. She’d dreamt of McAlistair: of his rare smile and elusive laugh and of the glorious two hours they’d spent together in her bed. She rolled to her back and stretched luxuriously. The aches and soreness of her body were another welcome reminder of how she’d passed the afternoon and how she hoped to pass the night.

There remained the question, of course, of how she would spend her nights in the days and weeks to come. Eventually, she would have to leave the cottage. And then what? Would that be the end of the affair? It was better than the “only” she’d worried over earlier, but was it what she wanted?

She sat up and stared thoughtfully at the dim light piercing through the drapes. Did it matter, really, what she wanted? Openly becoming McAlistair’s mistress was out of the question, as was hoping she might hide a long-term liaison from her family. The only avenue left was marriage.

She was taken aback by the flicker of excitement that thought elicited.

She’d never cared for the concept of marriage.

To relinquish control over one’s life to another human being was a terrifying prospect, and a path she believed too many women took out of necessity rather than choice. There was a shameful lack of opportunities for women to earn their way in the world…as few as there were ways for her to be with the man she desired without first promising to love, honor, and obey.

She grimaced at the mere thought of promising to obey.

Did she desire him so very much?

She sighed heavily, and as she sighed, caught sight of herself in the mirror over the vanity. Little could have stunned her more than what she saw reflected back. She looked exactly,
exactly
—right down to the wistful eyes—as Mrs. Summers had when she’d been contemplating her love for Mr. Fletcher.

“A coincidence,” she heard herself murmur. “Only a coincidence, or a trick of the light, or…”

Oh, damn and blast, she was in love with McAlistair.

How could she hope to deny it? She thought of him constantly, wanted him outrageously. She wished him back the moment he left a room, and wished him closer the moment he came in. She hurt for the frightened boy he’d been, and was endlessly fascinated by the powerful man he’d become.

She’d gone to bed with him.

She was considering marriage, for sweet pity’s sake…well, she was considering the
possibility
of being
amenable
to the
idea
of marriage, but still—
marriage.

“Oh, damn.”

“Evie?”

The sound of Mrs. Summers’s voice and a rap at the door had Evie jumping up out of bed with a nervous start and carefully erasing all signs of wistfulness from her expression. “Come in.”

Mrs. Summers appeared, looking slightly refreshed from her nap, but still pinched about the nose and mouth.

Oh, dear.
Evie sent her an overly bright smile.

Mrs. Summers didn’t return the gesture. “Have you recovered from your scare?”

Evie wasn’t certain it was possible to ever be fully recovered from such a scare, but she felt the need to reassure her friend. “Quite, thank you. And you? Are you feeling at all better?”

“In some regards,” Mrs. Summers replied.

“I…you’re angry with me.”

“I am, rather,” Mrs. Summers admitted with a short sigh. “And I should like to discuss what happened today.” She folded her hands in front of her primly, sighed again, and said, “It has appeared to me, from the very start, that you have not fully grasped the seriousness of this situation, Evie. I attributed your poise to bravery and a confidence in your family’s ability to see you safe. But after today—”

“I am confident in my family,” Evie cut in, taken aback.

“And you are a very brave young woman,” Mrs. Summers agreed. “But the extent of your assuredness leaves me troubled, and this carelessness strikes me as most unusual. I should like an explanation.”

Evie shifted her feet and repressed the urge to wince. An explanation
to
Mrs. Summers would no doubt result in a lecture
from
Mrs. Summers. An unpleasant prospect, to be sure, but there was no avoiding it.

Evie cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should sit.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Summers moved to the nearest chair and lowered herself to perch on the very edge of the seat, her back ramrod straight and her narrow shoulders tense.

The stiff—well, stiffer than usual—posture made Evie nervous. But it was the
look
that worried her most. The raised brows, the tight lips, and the sad eyes all added to the impression of a woman bearing up under the strain of receiving a confession that would most assuredly break her heart.

Evie took a seat across from her. “I…” She bounded up again. “Should I fetch us some tea? It would only take a minute.”

“Thank you, no.”

She regained her seat slowly. “Are you comfortable?” She certainly didn’t look it. “Perhaps we should move—”

“I am quite content with this room and this chair.”

“Oh. Right. Good…But perhaps—”

“Get on with it, Evie.”

“Right. Well.” Because she needed to do something, Evie straightened her own shoulders and blew out a long breath. “A fortnight ago, or thereabout, I…I overheard a conversation in the library between you, Lady Thurston, and Mr. Fletcher.”

Mrs. Summers raised one brow even higher. “Overheard? How?”

“Oh, just…” She waved her hand about. “By chance. That’s not really relevant at present.” Not if she could help it. “What
is
relevant is the topic of that discussion. You were plotting a scenario in which I was to find a husband. Or, to be more accurate, in which you were to find a husband for me. A scenario that very much resembles the one we are in now.” Except for the shooting bit, of course. And the riding through the woods with McAlistair bit. And possibly the fact that she was in a secluded location with three gentlemen who were not, for a variety of reasons, the most likely of matches.

Bloody hell, she was an idiot.

She fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve. “I was under the impression the threat, this entire trip, was nothing more than a matchmaking scheme.”

“A matchmaking—?” Mrs. Summers broke off and closed her eyes. “Oh, good Lord, William’s plan.”

Evie nodded. “He spoke of sending a threatening letter, and not long after, I received one. I thought I would play along, in the interest of settling this idea of marriage once and for all. I’ll admit I was a bit confused when it was decided I should leave Haldon, and I was a little put out when the carriage—”

“The carriage.” Mrs. Summers’ eyes snapped open. “You think so little of me? Of all of us?”

“Little of you? Of course not—”

“Yet you would believe us capable of cruelly engineering a carriage accident simply to trick you? After what you had been through as a child?”

“I—” She hadn’t thought of that, not once. “It didn’t occur to me. I…I’m not afraid of carriages. I’ve never been afraid of them.”

“That is not the point.”

“Well, it was
a
point,” Evie argued, “and an important one. If I had a fear of being in a carriage accident, then engineering one
would
have been a cruel trick. One I would have known you are incapable of. As it is—”

“As it is…you would accuse us of being deceivers and actresses and—”

“You weren’t involved then, in Sophie and Alex’s meeting? Or the business with Whit and Mirabelle?”

Mrs. Summers hesitated before answering. “I had nothing to do with Whit and Mirabelle’s matching.”

“But you had everything to do with Sophie and Alex…”

“We have gone off topic.”

“Seems on topic to me.” And she rather liked it. She didn’t much care for being on the defensive end of a disagreement. “And I
did
hear you conspiring with Lady Thurston and Mr. Fletcher to find me a husband. As well as Mr. Fletcher conspiring to send me a threatening letter. For heaven’s sake, what are the odds of a fabricated threat and a legitimate one being simultaneously considered?”

“I grant you, they are slim.”

“Exactly. What was I—”

“However,” Mrs. Summers cut in, “the coincidence would not have saved your life, had your assailant been a better shot.”

Evie winced. “No, it would not have.”

Mrs. Summers sighed. “I do not condone eavesdropping, Evie. However, if one is going to indulge, one ought to make an effort to do it properly—or at least thoroughly. Clearly, you were not privy to the whole conversation.”

“Apparently not,” Evie muttered.

“Lady Thurston and I took immediate opposition to Mr. Fletcher’s tactics. You were to be introduced to the gentleman through one of the members of your group.”

“How?” Evie asked with a small start. “None of the women know who I am. I certainly don’t know who any of them are.”

“Lady Thurston and I do.”

“You…How…Why…”

“Did you really think your aunt would not only allow, but encourage your participation in an organization with which she was not familiar? Lady Penelope, I was informed, gave a detailed accounting of the group’s members.”

“Lady Penelope knew who all the members were? And she
told?”

“Yes, on both accounts. She knew because she was responsible for the organization’s conception. Even a secret organization requires a founder and leader, and one cannot lead without being fully aware of who is following.”

“No,” Evie replied thoughtfully. “I suppose not.”

“And she told because she trusted your aunt and it was a prerequisite for your participation.”

“Oh. Well.” That made sense, and using her work as a means to finding her a match was quite clever, actually. She’d have been interested—academically, at least—in any man who actively took up the cause.

Mrs. Summers tilted her head at her. “Who on earth did you think we’d chosen for you? You’ve nothing in common with any of the gentlemen in residence.”

“I…”…have more than enough in common with McAlistair, she wanted to say, but now wasn’t the time. She wasn’t sure that time would ever arrive. “That puzzle did give me some trouble, I’ll admit. Who was I to meet?”

“Sir Reginald Napertin.”

She went still, blinked, and wracked her brain. All for naught. “Who the devil is Reginald Napertin?”

Mrs. Summers tutted at Evie’s language.
“Sir
Reginald Napertin is a very nice gentleman recently returned from the Continent. He was knighted as an officer for his service to the Crown.”

“A war hero?”

“He was injured saving his commanding officer and several of his subordinates. He nearly lost his leg.”

Evie tried to picture herself on the arm of such a man and found she could only envision the three-legged races of which she’d been fond as a girl. “Between the two of us, we’d have managed a whole set of legs.”

“That is not amusing.”

It certainly was, particularly when paired with the vision of the two of them riding Rose without her shoe, but Evie had long ago realized that those who loved her were sometimes even more sensitive about her infirmity than she was. “If he’s the sort to take offense at it, then I suspect we wouldn’t have suited.”

“I never said he would take offense. I said it was not amusing. At any rate, you may discover the sort of man he is when the rest of this dreadful business is dealt with.”

Evie opened her mouth, then closed it. There was no sense in arguing.

“Well,” Mrs. Summers said with a bracing breath, “I am most relieved to have that misunderstanding cleared up. No doubt the others will be similarly reassured when you explain—”

“The others?” Explain? To Christian, and Mr. Hunter? “Couldn’t we just—”

“No. They have done a great deal on your behalf and are likely wondering not only why their efforts to keep you safe were nearly undone by your own carelessness, but if it is likely to happen again.”

“But the secrets I’d have to reveal wouldn’t only be my own.” And even if they were, she’d have undergone every torture known to man before she had a conversation with Christian and Mr. Hunter similar to one she was having with Mrs. Summers.

They were discussing matchmaking, for heaven’s sake.

“Certainly an apology is in order,” she continued. “And I mean to offer one, but an explanation would—”

Mrs. Summers waved her hand. “An apology will suffice.” She stood and brushed her skirts. “I believe Christian returned with food from the inn. I shall see the table set.”

Evie turned to frown at the drapes drawn over the windows. “Dinner. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

“You needed the sleep,” Mrs. Summers said. “We both did.” She leaned down to bestow a gentle pat on Evie’s shoulder. “I am glad you were not harmed today.”

Evie took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you…Oh, wait—” She held fast to Mrs. Summers’s hand when the older woman would have pulled away. “What in the world had you planned on doing with that club?”

“Club?”

“Downstairs, in the kitchen, you were carrying—”

“Ah, the broken broom handle.” Mrs. Summers frowned thoughtfully. “I am sure I have no idea.” She waved the idea away with a hand. “Come eat and make your apologies. You will feel better for both.”

“I will,” Evie replied, laughing softly. “I’ll be down shortly.”

In Evie’s opinion, “shortly” was rather like the word “mild.” It could mean anything, really.

For her, it meant a half hour of dressing, pinning her hair, pacing, and otherwise building up her nerve for the apology that was to come. When she thought she might have managed enough of the last, she made her way downstairs to find the others just starting their meal.

She demurred when the gentlemen would have risen, and took her seat with a mumbled greeting. For some reason, she found it impossible to meet McAlistair’s eyes. Part of that was a fear of somehow giving away their shared secret, but most of it, she conceded, was a fear of McAlistair somehow discovering her own private thoughts.

She’d only just realized that she loved him. She needed to sort out how she felt about that before facing how
he
felt about that.

Evie picked up her fork and concentrated so very hard on her plate that she likely wouldn’t have noticed Mrs. Summers’s pointed look if it hadn’t been preceded by a loud clearing of the lady’s throat.