Mcalistairs Fortune

by Alissa Johnson

  “You missed him by an inch—and only because I’d pulled him away.”

  She smiled, just a little, and only for a second, but he’d seen it. It made him feel positively heroic.

  “Still…” she said softly, and looked back to the stream, “I want him to suffer. I want him to pay.”

  “You’d rather I had cut out his tongue,” he guessed.

  “No.” She unwrapped her arms to pick up a smooth pebble. “I’d rather I had done it.”

  “A compromise then,” he offered, letting his hand fall away. “I’ll hold him down. You cut out his tongue.”

  The smile returned, a hair wider this time. “He could still die from infection.”

  “He’s a blacksmith’s apprentice. Ample opportunity to cauterize his own wound.”

  The smile was joined by a small laugh. “What an image.”

  “Satisfying, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She toyed with the stone in her hand, staring at it thoughtfully. “Would you do that?”

  “Hold him down for you?”

  She nodded.

  “With pleasure.” He couldn’t help himself; he reached over to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. He left his fingers there, toying with the softness of her tresses. “If it would make you feel better.”

  He didn’t think it would, but if it was what she needed…

  She blew out a short breath and tossed the rock into the water. “It would make me sick, likely as not.”

  The first time always does, he thought, and, disgusted with himself, dropped his hand.

  Evie didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “I suppose an act of revenge loses something if one tosses one’s crumpets in the midst of it.”

  He smiled because he knew she needed it. “Depends on where the crumpets are tossed. Aim for his shoes and you have insult added to injury.”

  She laughed in earnest this time. “There’s an idea.”

  “Now are you feeling better?”

  “A little.” She blew out a short breath. “Better than when I kicked the tree.” She brushed her hands on her skirts. “I suppose we need to go.”

  “We’ll stay as long as you like.”

  She shook her head and stood. “I’d just as soon get as far away from this as possible.”

  In truth, Evie felt more than marginally better. It couldn’t be said that she felt entirely well, but the red haze of anger had passed—most of it after she’d thrown the rocks and kicked the tree—and the fear and frustration had been blunted by the simple act of talking and laughing. She had McAlistair to thank for that.

  She glanced at him as they made their way back through the trees to where the horses were tied. Comfort in the form of laughter wasn’t something she would have expected from him. To be honest, comfort in any form wasn’t something she would have expected of him.

  Apparently, he wasn’t quite the man she’d thought him to be—which reminded her…

  “Why were you different?” she asked him as they skirted a large tree. “When we first arrived at the blacksmith’s, I mean. You changed your voice and your behavior.” She laughed a little at the memory. “You sounded like a London dandy.”

  He actually winced, which she very much enjoyed witnessing. “I wanted him to recall a London dandy, should anyone ask after us.”

  “You were yourself at the inn,” she pointed out. “What if someone should ask after us there?”

  “Our meeting with the innkeeper was short, and he is accustomed to dealing with strangers. We wouldn’t have stood out to him.”

  She nodded, following his line of reasoning. “But the arrival of visitors must be an unusual event for Mr. Thomas. He’ll remember us.”

  And not, she thought, in the way McAlistair had intended. As there was nothing to be done about it now, she pushed the matter aside, mounted her horse, and followed McAlistair east.

  With each mile that passed, she felt a little more like herself. She wouldn’t have cared to admit it aloud, but it helped that McAlistair chose to ride at her side. She already felt a trifle foolish for her outburst—digging out her gun, honestly—and if McAlistair had chosen to gallop about in his usual manner, she would again be left to question whether he was avoiding her, and to wonder why.

  But McAlistair seemed content with her company. And, if not content, at least willing to scan the countryside in long sweeping glances from his place beside her.

  As a conversationalist, he was…well, not a dead loss, not exactly. It could safely be said, however, that he would never be considered one of the great orators of the ton. But what he lacked as an active contributor, he made up for as a passive participant. As Evie rambled from topic to topic—and after the stressful events of that morning and two days of riding in silence, she couldn’t seem to keep herself from rambling—McAlistair nodded, commented, and even asked the occasional question. In short, he listened.

  And not in the way that Whit, and even Alex, sometimes listened when manners and familial loyalty dictated they feign interest in a topic they cared very little about. Just the other week, she’d seen Whit listen to Lady Thurston discuss Kate’s upcoming Season in just that way—the glazed eyes, the tapping finger, the covert glances of longing at the nearest exit.

  No, McAlistair paid attention—as if he cared, as if what she said and what she thought were important. It was just what she needed after being made to feel small and helpless.

  She spoke of her friends and family, of her work and her hobbies. She was so engaged in the exchange—she really didn’t know what else to call it—that it took her several minutes to realize he’d led them onto a narrow road.

  She lapsed into silence. Until now, McAlistair had taken pains to keep them away from all signs of civilization whenever possible.

  The road was little more than two long ruts separated by a line of tall grass. Still it was, by definition, a road, and she was surprised to be on it. She was even more surprised when they came upon a small hunting box settled back in a stand of trees. The lack of chimney smoke and the shuttered windows indicated it was unoccupied, but how could McAlistair possibly have known?

  “Do you know this place?” she asked.

  “Belongs to Mr. Hunter.”

  “Oh.” She eyed the building thoughtfully. “Why would Mr. Hunter have a box here and a cottage only a few hours away?”

  “How far is Haldon from your London townhouse?”

  “Not far at all,” she admitted. “They’re for two very different purposes.”

  “This is a hunting box. The other’s a coastal cottage.”

  “One can’t hunt on the coast?”

  “One fishes on the coast.”

  “Yes, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. What did it matter if Mr. Hunter owned half the buildings in England?

  McAlistair led them around the side of the house, passing a half wall in need of repair and a small garden long since gone to seed.

  “Doesn’t look as if he’s been here recently,” Evie commented.

  “He’s never been here. He just owns it.”

  “Why would anyone purchase a hunting box and never visit?”

  “Have you been to every property owned by your family?”

  She hadn’t the foggiest idea how many properties Whit owned. “I can say, with complete confidence, that I have never failed to visit a property I personally own.”

  “Do you own any property?”

  “Not a square inch.”

  He smiled at her and led them along a small trail through the stand of trees at the back of the house. It opened immediately onto a large pond surrounded by tall reeds and rimmed green with algae. A short, boatless dock jutted out from the muddy shore.

  McAlistair turned to her. “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat.” Her stomach was a little jittery yet, but it was well past noon, and she’d had only the tea and apple from that morning.

  “Lunch, then.”

  They spread a blanket out on the soft ground
a little way from the shore and dined on bread, cheese, and fruit. McAlistair had brought more than enough, and Evie found her appetite satisfied before finishing half the portion he’d given her.

  Her eyes and mind turned toward the pond. With its green, murky water, it was less appealing than the clear bubbling stream they’d been following, but it would do for a quick, cooling soak of the feet…or hands. An intriguing idea came to her.

  “McAlistair?”

  He made some sort of masculine grunting noise to indicate he was listening, but didn’t look up from his meal.

  “Do you suppose that dock is sound?”

  He spared it a brief glance. “Looks it.”

  “Are there fish in the pond, do you think?”

  “Fair bet.”

  “Can you fish with your hands from a pond?”

  This time he looked up and smiled at her. “Harder, but I imagine so. You want me to teach you.”

  “If we haven’t time, I understand—”

  “We’ve time.” He finished the last of his apple, stood, and crumbled the remainder of the bread in his hand. “Not likely to catch anything this time of day, not in a pond, but I can show you the basics.”

  She bounded up. “Excellent.”

  “You’re very interested in this,” he commented.

  She shrugged and followed him toward the dock. “I’m interested in anything that lends itself to self-sufficiency.”

  “You’d like to be self-sufficient?”

  “I should like to know I could be.”

  He glanced at her. “Why?”

  “Well, there’s a freedom to it, isn’t there? I imagine you experienced it as a hermit. Your existence relied only upon yourself.”

  “It also relied on your family allowing me to stay.”

  “You managed to go years without being seen by almost anyone. You could have kept hidden from Whit and Lady Thurston.”

  “Perhaps.” He reached the dock first and put a hand out to hold her back while he tested its safety with his own weight. “Sturdy,” he declared after walking to the end and back.

  Though she didn’t need it for the six-inch step up, she accepted the assistance he offered and followed him onto the dock. “Is that why you came, why you’re helping me?”

  “Because Mr. Hunter has a sturdy dock?”

  She made a face at him. “Because you feel indebted to my family.”

  He stopped to look at her. “I am indebted to your family,” he said quietly.

  Well, it wasn’t the answer she’d most like to have heard, but she couldn’t fault him for his honesty, or sincerity.

  “But I would have come,” he added. “With or without the debt.”

  That was much better. “Oh?”

  She rolled her eyes when he did nothing more than give that lopsided smile. “There you go again, rattling on and on. You’re quite determined to talk my ear off, aren’t you?”

  “Does it matter why I came? You don’t believe in the purpose.”

  It did matter, more than she cared to think about, and because of that, she steered the conversation into more comfortable territory. “Would you rather I believed wholeheartedly and spent the trip being hysterical?”

  “No.” He gave her a curious look. “Would you be?”

  “No.” At least, she hoped not, but having never been in such a situation, it was impossible to say for certain.

  He turned to the water, looking from one side of the dock to the other as if searching for the perfect spot. “What would you do differently?” he asked casually.

  “If there really was a madman determined to do me in?” She shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it, really. I’d certainly have argued against Mrs. Summers coming along.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it would be ridiculous—endangering herself to guard my virtue.” She blew a loose lock of hair from her face. “Given our current situation, it was ridiculous, ruse or not.”

  “But you’d have left Haldon willingly?”

  “Of course. Why would I stay and risk the people I love?”

  “If there is a madman, Christian, Mr. Hunter, and I are also at risk,” he pointed out.

  When he turned to look at her, she gifted him with a sweet smile. “Yes, but I barely know the three of you.”

  “Point taken.”

  She laughed and turned to look out thoughtfully across at the water as he crouched down to peer over the edge of the dock. “I don’t know what I’d have done, to be honest. Probably, I’d have kept the letter to myself and found a way to leave Haldon.”

  “Handle things on your own?”

  “Why should anyone else suffer?”

  “They’d suffer a great deal if something happened to you. You’re not invincible, Evie.”

  “No one is.”

  “Some individuals are more fragile than others.”

  She rocked back on her heels to glare at his back. “Are you calling me fragile?”

  “No. I’d say you were more delicate.” He brushed his fingers along the water.

  “Delicate,” she repeated slowly. “Really.”

  Evie figured it was a testament to how long McAlistair had been secluded from members of the opposite sex that he didn’t show the slightest reaction to her annoyed tone. Not so much as a wince.

  “There’s a gentleness to you,” he said absently. He stood up and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully at the water below his feet. “It’s too deep here.”

  Gentle and delicate. Though she wouldn’t have gone so far as to call herself rough and indestructible, she rather thought she at least merited strong or, heaven forbid, clever.

  “I do believe you’ve a mistaken impression of me.”

  He spared a look over his shoulder, one infuriatingly condescending look. “I don’t think so. You’re a lady, through and through. You’re…good,” he decided.

  “Good.” What a dreadfully bland description.

  He returned his attention to the pond. “Hmm, and a bit naive with it. Dock might not work.”

  “Naive?” There was nothing bland about naive. It was thoroughly insulting.

  “A bit. It’s tied up with the delicacy, I suppose. Far shore looks promising.”

  Gentle, delicate, good, and naive?

  Well, every good woman had her limits.

  Fifteen

  Even in the years to come, Evie would never be able to look back at what happened next without laughing and wondering what in the world had possessed her to do something so childish, so petty, so ill-advised as pitch the dark and dangerous James McAlistair into a dirty pond.

  But that’s exactly what she did. She just reached out, planted the flat of her hand against his back, and gave one mighty shove to send him toppling headfirst into the green, slimy water.

  Despite not knowing exactly why she’d done it—aside from feeling rather put out over being called naive—Evie was certain, even then, that she’d never regret it. Not for a single minute.

  He went in with a loud splash, and for a split second he disappeared beneath the murky water. Then he broke free of the surface. He didn’t come up gasping or swearing or any of the things she rather suspected she’d be doing if she’d been tossed into the water. He rose smoothly, almost gracefully. Then he just stood there, staring at her.

  Aside from his less-than-ideal reaction, Evie thought it priceless, absolutely priceless, to see the extraordinarily unflappable McAlistair standing chest deep in a pond, sopping wet from head to toe. Water ran in steady rivulets from his dark hair. A long strip of plant matter draped his shoulder. Something black and gooey marred his right cheek. Still staring at her, his dark eyes slitted, he wiped it away slowly with the back of his hand.

  “Care to rethink your opinion of me?” she asked sweetly, and wisely began to quickly back away toward the shore.

  “Come here, Evie.”

  She swallowed down a laugh and took the last step off the dock. “Would you add simpleminded to your list of compliment
s?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he kept his gazed fixed on hers and began an unhurried but determined walk toward the shore—toward her.

  She danced farther away from the water’s edge as the first bubble of laughter slipped out. “You’ve no right to anger, you know. You insulted me.”

  “I said you were delicate.” He reached the muddy beach.

  She pointed an accusing finger at him. “Exactly.”

  He came at her in long, deliberate strides. She yelped, dropped her hand, and made a somewhat belated dash for it.

  She didn’t get far.

  He caught her from behind. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her back and up against his chest, lifting her off her feet. Then he headed toward the water.

  “No! Stop!” She squirmed and kicked, but protests were rarely taken seriously when laughter was involved, and she was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

  He walked to the end of the dock and let her feet dangle over the edge. “Can you swim?”

  She hesitated before answering. “No.”

  “Liar.”

  He grinned and stepped off the dock.

  There was just sufficient time to either scream or take a deep breath. She took the breath.

  Then she was underwater. It wasn’t quite cold enough to hit her as a shock, but it was a very near thing, and when he brought them back up to the surface, she was gasping, laughing, and swearing.

  “You bloody fool! I cannot believe—! Cannot believe you—”

  She cut off, astonished, as she realized her laughter wasn’t the only one sounding across the water.

  McAlistair’s was, as well.

  He was laughing. And it was no mere chuckle either. It was a loud, rolling, straight from the belly sort of sound that stunned her far more than her sudden immersion in the pond.

  “You’re laughing,” she said softly.

  Because he stopped laughing at her comment, she added, “I rather like it…even if it does sound like two boards being struck together.”

  His laughter didn’t return, but he did grin at her. She smiled in return and wondered which of them would make the first move to draw away. It wouldn’t be her, she decided. She liked the feel of his strong arms around her waist, his broad shoulders under her hands, and the sensation of being held up so easily, as if she were weightless. She liked it very much.