Mcalistairs Fortune Read online

  “They would be more than happy to stay, I’m sure,” Evie agreed. She’d been truly disappointed when a head cold had kept her from making the trip to see Alex and Sophie, the Duke and Duchess of Rockeforte, and their three-month-old son, Henry. ‘At least until word of this reaches them—and it will most certainly reach them—then they’ll insist on returning.”

  Either to enjoy the scheme or to stand beside her in a perceived time of need, Kate, Mirabelle, and Sophie would most certainly come. As her cousin, Kate was the only one of the three considered family by blood, but in their hearts, all of them were sisters. They would never allow themselves to be kept removed from such a situation.

  “I’ve already sent word to Alex,” Mr. Fletcher said. “I suspect he’ll be here before morning.”

  Evie nodded. “You can be sure Sophie will be, as well, and with Kate and Mirabelle in tow.”

  Whit swore softly but emphatically. Evie supposed it was a testament to how important their ruse was to Lady Thurston that she did little more than sniff disapprovingly at her son’s language.

  “This conversation is going nowhere,” Lady Thurston pronounced.

  “We need an objective opinion,” Mr. Fletcher agreed with a nod before turning in Evie’s general direction. “What do you think, McAlistair?”

  That simple question, obviously addressed to someone directly behind her, instantly dashed Evie’s enjoyment of the scene. Her heart stopped beating in her chest—an uncomfortable feeling, to say the least—and she turned around slowly, certain she’d misheard. And uncertain whether she hoped or feared she had not.

  She hadn’t.

  The man in question was standing in the shadow of a bookcase not three feet away from her—a fact that had her heart starting again with one great, painful thud.

  Dear Lord, there he was…McAlistair, the Hermit of Haldon Hall.

  Only he didn’t much look like a hermit at present, she noted as he stepped into the light. She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of the transformation. The last time she had seen McAlistair had been in the Haldon woods. He’d been wearing the serviceable garments of a peasant. His hair had been long and wild, almost as wild as his dark eyes. And he’d been carrying a rather large knife.

  Now he was dressed in gentleman’s attire—a well-tailored green waistcoat, tan breeches, a pair of Hessians, and a perfectly knotted cravat. He’d trimmed his thick brown hair and pulled it back into a neat, if unfashionable, tail at the nape of his neck. His jaw was clean shaven, his hands scrubbed free of dirt, and there was nary a weapon in sight. He looked utterly respectable.

  And somehow twice as dangerous.

  Evie took in the sharp arch of brows, the square cut of jaw, and the nose that had obviously been broken more than once. She noticed—and blushed upon noticing—the bulge of muscle in his legs, the broad width of his shoulders, and the wiry strength of his arms. McAlistair was no London dandy come to call. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, she thought, that’s what he was, or possibly a big cat with a collar about its neck. He might look harmless, or tamed, but one need only peer closer at his eyes to see the lie. They were still just as wild.

  She had stared into those eyes once—lost herself in them—right before she’d lost herself in his kiss one fantastical evening in the woods. And she had thought of him, as she had promised to think of him, every day since.

  For five bloody months.

  She narrowed her eyes further, the flush of heat giving way to the burn of anger. He had told her he’d be away and had made no promises to return, but really, would it have been so terribly difficult for the man to have sent one blasted letter? Even she could have managed as much—if she’d known where to find him—and she was a dismal correspondent.

  She watched as Whit stepped around her to deliver a bolstering pat on McAlistair’s shoulder and draw him farther into the room. “McAlistair, good to see you. We could use another voice of reason. I believe you’re acquainted with everyone here but our Evie.”

  McAlistair turned his dark eyes on her, and for one terrible moment she feared he might give away their secret. When he did nothing more than stare, unblinking, as if drinking her in with his eyes, her fear turned to embarrassment.

  Uncertain how one was expected to react to a long, knowing look from a man one was not supposed to know, she dropped into a quick and awkward curtsy. “M-M-” She bit the end of her tongue in an effort to regain control. She detested that she stammered when nervous. “Mr. McAlistair.”

  “Miss Cole.” He bowed, an eloquent bend at the waist perfectly in tune with his attire and so very incongruent with the picture of the wild hermit she still held in her head. He turned to Lady Thurston next and bowed even lower in a sign of deep respect. “Lady Thurston. It is an honor.”

  His voice was still rough, Evie noticed, still gravelly, as if he weren’t accustomed to using it. She wished she didn’t find the sound quite so appealing.

  Lady Thurston dipped her head in acknowledgment. “It was good of you to come. I assume Mr. Fletcher advised you of the contents of the letter Evie received?”

  “Some.” McAlistair looked to Whit before jerking his chin at a side table holding a sheet of paper and envelope. “That it?”

  “It is.” Whit gestured at the table in invitation.

  With her mind still reeling—what on earth was the man doing here?—and her heart still racing—heavens, he was handsome—Evie watched him cross the room and pick up the paper. He wasn’t illiterate then, she thought somewhat ruefully. That had really been her last hope of an excuse for his silence.

  She managed, barely, to refrain from making an unpleasant face at him as he unfolded the letter and began to read. He showed no reaction to the message it contained. Bit disturbing, that. Even she had cringed at the contents, and she’d known them to be a lie.

  It was a filthy string of insults and threats—considerably more filthy and threatening than she personally felt was necessary, but it did get the point across. It promised, in no uncertain terms, retribution for her sins.

  McAlistair looked to her. “What sins?”

  Which sins would likely be more accurate, but she rather doubted he was interested in a list. It hardly mattered, at any rate. She assumed the author of the letter had very specific sins in mind. At least, she certainly hoped so. She didn’t care for the idea that Mr. Fletcher was apprised of all her misdeeds, including the fact that she had kissed a strange hermit in the woods.

  Lady Thurston answered for her. “Evie has, with my permission, been quietly active in several women’s charities—organizations with missions some might consider radical, and therefore sinful. We assume that is the author’s point of contention, given the nature of his insults…and the fact that Evie is otherwise quite exemplary in her conduct.”

  Evie smiled at her aunt and concentrated on looking suitably innocent—and not looking at McAlistair at all. Exemplary, indeed.

  McAlistair set the letter down. “Suspects?”

  “None that stand out,” Mr. Fletcher answered.

  Whit pulled at his cravat. “We’re working under the assumption the threat comes from a family member or employer of one of the women Evie sought to help.”

  Mrs. Summers sent her an approving smile. “Over the years, she has assisted in arranging secret passage out of the country for a number of mistreated women. Wives who suffered violence from their husbands. Women of ill-repute who sought to escape their abusive employers.”

  “Those women left a fair number of angry husbands and bawds behind,” Mr. Fletcher added. “Although how they detected Evie’s involvement, we’ve yet to determine. And until we do, I feel it would be best if she is hidden away elsewhere. Somewhere safer.”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Summers chimed in.

  “Absolutely not,” Lady Thurston snapped at the same time.

  “He’s right,” McAlistair said, earning a hard glare from Whit and Lady Thurston. “Too many doors here. Too many places to hide.”

  “T
he staff has been instructed to—” Whit broke off with a scowl. “Who let you in?”

  McAlistair shook his head.

  “Damn it. Did anyone see you?”

  Another head shake from McAlistair and a soft stream of expletives from Whit.

  He turned to Evie. “Pack your things. You’re leaving in the morning.”

  She was? “I am?”

  “It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  Not particularly. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Whit gave a very decisive, very unhappy nod. “Be ready by first light.”

  First light? They really meant to send her away? How the devil had that happened?

  “Tonight would be better,” Mr. Fletcher argued.

  “I’ll not have her on the road at night.” And with that final pronouncement, Whit excused himself from the room.

  Looking somewhat preoccupied, Mr. Fletcher gave Evie what he apparently thought was an encouraging smile and followed Whit. Lady Thurston and Mrs. Summers, exchanging heated whispers, rose from their respective seats, stopped to place reassuring kisses on Evie’s cheek, and made their exits as well.

  Evie was so taken aback by the news she’d actually be leaving Haldon, it took a minute to realize she’d been left in the room with only McAlistair for company.

  And he was staring at her again.

  She scrambled for something to say. Preferably something that would, at the very least, induce him to blink. It was unnerving the way his dark eyes focused on her—almost as unnerving as her reaction. She swore she could actually feel her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest.

  “I…You…” She swallowed hard. “You’ve b-been well, I hope?”

  He gave one small nod and did not, she couldn’t help noticing, inquire after her own well-being. The blighter.

  “Well, I am delighted to hear it,” she ground out, and moved to walk around him.

  He caught her arm as she passed. “You’re angry.”

  Furious, actually, but still sensible enough to realize some of that anger might be unwarranted. She opened her mouth, but before she could attempt to explain, or try to reach some sort of understanding between them, he let go of her arm and gave that small nod again.

  “Good.”

  She blinked at him, utterly astounded. “Good?” That was his response when faced with the possibility of her ire? Good? “You want me t-to be angry with you?”

  “For the best.”

  “Well, far be it from me to disappoint a guest,” she snapped, and brushed past him out the door.

  Three

  The trouble with having a limp was that it was nearly impossible to execute a proper stomping. That wasn’t the only trouble, of course, but it was the inconvenience that most vexed Evie at present.

  Gritting her teeth, she continued down the hall in the slow, short steps required to maintain an even gait. After severely injuring her leg in a carriage accident, her stride would never be perfectly smooth. But unless one was actively looking for the slight dip of her frame or listening for the brief drag of her foot, one wasn’t likely to notice her limp. That was all well and good, but slow, short steps and an even slightly dragging foot made it exceedingly difficult for her to storm off with the sort of haughty disdain the situation clearly warranted.

  Good, indeed.

  She threw open the door to her room, stepped inside, and slammed the door behind her. The resulting noise provided a small amount of satisfaction.

  Glaring in the general direction of the study, she tried desperately to sort out her fractured feelings. She was livid, which went without saying, but not all that anger was directed at McAlistair. A fair amount of it was reserved for her own foolish behavior.

  What the devil had she been thinking all these months, that McAlistair would return to Haldon with a fistful of flowers and a book of poetry to recite? Had she expected words of love, public courtship, perhaps an offer of marriage? She turned her glare to the back of the door and briefly wondered how much it might hurt if she kicked it. Too much, she decided, and crossed the room to drop down in an overstuffed chair.

  She didn’t want to marry, she reminded herself. And it had only been a kiss. A single kiss from a man she barely knew. Obviously he understood as much and likely recognized that she had mistakenly built it into something more. So he sought her anger rather than face her infatuation.

  How utterly mortifying.

  He might have attempted some diplomacy, she thought glumly, but then he was a hermit, not a barrister. And it was hardly McAlistair’s fault she’d turned their brief encounter in the woods into a fairy tale. He certainly wasn’t to blame for the fascination she’d had since the day she first spotted him, years ago, sitting on an outcropping of rock, quietly skinning a rabbit. He’d been little more than a myth to her until that moment—a story Whit had concocted to scare and entertain the young ladies of Haldon. A mysterious former soldier haunting the woods of Haldon. A wild man, dark and dangerous, hiding away from the world. They weren’t to fear him, they’d been told, but they were to keep a respectable distance should they cross his path.

  As she was the only one of the girls who enjoyed walking the woods at odd hours and eschewing the trails when there was still light, Whit had made certain to repeat his warning to her at regular intervals.

  She hadn’t believed a word of it…until she’d seen McAlistair that day on the rocks, with the dying light of the sun outlining his taut frame in gold. It had only taken a heartbeat for him to catch her eye, and then he was gone, into the woods. She’d stared after him for a long time, feeling as if she’d caught a glimpse of something unworldly, something magical. Something wonderful. Every time she’d stepped into the trees after that, it had been with the hope she would glimpse that magic again.

  Which was, she thought now, a perfectly ridiculous reaction—golden light and magical sightings. Honestly. When had she become so fanciful? And why the devil had she not realized it before now? She should have told her friends about seeing him, rather than keeping it to herself all these years. They would have laughed and gossiped and speculated, and otherwise turned the whole business into what it truly was—silly and insignificant.

  It wasn’t particularly important, Evie assured herself. His hadn’t even been her first kiss. She wondered what McAlistair would say to that. Not a thing, she decided with an annoyed puff of breath. Likely as not, he’d simply gift her with that disconcerting stare he had—the one that made her heart race and her skin tingle.

  She caught sight of her exasperated expression in the vanity mirror and groaned. Then groaned again when she noticed her plain ivory gown. If she’d known McAlistair was to come, she would have changed—worn something perhaps a bit less comfortable and a bit more flattering. Not that the dress wasn’t lovely; it was, but Lady Thurston had taught her that there was lovely, and then there was lovely. And while she may have blown the kiss out of proportion, it hardly followed that she couldn’t do her very best to remind McAlistair of why he’d kissed her. As she had noticed that men had a tendency to allow their eyes to drift downward from her face when in her company for more than a few moments, she rather thought one of the reasons might be her generous bosom.

  Rising, she stepped closer to the mirror to study her face. It was nice enough, she thought without vanity—heart-shaped with wide brown eyes, a thin nose, and full lips—but it wasn’t beautiful. She would never be beautiful. Her finger traced the long thin scar that ran from her temple to her jaw, another result of the carriage accident in her childhood.

  She’d been terribly self-conscious of the flaw as a child, perhaps because the injury had taken so long to heal. Even months after the wound had closed, the skin around it had remained red and swollen. And between her marred countenance and noticeable limp, she’d been certain she appeared a veritable monster.

  It hadn’t helped, particularly, to have her own mother pale at the mere sight of her.

  Evie had taken to hiding herself away from the
gaze of others and to stammering when their gazes couldn’t be avoided. It wasn’t until Lady Thurston had brought her to live at Haldon (an offer Mrs. Cole had accepted with great relief) that the worst of her shyness had begun to ease. She’d been so quickly accepted, so openly loved by her aunt and cousins that, over time, she regained some of the confidence she had lost. Now she only grew nervous and stammered when faced with the staring eyes of someone she didn’t know well…someone like McAlistair.

  “You’re going in circles, girl,” she berated herself

  And because she was, it was probably best that her musings were interrupted by the crash of the connecting door to her room. Lizzy, the lady’s maid she and Kate shared, rushed in, looking breathless and excited.

  “Is it true, miss? Is he really here?”

  Evie turned from the mirror and resumed her seat in the chair. “I assume you’re referring to Mr. McAlistair?”

  Lizzy rolled her eyes. “No, the smithy. I’m always such aflutter when he arrives. Yes, of course McAlistair.”

  Evie laughed despite her foul mood. She rather thought Lizzy had to be the cheekiest lady’s maid in all of England—a distinction Evie appreciated and encouraged.

  “Mr. McAlistair has indeed graced us with his presence.”

  “Mister, now, is it?” Lizzy raised her eyebrows comically. Of average height and build, with a long nose and round face, she was a woman some might consider plain. But Evie had always been of the opinion that Lizzy’s dramatically expressive face made her uniquely attractive. It was impossible not to smile while in her company. “Is he a gentleman, all of a sudden?”

  “He was dressed as one.”

  “Oh.” Lizzy’s face fell. “I’d rather hoped to see him in all his hermit glory.”

  “Life is rife with disappointment.”

  “Apparently.” Lizzy took the seat across from her. “What’s he like as a gentleman, then? Is he handsome? Or have years of living as a savage taken their toll?”