She made a face in the vanity mirror. With McAlistair in the house, it would have been nice to look her very best, particularly since the man had been seeing her at her very worst for the last two days.
Accepting that there was nothing to be done about it, she turned from the mirror and crossed the room to open her door. She found Mrs. Summers on the other side, her hand raised to knock.
“Ah. I was just coming to check on you. How are you feeling?”
“Very well, thank you.” Which was obviously more than could be said for Mrs. Summers. The woman looked positively green. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Summers?”
The older woman brought an unsteady hand to her stomach. “Everything but my constitution. Breakfast was worse today than it was yesterday. I believe Christian saved you a plate…I suggest you claim a desire for toast, dry.”
Evie winced sympathetically. “I will, thank you. What of dinner last night?”
“I had fruit and cheese. It seemed a wise choice. You will speak to the man about taking over the cooking, won’t you, dear?”
“I can’t promise he will agree or that you’ll notice a marked improvement if he does, but yes, I’ll speak to him.” She glanced down the hallway and asked in what she hoped was a casual tone, “Where are the others?”
“Mr. Hunter is giving Mr. McAlistair a tour of the house and grounds. I would offer to provide you with the same,” Mrs. Summers swallowed loudly, “but I am afraid I must lie down for a bit.”
“No need to trouble yourself. I can explore the house on my own well enough.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Mrs. Summers very nearly groaned, then promptly shuffled into the room next door.
Evie spent what little remained of the morning investigating her new surroundings. Though she found Christian in the kitchen, she chose to postpone speaking to him about the cooking. She barely knew the man, really. Suppose he was temperamental, or sensitive? What if he should take her desire to cook as a personal insult?
When lunch turned out to be what Evie suspected was the remains of breakfast reheated, her concern for Christian’s sensibilities was promptly replaced by concern for her health. Mrs. Summers—who’d had the sense to remain in her room with another meal of cheese and fruit—had been right. Every bite of egg tasted like a great forkful of butter. It was ghastly.
She pushed the offending food around on the plate in an effort to disguise her lack of interest in eating.
“Do you often c-come to the shore?” she asked Mr. Hunter, stifling a grimace at the return of her stammer. She was not yet as comfortable around Mr. Hunter and Christian as she was with Mrs. Summers and McAlistair.
Mr. Hunter swallowed a mouthful of food. Mrs. Summers was right on that score as well; neither he, nor Christian, nor McAlistair seemed to have the least bit of trouble eating the butter-soaked meal. “Not as often as I would like.”
“And what d-do you do for amusement whilst in residence?”
“Very little, to be honest. I generally come with a staff and spend my hours reading, sailing, or—”
“Sailing?” Her interest was immediately engaged. “You’ve a boat?”
“Several. It’s something you enjoy, I take it?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” she admitted. “I’ve n-neverbeen on the sea.”
“Never?” The question was echoed by both Christian and McAlistair.
“Not once. The opportunity hasn’t arisen often, and—” And when it had, she’d been strongly discouraged from taking advantage of it. The family physician had insisted that the combination of rough water and her weak leg posed a risk to her safety. Utter nonsense. It was her leg, and she knew her capabilities better than anyone else. “Circumstances arose to make my p-participation impossible,” she finished and looked hopefully at Mr. Hunter. “But I should dearly love to try now.”
Mr. Hunter picked up his glass and smiled. “Certainly. McAlistair can take you out.”
McAlistair raised a single eyebrow at Mr. Hunter. “I suppose I could.”
It wasn’t quite the enthusiastic offer a woman might hope for, but since it was an offer, Evie chose not to quibble. “Today? Can we go—”
“Tomorrow,” McAlistair cut in. “I’ve things to do first.”
“What things?”
“This and that.”
When he failed to elaborate, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’s fine, then.”
It earned a chuckle from Mr. Hunter. “I believe McAlistair means to ride into Charplins, the nearest village.”
“I see.” She wanted to ask if she could go along, but knew too well what the answer would be. “Is it far?”
“The round trip takes several hours,” Mr. Hunter supplied.
“So long?” She couldn’t imagine climbing back into a saddle for hours so soon after their arrival. She turned to McAlistair. “Surely you needn’t go today. Couldn’t you take a day to rest?”
“No. The town has an inn.”
“Many towns do.”
“Inns are the center of information in a town,” Christian said, lifting his attention from his enormous plate of food for the first time.
“Oh.” She looked to McAlistair, wondering why he hadn’t given her the explanation, why he was offering almost nothing to the conversation.
And then it came to her. He’d grown silent for the same reason she’d begun stuttering…because there were others in the room.
She didn’t think it was shyness, as it was for her. It was caution. The man was careful in a way she didn’t understand. He was deliberate in everything—what he said, how he moved, in the company he kept. She wondered if he was being careful of himself or of everyone else.
He’d become much less careful around her, she realized. The change had simply been so gradual over the past few days, she’d hardly noticed the vast difference until now.
Wary of destroying a progress she’d only just discovered, she made no further attempt to draw McAlistair into conversation. Not that she was given much opportunity. With the business of sailing settled, the conversation soon moved to the topic of steam power, of which Evie knew absolutely nothing. After ten minutes of listening to Christian and Mr. Hunter debate the future of such an unlikely resource, Evie made her excuses, gathered up a batch of dishes, and with a stifled groan, reluctantly brought them to the kitchen for washing.
It was going to require a mountain of soap to remove all that butter.
Nineteen
Bloody hell, he was sore.
McAlistair stood inside the front door of the house and indulged in a brief acknowledgment of his various aches and pains. The majority centered on his lower body, and all of them were attributable to too many hours in the saddle.
He rolled his shoulders, stretched his back a little, then peeled off his gloves. Aching or not, saddle-sore or not, the trip into town had been necessary. It hadn’t netted him any new information, but it had been fruitful nonetheless.
According to the proprietor of Charplins’s sole inn and tavern, McAlistair and Christian were the only newcomers to cross his threshold in the last four days. For a reasonable fee—reasonable by the innkeeper’s reckoning, substantial by anyone else’s—he would be more than happy to send word to Mr. Hunter’s should any travelers arrive.
McAlistair had handed over the money—along with a word of caution against failing to own up to the bargain—and that had been the end of his business at the inn. After a ride through town to familiarize themselves with the streets, he and Christian had ridden back to the Mr. Hunter’s.
They’d carefully scouted the area along the way—assessing routes, vantage points, and hiding places—but they discovered nothing out of the ordinary. Either their enemy hadn’t followed them to Suffolk, or he’d found shelter elsewhere. There was little else to do now but watch and wait.
It scraped at his nerves, this waiting. A man of action, he longed to hunt Evie’s adversary down himself, and though he’d not admit it aloud, it grated not to be incl
uded in the chase. But far more unappealing was the idea of leaving Evie’s safety in someone else’s hands.
Pulling absently at his cravat, McAlistair made his way down the hall. He stopped at the open doorway of the library, a slight movement catching his eye.
Evie sat at a small writing desk, her back to the window, a stream of late-afternoon light falling over her hair, infusing the soft brown with strands of bronze. His heart tripped. It always did at the first sight of her. Unaware of his presence, she slowly brushed the end of her pen back and forth along her bottom lip. He found the act adorable…and painfully erotic.
He forced his eyes downward, only to have them catch on the bodice of her gown when she leaned forward to scribble. His mind was instantly wiped clean of every other thought. There was only the creamy expanse of forbidden flesh, the soft swell of generous breasts, and the beguiling hint of the deep valley between. He imagined exploring that valley with his tongue, slowly, thoroughly. He saw himself filling his hands, his mouth, his heart. He saw himself filling her.
Swallowing a groan, he squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and breathed raggedly through his nose until he regained some semblance of control. When he had, he lifted his lids and studiously kept his gaze on the desk.
Evie appeared to be writing in a ledger, but it was difficult to tell from the doorway. And what would the woman be doing with a ledger, at any rate? Curious, he crossed the room silently and peeked over her shoulder.
It was a ledger. “What are you doing?”
She started, dropping her pen and nearly coming out of the chair. “Good heavens!”
“Sorry, did I startle you?” He knew it was a stupid question even before he’d finished asking.
Laughing softly, she rubbed a hand against her chest as if willing her heartbeat to return to normal. “Of course you startled me. You move like a cat.”
“Old habit.”
She tilted her head. “What sort of habit is that for a hermit to have? Did you catch rabbits with your bare hands as well?”
“Routinely,” he lied, in part to make her smile, and in part to avoid the first question.
She tapped her finger absently on the desk. “You returned from your trip very quickly.”
“I’ve been gone for hours.”
“Have you?” Her eyes darted to the clock on the mantel. “Five o’clock already? That can’t possibly be right.”
“It is,” he assured her, a little disappointed that the time he’d been gone had simply flown by for her.
Her brow furrowed. “I wanted to finish this before dinner. I was nearly done.”
“You’ve time. Christian hasn’t begun—”
She shook her head. “I traded responsibilities with him before you left today. I’m to cook tonight.”
“You’ve time,” he repeated and gestured at the desk. “What are you doing?”
“Oh.” She looked back to her work. “I’m balancing the accounts of the group I work with.”
“You keep a ledger for that?”
“Certainly. It takes a considerable amount of money to relocate a woman and possibly children, and that money needs to be accounted for and budgeted.”
He considered that. “Where does the money come from?”
“Here and there. Private and anonymous donations, mostly.”
“How much of it is yours?”
She shrugged and reached for her pen. “What I can afford to give.”
He imagined that translated to be a great deal. Leaning over her, he watched as she turned the page of her ledger, looked at a long column of numbers, and put the total at the bottom without so much as a crease in her brow for the effort.
“That’s bloody amazing.”
She stopped to look at him. “Did you just swear, McAlistair?”
He bloody well had. He motioned at the ledger. “How do you do it so quickly?”
“I don’t know, really. I’ve always been good with numbers.”
Good, he decided, was not an adequate description. He’d met men who had spent all their lives training in the mathematics. Not one of them could add and subtract an entire page in a ledger with such speed. “Why—”
Mr. Hunter’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Ah! McAlistair. Anything of interest to report?”
McAlistair shook his head, unaccountably annoyed with the intrusion.
“I assumed as much,” Mr. Hunter responded, before turning his attention to Evie. “Mrs. Summers has informed me you’re a formidable chess player, Miss Cole. Might I interest you in a game?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid,” Evie replied with an apologetic smile. “I’ve a ham to prepare m-momentarily. I’ve traded duties with Christian.”
“Another time, then.”
“Of course.” She tapped her pen against the desk. “Are you an accomplished player?”
“There’s none better.” He flashed a devilish smile at her, then wisely disappeared before she could argue.
The silly maneuver left Evie laughing, and McAlistair equal parts pleased and irritated. He loved to hear her laugh. He appreciated less that it was Mr. Hunter who had charmed the delight out of her.
He ignored the irrational urge to cross his arms over his chest. “You enjoy playing games of strategy?” Why hadn’t he known that?
“I enjoy winning games of strategy,” she clarified with a smile.
“Mr. Hunter appears confident.”
“Hubris.” She waved her hand dismissively. “The downfall of all great men.”
Now he had the irrational urge to construct—and share with Evie—a list of all the very good reasons Mr. Hunter was not to be considered a great man. He wouldn’t have done it—probably—but he was relieved to have the temptation removed by Evie shutting her ledger and changing the subject.
“I suppose I’ll have to finish this another time.” She rose and winced a little, stiff from sitting in a hard chair for hours. “Perhaps I’ll work up the nerve to try the window seat. I was going to, you know, but then I had this awful vision of becoming stuck and—”
“Why should you become stuck?”
She gestured at the window. “Well, look at it.”
He studied the seat. “Seems a normal sort of window seat to me.”
“The cushions are ten feet thick.” She rolled her eyes when he lifted a brow at the exaggeration. “Two feet, anyway. Thick enough that a person under six feet of height runs the risk of sinking into those cushions and remaining trapped there until someone comes along to retrieve her.”
“Stay off the cushions, then.”
“They look terribly comfortable.”
He felt his lips twitch at the sound of her wistful sigh. “I could attach a rope to the wall. You’d be able pull yourself out.”
She laughed, for him, and his tension eased away.
“I’m not sure if that would be more, or less, humiliating than having to call for help, but I’ll take your offer into consideration.” She sighed and turned to scoop up her ledger. “I really ought to be starting on dinner. Should anyone have need of me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Though it was difficult to say for certain, he thought she might have added something to that statement as she turned to leave. Something along the lines of, “heaven help us.”
Mrs. Summers hesitated outside the kitchen, experiencing a slight crisis of conscience.
She had very nearly harassed Evie into cooking. True, Evie had been the first to suggest trading duties with Christian, but Mrs. Summers was forced to admit she had taken the idea and run away with it. The poor girl had been left with very little choice but to follow through—and only one day after what must have been a frightening and arduous journey.
That Evie should follow through was not up for debate. Mrs. Summers simply could not stomach another meal of butter-drenched eggs or cheese and fruit. She could, however, offer assistance if it were needed. Not with the actual preparation of the meal, of course—she wouldn’t know where to begin—but
she could be on hand if, just for example, a fire were to start.
She stepped forward toward the doorway, then stepped back again. The trouble with offering assistance was that one never knew if the recipient might take offense. Few people cared to have their limitations pointed out to them, and those with additional limitations, like Evie and Christian, seemed to care for it even less.
Mrs. Summers squared her shoulders. Until she was certain Evie’s limitations did not extend to cutlery and open flame, she was going to keep an eye on the girl…discreetly.
She walked into the kitchen and found Evie slicing potatoes next to the sink. No bleeding fingers, she noted with relief, and a quick glance at the stove showed no excessive smoke or towering flames.
Evie glanced up from her work. “Good evening, Mrs. Summers.”
“Good evening, dear. Have you everything you need?”
“I’ve more than enough,” Evie assured her with a smile and returned her attention to the potatoes. “We’ve sufficient provisions to outlast a year’s siege.”
As she’d helped in unloading the cart Mr. Hunter had taken into town that first afternoon, Mrs. Summers knew all too well that the kitchen was fully stocked. It seemed wise not to mention as much to Evie. Instead, she took a turn about the room, inspecting the various accoutrements required for preparing a meal for five.
There was a small ham on the center table. Mrs. Summers frowned at it. The poor child hadn’t put so much as a clove in. Well, perhaps she wasn’t much help in the kitchen, but she certainly knew that ham required a dash of mustard and a few cloves. While Evie’s back was turned, Mrs. Summers discreetly sought out both from the larder. She quickly rubbed the first into the side of the meat, and snuck a few of the latter into the underside of the ham.
She wiped her hands off on a rag before addressing Evie. “You seem to be getting on well enough.”
“What?” Evie turned from the counter and blinked a few times. “Oh, Mrs. Summers, you’d grown so quiet, I thought you’d left.”
“Just acquainting myself with the kitchen.” She made a show of opening several cupboards.
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