“Well, push over then, Lizzy. I don’t care for the middle, either.”
“And I do?” Lizzy grumbled, but nonetheless shifted to the center of the bed.
Absolutely the cheekiest maid in England. “You’re welcome to sleep elsewhere,” Evie reminded her and climbed under the covers.
Lizzy sniffed once. “The middle will be fine.”
Sleep hadn’t been McAlistair’s reason for undressing. He had no intention of closing his eyes for anything more than a light doze. Comfort had been foremost on his mind when he’d begun stripping off his clothes. One of the many benefits of being a hermit had been the freedom to wear what he liked, and stiff waistcoats and even stiffer shirts were decidedly not among the list of things he liked.
He eyed the feather bed dubiously. Also on the list of things he disliked was sleeping indoors. He preferred the soft whisper of the wind through the leaves over the murmur of voices to lull him to sleep. He certainly preferred listening for the crunch of sticks and underbrush rather than the subtle creak of floorboards to tell him someone was approaching. And he was definitely more comfortable in the open woodland than with the limited options afforded by a room with only two exits.
As a hermit, he’d often slept in the old cabin in the Haldon woods, but being the lone occupant of a one-room shelter was considerably different from being one of many residents in an enormous manor. Everywhere he turned here, there were more people, more rooms, and more walls. There seemed an endless number of barriers between him and the woods.
Even now, when he had a larger home of his own, he took a blanket outside at night and made his bed under the stars whenever the weather allowed.
And he didn’t sleep in that bed wearing a damn nightgown.
He finished unbuttoning his shirt, pulled it off and tossed it over the back of a chair. Remembering how Evie had floundered at the sight of his bare chest, his mouth hooked up in a half smile. She was lovely when she blushed. She was always lovely to his mind—those enormous brown eyes, the soft curve of her cheek, the tempting figure that was somehow both slight and generous. How many nights had he lain awake, imagining that figure beneath him, over him, around…?
He uttered a single succinct curse and stalked to the windows to throw them wide, knowing full well no self-respecting villain would be so foolish as to climb through them. One more reason he wasn’t fit for Evie’s company, let alone her favor. He’d lied to her, smoothly and without remorse.
But he’d be damned if he would take up a room at the other end of the hall for propriety’s sake. The difference between life and death was often the matter of a few precious seconds. What if she had need of him? What if she screamed?
He made a conscious effort to relax. She was just a few feet away from where he stood. She was fine. She was safe.
He was bloody well going to make sure she stayed that way.
Five
Evie made her way downstairs with her mouth stretched open in an enormous yawn and—because it was difficult to see properly whilst yawning—with one hand gripped firmly on the banister. She’d been woken before first light by Mrs. Summers and practically shoved out of bed by Lizzy. She’d been fed, clothed, and left to arrange the business of seeing her things downstairs before her eyes had fully opened. She had managed, eventually, to see to the task, but rather feared she had groused unfairly at one of the footmen in the process. Mornings, as any of her family could attest, did not show Evie to advantage.
Now she was tired, feeling guilty, and giving serious consideration to the idea that the whole charade wasn’t worth the bother. First light, for pity’s sake. Was there anyone in full possession of his faculties who preferred to start the day at first light?
“Looks as if you could use this.”
Evie stopped at the foot of the stairs and blinked, first at the realization that Whit was standing before her and then at the steaming cup he held out for her.
“Hot chocolate.” She sighed with delight and took the drink to draw in the heady aroma. “Bless you, cousin mine. All I’ve had this morning is an undercooked egg and a cup of weak tea.”
“The staff’s a bit preoccupied, I’m afraid.”
He stepped back, affording her a view through the open front doors. The drive was a hive of activity—footmen loading the carriage, grooms checking the horses, maids running about doing…she had no idea what. Lady Thurston, Mrs. Summers, and Mr. Fletcher stood on the front steps, overseeing it all. Somewhere in all the mess was very likely the man they meant as a match for her. He’d have arrived last night, surely. Or before she’d risen, the poor soul. Likely he was on the other side of the carriage, she mused, or off doing whatever it was Mr. Hunter and McAlistair were doing.
She gestured to the open doors. “Isn’t this rather obvious? If anyone were watching the house—”
“McAlistair and Mr. Hunter are checking the grounds now. There’s no one about who shouldn’t be.”
“It’s a large area to go over. What if they’re mistaken?”
“They’re not.”
She eyed him speculatively. “You’re very sure of them.”
“I have my reasons.”
How very interesting. She dearly wished she were awake enough to devise a clever plan to find out those reasons. If she tried now, with her head still foggy, she’d only embarrass herself and possibly make Whit suspicious.
She took another sip of hot chocolate and said, half to herself, “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as you’ll be along to—” She broke off, realizing for the first time that he wasn’t dressed to travel. “Aren’t you coming along?”
His mouth compressed into a thin line. “No. It was agreed I should stay here and search for the bastard with Alex and William. Begging your pardon.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you insist on apologizing when you know I’m not offended.”
“Habit,” Whit answered with a shrug.
“Well, it’s damned annoying,” she teased and leaned up to kiss his cheek when he scowled. “I suppose it’s best that you remain here. Sophie, Mirabelle, and Kate will be returning eventually. Alex might be able to convince Sophie not to interfere, but Mirabelle and Kate are another matter.”
“I can handle my wife and sister.”
“Delighted to hear it. May I inform them you said so, upon my return?”
“Absolutely not.”
She laughed softly as Whit gave her a one-armed hug about the shoulders.
He stepped back and searched her face. “You’re taking this very well.”
Not too well, she hoped, and contrived to affect a more suitably worried expression. “I’m not certain how else to take it.”
He considered that, and her, for a moment before nodding. “You should be going. The others are waiting to say good-bye.”
He led her to the front stairs, where Lady Thurston took her performance to new heights, fussing over Evie extensively before bravely sniffing back tears and exiting quickly into the house. The woman was astonishing.
Lizzy sidled up next, just in time for them both to watch McAlistair and Mr. Hunter ride up the drive.
“He’s a wild one, isn’t he, miss?” Lizzy whispered with a subtle—thankfully—jerk of her chin toward McAlistair. “He has a pistol on him and a knife in his boot.”
Evie eyed the tall form on the gray mare and positively refused to acknowledge the heat that crept into her chest. “How could you possibly know that?”
Lizzy shrugged. “Don’t know why I notice these things. But the gun shows through his coat—see there? And he adjusted the knife before he and Mr. Hunter rode off this morning. I’ll wager you it’s not the only one.”
“I’d be a fool to take that bet.”
“You would, at that.” Lizzy shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I suppose you should be off.”
Mrs. Summers stepped up to join them. “She certainly should.”
Evie took in her demurely cut peach traveling gown. “Are y
ou leaving today as well, Mrs. Summers?”
“I am.” She picked up a small valise and headed for the carriage. “I am to be your chaperone.”
Evie gave Lizzy a quick kiss and followed, fighting a smile. Her chaperone. Of course. A well-bred young lady wouldn’t think of making an escape from a life-threatening situation without a proper chaperone.
“Are you certain of this, Mrs. Summers?” Evie asked, picking up the blue skirts of her own gown—a smart and flattering piece she’d chosen with great care. “You’re putting yourself in grave danger. Terribly, terribly grave danger.”
Mrs. Summers came to a stop at the carriage door and turned to face her. “Terribly and grave are rather redundant, dear.”
“Yes, well.” Oh, blast, she was having too much fun, and it was beginning to show. “I only wish to be certain you fully understood the…the…er…”
“Danger?”
“Rather.”
Mrs. Summers gave a quick nod. “I do. You should know that Lady Thurston wished to come in my stead, but Whittaker put his foot down on the matter.”
Mr. Fletcher strode up to stand beside them. “As well he should have,” he snapped with surprising force. “As well should I where you’re concerned.”
“You did,” Mrs. Summers calmly reminded him as she stowed her valise inside the carriage. “But you are neither an earl, nor my son. I chose to ignore you.” She turned to Evie. “In you go, dear.”
Evie climbed into the carriage, settled herself in a seat, and turned around in time to witness Mr. Fletcher press a kiss to the back of Mrs. Summers’ hand.
“You will take care, Mary,” he ordered rather than asked. When she nodded silently, he lowered her hand and assisted her into the carriage, closing the door behind her. Then opened it again.
“And you as well, Evie.”
She smiled at him, touched by his concern for Mrs. Summers and amused that she should be an afterthought. “We’ll be fine, Mr. Fletcher.”
She’d wager every penny she had on it.
He nodded and shut the door.
“Close the curtains, dear,” Mrs. Summers advised when the carriage started forward with a soft lurch.
Evie reached over to pull at the material. “Do you mean to nap? You couldn’t have slept well last night.” She certainly hadn’t.
“A short nap sounds lovely, but we shall keep them shut for the duration of the trip.”
Evie felt her eyes widen. “The entire trip?”
“Better no one should see you.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. She gritted her teeth to keep from arguing. It was such a lovely day, sunny and warm, and she found the idea of sitting in the dark for the whole of it distinctly unappetizing. But if she argued, she’d appear unconcerned for her own safety.
“May I at least peek?”
Mrs. Summers appeared to give the matter some thought. “Only when you’re certain there’s no one else on the road.”
Well there wasn’t anyone on it now. They hadn’t yet reached the end of the drive. She pushed the curtains back an inch and found McAlistair riding along on her side of the carriage. Determined not to think about him—again—she scooted across the cushions and looked out the other window, where she found Mr. Hunter riding alongside the carriage.
A furrow worked into her brow. She knew Christian, a very old friend of Mirabelle and Mr. Fletcher’s, was driving the carriage, and she’d noticed before climbing in that he sat alone up top. A middle-aged man with a soft brogue, dancing green eyes, and a weak arm and leg, Christian had sparked an immediate, if not yet deep, feeling of kinship in Evie.
But kinship or not, she wasn’t about to marry a man twenty years her senior. Surely there was someone else about. She checked both windows again, craning her neck to look to the front and back of the carriage. There was no one else.
She sat back, feeling a bit stunned. These were her guards? Christian the driver, Mr. Hunter the businessman, and McAlistair the hermit? They were fine men, all, and quite probably capable of protecting a lady from harm. But surely none of them had been chosen as her intended rescuer?
“Are we to meet anyone else along the way?”
Mrs. Summers took her own turn peeking out the window. “We are all here.”
“At the cottage, then?” Evie tried. “Are there others waiting for us there?”
“No, this is the entire party. Christian shall drive, and Mr. McAlistair and Mr. Hunter shall ride alongside the carriage.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Summers retrieved a small traveling pillow from her valise. “Are you worried, dear? Because I assure you, these gentlemen—”
“No, I’m not worried.” What she was, was puzzled. Who among the three men was meant to be her knight-errant?
It must be Mr. Hunter, she decided, pulling back the curtain again to take another look at him. Not a bad choice, really, though it was surprising. She could have sworn Lady Thurston knew his interests lay elsewhere.
Still, the man was devilishly handsome. Not in the traditional sense—he was too large, as tall as Alex and even wider across the chest and arms. And his features were too dark to appeal to the current taste for pale hair and eyes. But he had very nice deep-set brown eyes, a strong, wide jaw, and a wickedly charming smile.
Rumor had it, he also had one of the largest fortunes in the country. On the marriage mart, he would be considered by some to be a fine catch. True, his parentage was suspect, but many among the ton were willing to forgive—or at least conveniently overlook—such matters when there was vast wealth and the recommendation of an earl involved.
Pity they would never suit, Evie mused. He needed someone…softer. Someone a bit more like Kate.
“Mrs. Summers, do you think—”
She broke off when she noticed Mrs. Summers was fast asleep and therefore in no position to offer an opinion.
A short nap turned out to be more of a second night’s sleep for Mrs. Summers. Evie passed the time reading until the fine print and jostling of the carriage threatened to give her a headache. She put her book aside and occupied herself by making a mental list of the work she intended to see to at the cottage, taking in the occasional glimpse of passing landscape, and trying her utmost not to dwell on the fact that, for her, McAlistair comprised the most interesting part of that scenery.
Her success was limited. Enough so that she was more than a little relieved when Mrs. Summers woke and dug out a late lunch for them to share. She desperately needed the distraction of conversation. If only Mrs. Summers would cooperate, but the woman still seemed half asleep, and clearly unenthusiastic about carrying on an extended chat. Under other circumstances, Evie would have been sympathetic to her plight. After hours of only her own thoughts for company, however, sympathy was in short supply.
“Will we be stopping to change the horses soon?” Evie bit into a thick slice of bread.
“Soon enough, I imagine.”
She swallowed and tried again. “Have you been to this cottage before? It belongs to Mr. Hunter, doesn’t it?”
“It does, and I haven’t. I am not particularly familiar with Mr. Hunter.”
The familiarity comment reminded Evie of the sweet scene she’d witnessed that morning.
“I don’t mean to pry.” She thought about that. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. I can’t help myself. Have you and Mr. Fletcher formed an attachment?”
The slightest hint of rose tinted the older woman’s sharp cheekbones. “It is possible we have.”
“Oh, that’s lovely, Mrs. Summers.” Evie grinned, genuinely happy for her friend. “Absolutely lovely. When did this happen?”
“I’m not entirely—”
The remainder of that sentence came out in a gasp as the carriage jerked and tilted sharply to the side. Evie felt herself being thrown across the interior.
A crash. They were crashing.
An image flashed across her mind, a memory of screams and pain, and the sharp smell of burning wood.
Panic swelled in an instant, wiping out all thought, all sense of her surroundings.
The next thing she knew for certain, she was on the floor of the carriage, her head against the wood frame of the front bench and something round and hard digging uncomfortably into her back.
She took several deep breaths, willing away horrific images and managing her fear. She wasn’t trapped, she wasn’t in pain, and nothing was burning. This was not the carriage accident of her youth. She was fine. A trifle muddled, and certainly uncomfortable, she amended as she shifted and felt that large something dig into her back again, but otherwise fine.
The last vestiges of panic faded just as the door flew open, blinding her with a wash of bright sunlight.
“Evie!” Strong hands lifted her to a sitting position.
McAlistair.
He ran his hands over her, searching for injuries. “Are you hurt?”
Disoriented, she reached behind her to brush at her back. Her hand returned sticky with the mashed remains of an apple. “So that’s what—”
McAlistair caught her face in his rough hands. “Look at me. Are you hurt anywhere?”
She blinked, coming back to herself. “I…no. I’m fine.” When he continued to search her face with his dark gaze, she reached up to pull at his hands. “I’m fine. I…Mrs. Summers!”
Evie whipped her head around to find Mrs. Summers sitting upright on the floor, brushing at a smear of butter on her skirts. “I’m perfectly well, dear, if a bit messy.”
“Is Christian…?” Evie demanded.
Christian stuck his head in the open door. “Nary a scratch, miss. But the linchpin worked its way out, and the thill looks to have been cut near through—only a matter of time before it snapped.”
Mrs. Summers stilled and whispered in a tersely controlled voice. “Sabotage?”
McAlistair and Christian shared a look and spoke at the same time. “Ambush.”
Mrs. Summers gave Evie a none-too-gentle nudge toward the door. “Take her. Go.”
Mcalistairs Fortune Page 4