McAlistair's Fortune (5 page)

“I know.” Or, at least, she’d known he
could
have, and if she weren’t feeling so wretched at the moment, she probably would have been gratified to learn he had. “I’m sorry. It’s a spontaneous response to having a man push my skirts up.” Oh damn, that sounded dreadful. “That is…I’ve never been in the position before, but—”

“It’s all right.”

He gathered up the material again, and this time lifted it gently and slowly. Still, she had to fist her hands to keep from shoving it back down again. How ridiculous. She had been riding about all day with her dress caught up above her knees. Why should it bother her now?

Because she’d been on a horse, riding a comfortable distance from McAlistair, she realized, not on the ground with him only inches away—certainly not with his bare hands on her bare leg. Never mind that she couldn’t feel his hands at present; she could see them—the way he carefully danced his fingers along her ankle, her calf, her knee.

“Nothing at all?” he asked.

She shook her head, unable to speak. She was mesmerized by his hands—the size of them, the elegant fingers with blunt tips, the way the tanned skin stood out so starkly against her pale leg. She imagined how they would feel—rough and strong and—

“How far up?” he asked.

“What?” She blinked rapidly for a second. “Oh. Er…” She hesitated, then touched her hip. “All the way, I’m afraid.”

He moved to push her dress up farther, and she slapped his hand again. “I’ll not apologize for that. You haven’t been looking at…at that all day.”

She would have sworn, absolutely sworn, she heard him mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, “Pity.”

“Did you just—”

“We need to get the blood flowing,” he said, effectively cutting her off.

“By looking and prodding?”

“By massaging.”

“Oh.” She used her hands to keep her skirts pinned above her knee. “Right. I can do that.”

He shook his head. “Lie back.”

Lie back?
In the middle of the woods with a strange—or very nearly strange—man, whilst her skirts were gathered about her waist? “You can’t possibly be serious.”

He was, apparently. He pried her hands free, and took her by the shoulders to gently, but insistently, push her down. “Stay.”

“I’m not a dog, Mr. McAlistair.”

“Stay,” he repeated, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “Or I’ll tie you down.”

Such a threat would normally have elicited a furious response from Evie, even if only on principle’s sake, but the urge to fight back eluded her at the moment. She found it comforting to have his warm hands on her arm and his broad form looming over hers. Though his face remained hard and set, she could see the concern in his eyes.

“I’ll stay,” she muttered. Then, because her pride wouldn’t allow for complete submission, she added, “But should you ever attempt to tie me down,
I’ll
attempt to break every bone in your body, and after they heal, break them all again.”

The faintest smile touched his lips. “Fair enough.”

He drew back and she felt, through her strong leg, her skirts being drawn up. Uncomfortable with the spark that shot through her at the sight and feel of McAlistair’s dark head bent over her legs, she shut her eyes and concentrated on what was happening to her numb appendage.

There were movement and pressure first, odd sensations that seemed to originate above her hip. After a time, the first signs of life began to return. Her toes started to tingle, little pricks and stings she found more relieving than uncomfortable. Though she’d tried to block it out, she’d been harboring the small and irrational fear that feeling would never return—that her leg had gone from troublesome to completely useless.

Her relief at having that disturbing possibility removed was short-lived. The tingle traveled up to her ankle, her knee, her thigh. She knew what it meant. She’d woken in the small hours of the morning with a numb arm or foot often enough to know the innocuous pins and needles would soon be replaced by knives and daggers.

That too started in her toes, the horrible burning and cramping that made even the thought of being touched nearly unbearable. It worked its way through her foot to her ankle. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyelids tighter, determined not to cry out.

She could feel McAlistair’s hands now, but she was no longer fascinated by the idea of his touch. His fingers felt like hot coals pressing into her skin. In an effort to keep her hands from slapping his away, she grasped at the dirt and grass beneath her. Please stop, was all she could think.
Please
stop.

His voice floated over the pain. “Move your leg.”

She knew he was right. Knew that movement would help the pain pass more quickly.

The very idea of moving made her want to weep.

She managed a very muffled “no” through compressed lips.

The burn spread past her calf

“Move your leg, Evie.”

She shook her head and bit the inside of her cheek. The cramping reached her knee, her thigh, her hip. She was in agony.

“Evie—” “Oh, sod off!”

She bolted upright, gripped her leg at her thigh, and began to swear.

F
or a time, Evie had been in the habit of collecting swear words. It had begun as a sort of academic study—an attempt to understand the colorful language that was sometimes tossed about in the less respectable neighborhoods she visited. But it had quickly grown into a hobby. One she’d enjoyed immensely. She’d badgered anyone who had been willing to aid her in her quest and, over time, had managed to amass a truly impressive arsenal of curses.

She used each and every one of them now.

The most vulgar came first, spat out between gritted teeth and a jaw locked tight with pain. A small part of her cringed at what she was saying and hoped desperately that it was unintelligible. But as that small part of her was also insisting she stop talking, it went largely ignored.

As the burn began to ease, so did the intensity of her curses. The merely moderately offensive were brought out as the daggers retracted, and when the last cramped muscle relaxed, she ended her symphony of profanity with the phrase, “Oh, bloody, bloody,
bloody
hell,” and fell back onto the grass with a long exhale.

Utterly exhausted, she remained there with her eyes closed and her breath coming in pants. She was aware of McAlistair moving around her, even going off into the trees for a bit, and wondered what he was doing. But it was several more minutes before she mustered the energy to open her eyes and assuage her curiosity.

She found him standing over her with what looked to be a damp cloth in his hand. Kneeling, he pressed the cloth to her forehead. “Better?”

She nearly whimpered with pleasure at the feel of the cool water against her brow. Another layer of misery slid away. “Much, thank you.”

He turned the cloth over. “You swear.”

There was no censure in his voice, no shock or disappointment, just a hint of surprise. It was such a mild response to the horrid words she’d spoken. If the air was actually capable of turning blue, Evie imagined the space between them would be darker than the deepest part of the ocean, at night.

She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I beg your pardon.”

“No need.”

She remembered suddenly that at least one of those swears had been specifically addressed to him. She grimaced. “There is. I told you to…that is, I said—”

“You were in pain. It’s understandable.”

“Thank you.” She waited for him to say more, then realized that waiting for McAlistair to elaborate on something was rather like waiting for ice to thaw in January. A singularly pointless pursuit. She searched for something else to say, instead. “Aren’t you going to ask how I learned them?”

“Same as everyone else. From others.”

“I…” She pursed her lips. “I could have read them in a book.”

“All of them?” He cocked his head. “May I borrow it?”

She felt a smile form slowly. “Was that a joke, Mr. McAlistair?”

He withdrew the cloth from her forehead. “Of a sort.”

Of a sort counted, she decided. “Not half bad for a man who appears to be out of the habit.”

“I wanted to see you smile.”

Her heart warmed. “And a kind word to boot. I should make myself uncomfortable more often. It’s made you positively charming.”

“Uncomfortable? Is that how you’d describe it?”

She was surprised to see a muscle work in his jaw, more surprised to be the one responsible for putting it there. Studying him, she kept her smile in place and her voice light. “Well, I could use a few more fitting adjectives, but I do hate repeating myself.”

His face visibly relaxed at her small jest. “Certain you’re all right?

He leaned in farther, his eyes searching her face, and suddenly, she was all too aware of how close they were. He was so near, so very near, that she could make out the smallest details of his face. He had wonderfully long lashes, endearing lines at the corners of his eyes, and the single most enthralling mouth she’d ever seen. She wanted to brush her finger along the full bottom lip. She wanted to reach up and spear her fingers into his hair—hair, she noticed for the first time, that was not just brown, but a luscious blend of browns and blacks and even reds where the sun hit it. A few strands had fallen from their tie to frame his face.

She imagined pulling him down for another kiss.

What would he do? she wondered. Pull away? Push her away? Or kiss her back, cede to her demands and lie down where she could feel the weight of him, taste him, breathe in that aroma that only came in tantalizing wisps now.

“Evie?”

“Hmm.” He’d hold her this time, not stand aloof as he had before.

“Evie.”

“Hmm?” She blinked, snapping herself back. “What? What?” She focused her eyes and noticed that the tic in his jaw had returned. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked if you were feeling better.”

“Yes. No.” She grimaced. “Yes, I feel better. I’m sorry, I’m rather tired.”
Deliriously
tired seemed more fitting, given that she was daydreaming about ravishing Mr. McAlistair in the woods. How extraordinarily absurd.

Well, perhaps the woods bit wasn’t entirely absurd, but the rest was several degrees, several
dozen
degrees, beyond ridiculous.

“I’d like to get up.” She didn’t wait for his agreement, and he didn’t argue, but when she moved to stand, he put a restraining hand on her shoulder.

“Sit. Rest.”

“I’d like to, but…that is, I’ve need…” She waggled her finger at a thick clutch of trees.

“To take a walk?”

“What? No.” She dropped her hand. “Well, in a way. I’ve been on a horse for hours, Mr. McAlistair. I require a moment of privacy.”

“Ah.” He straightened. “Do you need help?”

Help?
“With what?”

“Standing. Walking.”

“Oh.” Oh, she dearly hoped not. She wiggled her toes experimentally, pushed her heel down and felt the pull up to her hip. “No, thank you. I believe I can manage.”

Please,
please,
let her manage.

She accepted his offered hand, but let go with a great rush of relief when she found she could stand on her own without difficulty. Her leg was still tender and likely would ache for days. But she could
feel
her leg, put weight on it, and place one foot in front of the other, all of which meant she could take her moment of privacy without assistance.

Thank heavens.

“Don’t go far,” McAlistair advised.

“I rather doubt I could.”

She hobbled into the woods and muddled through the process of seeing to her needs out-of-doors. There were times, she groused to herself as she righted her skirts, that a woman should be allowed to wear breeches, or at least fewer, and preferably shorter, layers of fabric.

When she returned, several minutes later, she found McAlistair lifting a satchel from the back of his horse.

Curious, she wandered closer. “What are you doing?”

He spared her a single assessing glance. “Unpacking. You’re well?”

“Yes, of course.” She waved the question away, more than ready to be done with the subject of her health. “Why are you unpacking?”

“We’ll camp here.”

“Here? In the woods?” Evie looked around. Why she bothered, she didn’t know.

“You like the woods,” he pointed out, reminding her that he knew a great deal more about her than she did of him.

“I like walking in the woods, not sleeping in them.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“I have, actually. I snuck out of Haldon when I was fifteen and made a camp in the woods for a night.”

He stopped what he was doing to look at her. “You didn’t care for it?”

She’d loved it, and not only because it was forbidden and therefore appealing. She’d lain under an old Scots pine and listened to the trees creaking in the wind while the smell of the outdoors filled her lungs. Her last thought as she’d drifted off had been that sneaking out to sleep in the woods was quite the finest idea she’d ever had.

Her next had been that it was the worst. She’d woken midway through the night in terrible pain, her leg cramping mercilessly in protest of the hard ground.

She could only imagine how she would fare after a ride like the one she’d just endured.

“Evie?”

“I…couldn’t we press on? There’s light left yet.”

“You need rest.”

So very true, and so very irritating. “I’m not one of the horses. And I thought you were worried someone was chasing us.”

“Good a time as any to make a stand.”

She felt her lips twitch. “I’ll assume that’s another joke, though it marks you as a man who prefers quantity over quality.”

“Out of practice,” he reminded her. “Answer my question.”

She bit her lip—more in an effort to stop herself from commenting on his high-handed order than an act of nerves—and shifted her feet, which was, she was forced to admit, very much an act of nerves. How many times would they both have to be reminded of her infirmity in one day?

“Evie.”

She shifted again, then capitulated. What was a little more lost pride? “Yes, I enjoyed sleeping in the woods…but my leg did not. May we move on now? I—”

“Did you take care where you placed your bedding?”

“Well, of course. I brought a blanket and cleared a space of rocks. I’m not a fool.”

He shook his head. “There are ways to make a spot more comfortable for sleeping. Pine boughs, grass, even leaves can soften the ground.”

“Oh.” She frowned a little. “No, I didn’t think of that. I didn’t know.”

“How would you?”

Common sense came to mind. She very much hoped it didn’t come to his. His opinion of her was apt to be depressingly low as it was. She wasn’t so swamped in her own discomfort that she couldn’t see how that very discomfort was making her unpleasant.

She made herself smile a little. “Perhaps you’re right. And it won’t hurt me—” Then again, it might. “That is, I am willing to try.” Particularly since it meant she wouldn’t have to crawl back onto a horse for the remainder of the day. “Thank you for the suggestion.”

Evie chose the soft, grassy spot where McAlistair had set her down earlier, and when she had finished tossing aside a few hidden pebbles, she made her way to the edge of the woods to find branches for her makeshift mattress.

She was so tired, she thought she could probably sleep standing up, but she made several trips before standing back, hands on hips, to survey her work. It looked, in her estimation, like a very small, very leafy nest. “This can’t possibly work.”

“It will work.”

She glanced over at McAlistair, and noticed for the first time that he was stacking wood on a small space of cleared ground.

“You’re building a fire?” she asked. “Aren’t you worried it will give away our position? Not that anyone is looking for said position, but if someone were, a fire would be rather like sending him a map, wouldn’t it?”

“We passed dozens of houses, all—”

“We did?” She couldn’t recall seeing a single one.

“Skirted the properties,” he amended. “Lots of chimneys.”

“And a great number of fires for our mythical foe to investigate,” she finished for him with a nod.

He broke a branch in half and laid the pieces crossing each other. “It’ll be dark soon, besides.”

She watched him haul a large log over to the pile.

“You’re stronger than you look.” As he looked rather strong to start, she felt that was saying something.

His only reaction was a raised brow.

“It looks heavy,” she explained, gesturing at the log. “And you’ve picked me up.” Which wasn’t something she needed to feel embarrassment over, she told herself sternly. “More than once now.”

He tossed the log down. “You’re small.”

Her eyes narrowed. Was he making sport of her? She wasn’t small, or even petite, as her family and friends generously referred to her. What she
was,
was short and decidedly curvy. But she couldn’t detect any sign of humor in McAlistair’s voice or face.

Then again, it was McAlistair; detecting a sign of anything bordered on the miraculous.

“Well…” How was she to respond to that? Because she had absolutely no idea, she said, “Is there something I could do to help?”

“Fetch the food.”

Certain—or relatively so—that he didn’t intend offense at the short command, she shrugged and walked to the saddles to unpack the remainder of the lunch she and Mrs. Summers had shared. There was a very sad-looking ham sandwich, a bit of bread and cheese that looked the worse for wear, and what appeared to still be a fair amount of watered beer.

They weren’t to die of thirst, but there wasn’t enough food to satisfy even one of them.

She glanced at McAlistair, who was busy hauling logs for the fire. He was bigger, he was working harder, and she had amends to make for her peevish behavior.

“I’m afraid our rations are rather slim.” She waited until he set down the last log to hand him the sandwich and the lion’s share of the bread and cheese. “But I’m not particularly hungry, anyway.”

He broke the sandwich in half and handed her a section. “Eat.”

She stepped back without taking the food. “I will eat. I’ve enough of the bread and cheese to—”

“Take it, Evie.”

Realizing they were perilously close to another argument, she stepped forward and took the half he offered. “Bit silly, really, for me to choke it down when you haven’t enough. Are you certain—?”

“I’ve plenty.” He jerked his chin at his pile of bread and cheese. “Take more of that, as well.”

“Perhaps,” she evaded. “If I’m still hungry after the sandwich.”

Rather than press the issue, he knelt to light the fire and with a skill clearly born of extensive practice, created a cheerful little blaze in a matter of minutes. Evie settled across from him, polished off the last of her food, and made a point not to glance wistfully at McAlistair’s bread and cheese.

For a long while, the pair of them sat in comfortable silence—the sort that comes less from familiarity and more from both parties being weary to their very bones. Evie stared into the flames, letting her mind wander as darkness fell around them.

“Why would they do it?” McAlistair asked suddenly.

Her gaze shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Why would the others conspire to find you a husband?”