Mcalistairs Fortune

by Alissa Johnson

  Mr. Hunter smiled pleasantly, as if he saw not a thing amiss. “Looks as if you’re earning your keep.”

  She felt her eyes go round. “Earning m-my keep?” Did he mean to imply—?

  “Cooking,” he offered helpfully and gestured at the ham. “Dinner.”

  “Dinner? Oh! Yes. Right.” She’d quite forgotten.

  “It smells…interesting.”

  “Ahh…”

  “I’ll just leave you to it.”

  As she seemed unable to form any comment of value, she kept her mouth closed and offered what she hoped would pass for a friendly smile.

  She kept that smile in place until he disappeared through the door, and she kept still and silent until his footsteps disappeared down the hall. Only when she was certain she wouldn’t be seen or overheard did she indulge in a long groan.

  Oh, that had been mortifying.

  And it was only the start of her humiliations for the evening. There was still the ham and dinner to contend with.

  Both would have to wait, however, until she made a quick trip to her room.

  Twenty-one

  After her righting her appearance, Evie returned to the kitchen with the intent of cutting out the middle, perhaps less seasoned, part of the ham and cooking it in slices. Combined with the carrots and potatoes, she thought she might still be able to cobble out something edible.

  Unfortunately, the final product proved more cobbled than edible.

  Evie thought it was a testament to her friends’ loyalty that they each took several bites—Mrs. Summers even managed a strained smile during the first mouthful—before admitting defeat.

  “I’m sorry, dear, but this meat is something less than appetizing.”

  All things considered, Evie felt that statement was exceedingly diplomatic. “I know. I’m sorry. I had a spot of trouble with the seasoning.”

  “I’m not finding a thing wrong with it,” Christian announced and polished off his last piece. “If you’re not wanting yours, Mrs. Summers…”

  “Here you are,” Mrs. Summers chimed in quickly.

  While Mrs. Summers and Mr. Hunter passed their shares to Christian across the table, Evie shot a covert glance at McAlistair. For all her bravado after he’d left her in the kitchen, she’d found herself unable to meet his gaze in the dining room. Her body still hummed everywhere he’d touched her and in a few places he hadn’t. She was certain the prickly need she felt for him was evident in her eyes, along with the stinging heat of embarrassment. Perhaps McAlistair hadn’t been the first man she’d ever kissed, but he had certainly been the first man to kiss her like that.

  Feeling the beginnings of a blush, she looked at him only long enough to discern that he didn’t appear to be suffering from any lingering aftereffects of the kiss, the insufferable cad. He wasn’t blushing or shifting about in his chair or sneaking peeks through lowered lashes—all of which she’d been guilty of in the last quarter hour. He was sitting still as a statue, his gaze—and she could only assume his thoughts—fixed firmly on his plate.

  At the sight of his indifference, Evie felt her heart crack just a little.

  Then he looked up, caught her eye, and smiled. And she felt that crack widen, until she thought her heart might split in two…for him.

  No one should have to smile like that, was all she could think. No one should ever have to smile like that.

  There was no pleasure in the small, nearly imperceptible curve of his lips. There was nothing that spoke of amusement, or subtle teasing, or even the simple delight to be had in a shared secret. She searched his dark eyes, hoping to find a spark of joy, but she found only apology, and a sorrow she didn’t understand.

  She wanted to stand up and go to him. She ached to put her arms around him and press her lips to his…and demand he tell her why he hurt.

  Instead, she smiled back.

  Setting aside the pain in her chest, she offered a smile infused with every ounce of laughter and affection and forgiveness that she could muster. Never mind that she hadn’t any idea what she was forgiving him for—if he needed it, he’d have it.

  His lips curved a little higher.

  Her smile grew into a grin.

  And then, to her vast relief, some of the dark clouds lifted from his eyes.

  Better, she thought. So much better.

  “Does that sit well with you, Miss Cole?”

  Evie barely refrained from jerking at Mr. Hunter’s question. She snapped her eyes away from McAlistair. Oh dear, what had the others been speaking of? “Er…yes?”

  “Excellent. You can assist Mrs. Summers and Christian in their duties as needed. McAlistair can take over the preparation of meals.”

  McAlistair raised a single brow at the assumption, then shrugged. “I can cook.”

  When the meal—such as it was—was completed, Evie took herself off to the library, Mrs. Summers retired to her room with her needlework, and the gentlemen headed to the study with their brandy. Evie found the last highly amusing. She’d always considered the business of brandy in the study a ritual reserved for formal dinners and house parties. But if this was a house party, it was quite the oddest one she had ever attended.

  Smiling to herself, she stepped into the library, gave the window seat an assessing look—perhaps tomorrow—and began to hunt for a book that might catch her imagination. As she was an avid reader with a broad range of interests, it was generally a task completed in a matter of minutes. But she soon discovered that Mr. Hunter had inexplicably filled his shelves almost exclusively with books dedicated to the businesses of trade and farming.

  Eventually, she managed to find a small section of philosophy and chose several tomes from there. It wasn’t a topic that usually captured her interest, but it was preferable to a detailed history of the various breeds of English cattle.

  With her selection tucked comfortably under her arm, she headed for her room, planning to retire early so she might start her day of sailing before noon.

  She barely spared a thought to the murmur of masculine voices drifting from the study…until she heard her name mentioned.

  Evie paused at the entrance. The door to the study was ajar, leaving an inch or two of space, and she could see—with a bit a maneuvering that required her to set down her books—McAlistair, Christian, and Mr. Hunter seated around a small, ornate table in the corner.

  “As no one appears willing to bring it up, I suppose the duty falls to me.” Mr. Hunter swirled the brandy in his snifter. “Perhaps we should consider drawing the culprit, or culprits, out of hiding.”

  “With what?” Christian asked.

  Mr. Hunter looked up pointedly to the ceiling, which also happened to be the floor to Evie’s bedroom. “Bait.”

  McAlistair fairly snarled. “No.”

  “Merely exploring all the avenues available to us. It doesn’t sit well with me, this sitting about, doing nothing, whilst Alex and Whit see to business.” Mr. Hunter scowled down at his glass. “I feel like a wife.”

  “It’s sensitive, you are,” Christian said with a grin. “On account of that pretty face. Would you be wanting someone to take care of that problem for you?”

  “I’d have to be a woman to lose a fight to the likes of you,” Mr. Hunter said with a snide smile of his own. “An old blind, deaf, senile, bedridden, armless—”

  “If we’re done?” McAlistair pinned Mr. Hunter with a cold look. “We brought Evie here to keep her hidden, to keep her safe—”

  “Evie, now, is it?”

  McAlistair ignored that. “I’ll not put her in danger, or frighten her—”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t frighten her.”

  McAlistair rose from the table and spoke with chilling finality. “Evie stays hidden. She stays safe. And if you think to maneuver things otherwise”—he pulled out his knife, calm as you please, and stuck the blade of it into the wooden table—“that pretty face won’t be the only reason people mistake you for a woman.”

  Mr. Hunter ro
se to lean across the table, his palms flat against the wood. “That a threat, McAlistair?”

  McAlistair mirrored Mr. Hunter’s position, so that the two were nearly nose to nose. “If need be.”

  Evie couldn’t listen to another word.

  “Enough! That is quite enough. There is no need for this.” She pushed open the door, stepped into the room and planted her hands on her hips. “Bickering and fighting like children. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  She jabbed a finger at Mr. Hunter. “You—wanting to use me as bait without my knowledge or consent. That is contemptible.” She whirled to McAlistair before Mr. Hunter could even open his mouth in response. “You—threatening a man in his own home, sticking knives in furniture. That sort of behavior is unacceptable. And you—” She spun to Christian, who had the audacity to lean back in his chair and smile at her.

  “What have I done, lass?”

  Very little, Evie was forced to admit, but since she’d already jabbed her finger in his direction she’d have to think of something. “You’re enjoying yourself. It’s unseemly.”

  Christian coughed into his fist, but she could still see the smile playing on his lips. “Well, now, Miss Cole, I’m thinking ‘enjoying’ might be the wrong—”

  “Oh, don’t bother.” More annoyed than hurt—and perhaps a little anxious to make an exit before someone thought to comment on her eavesdropping—Evie gave them all one more disdainful look before turning toward the door.

  Mr. Hunter was in front of her, blocking her escape, before she could reach for the handle. “A moment if you would, please, Miss Cole.”

  “I can’t imagine why I should,” she said with a haughty lift of her brow. Of all those in the room, Mr. Hunter’s behavior had been the most unsettling.

  Bait, indeed.

  He stepped back and dipped into a very low bow. “Nor can I, but I should like the chance to apologize. Our behavior was indeed inexcusable. Mine in particular. I sincerely beg your forgiveness. I can only plead the strain of the journey and the frustration of being so far removed from the efforts of capturing our enemy.”

  She surprised herself by snorting. “I don’t believe the first half of that statement for a second. But it was a very nice apology all the same,” she relented. And she’d no doubt the second half was the absolute truth. “Apology accepted.”

  Mr. Hunter threw a hard glance at the other two men in the room. Christian stood and bowed. “Begging your pardon, Miss Cole.”

  McAlistair, on the other hand, merely dipped his head in acknowledgment.

  Evie might have taken offense at that, if she hadn’t come to know him well enough in the past few days to recognize the silent apology.

  “I suppose we have all been under considerable strain,” she said carefully. “Perhaps a bit of distraction will serve us well. I look forward to sailing tomorrow,” she told McAlistair. “And to besting you at chess,” she teased Mr. Hunter. “Christian, I’m told you are a remarkable shot. Perhaps you could find the time to indulge me with a lesson?”

  Christian’s face seemed to light up at the prospect. “Aye, lass. It’d be a pleasure.”

  “Excellent. Well…” She found herself with nothing else to say, and now that her temper had settled, she felt her discomfort at being the center of attention begin to seep in. She’d be stammering again in a moment. “Well, good night, gentlemen.”

  McAlistair watched Evie turn and leave. After a moment’s hesitation, he moved to follow, intent on offering in private the apology for which he’d been unable to find the words in front of the others. He made it into the hall before Mr. Hunter’s voice called him back.

  “McAlistair.”

  He shot a glance over his shoulder and found Mr. Hunter grinning at him.

  “You owe me a new table.”

  Though Evie wouldn’t have recognized it as such, this too was an apology. McAlistair returned in kind. “Be grateful it wasn’t your pretty face.”

  To conclude the touching moment, Mr. Hunter made a vulgar gesture with his hand and followed it with a bit of advice. “She’s satisfied with how this ended, McAlistair. It might be wise to let well enough alone.”

  McAlistair grunted by way of answer. It wasn’t until he was halfway up the stairs and heard Evie close her door that he realized Mr. Hunter was right. Evie was content with the apologies offered. If not, her door would have shut not with the soft click he heard, but with a resounding bang. He remembered well the slam he had earned that first day at Haldon. It had echoed through half the house.

  No pretty speech required of him, then. He reached her door and paused, torn between jumping at the reprieve her forgiving nature had already granted, and forgoing it in favor of giving her the apology she deserved…preferably one as eloquent as Mr. Hunter’s.

  In the end, he turned away without knocking. He had no business troubling her with his conscience and even less trying to compete with Mr. Hunter.

  Evie wasn’t his to fight for. And if it came down to a war of words, he couldn’t hope to best Mr. Hunter. The man had a gilded tongue. The bastard.

  Twenty-two

  For the first time in her life, Evie greeted the early morning sun with a smile. The tension of the previous evening was forgotten in her enthusiasm for the adventure to come. Today she was going sailing.

  She washed and dressed with more speed than she would have imagined possible before nine in the morning (particularly without help), and left her bedroom with a spring in her step, intending to pound on every door in the house until she found McAlistair.

  As it happened, not so much as a single rap was required. McAlistair stepped out from the room across the hall just as she was closing her door. Before she’d had a chance to so much as open her mouth, Mr. Hunter emerged from the room to her left—at the exact same time Mrs. Summers exited the room on her right.

  She looked from one to the next to the other. She’d been neatly surrounded. “Should I surrender?”

  “Surrender what, dear?”

  Because there was nothing she could do about the silliness and because it didn’t really concern her—except in that it was, in fact, tremendously silly—she shook her head, stifled a laugh, and reached up to plant a kiss on Mrs. Summers’ cheek.

  Then she badgered McAlistair into leaving the house with her before he, or anyone else, could remember he’d been appointed the new cook.

  In Evie’s admittedly layman’s opinion, it was a perfect day for sailing. The sun was out, the sea appeared calm, and a lovely breeze was coming off the water.

  Rather than heading to the dock farther down the shore, McAlistair took her to a very small boat sitting on the sandy beach. It was covered by a canvas tarp strapped down with rope, but a few inches of wood showed at the bottom. Wood, Evie couldn’t help noticing, that was weathered, worn, scraped, and gouged.

  McAlistair briefly but thoroughly scanned the shoreline and patch of woods at the side of the lawn—just as he had before they’d left the back of the house—and then crouched to untie the rope.

  Confused, she frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

  He glanced up. “I thought you wanted to go out on Mr. Hunter’s boat.”

  “I did. I do. That hardly explains what you’re doing with—”

  She broke off as he pulled back the tarp to reveal what one might consider—if one wasn’t at all finicky about the subject—a bow and stern—separated by no more than eight feet—two small benches, a pair of oars, and very little else.

  “That’s Mr. Hunter’s boat?”

  McAlistair pulled out the oars and handed them to her to hold. “One of them.”

  “But it hasn’t any sails.” She wasn’t entirely certain it had a bottom.

  “Never said I’d take you sailing. Said I’d take you on a boat.”

  “Yes, but that’s a rowboat. I thought—”

  “The larger boats take a crew.”

  “Oh.” In all fairness, she couldn’t fault him for that, and rea
lly, common sense should have told her as much. But it was rather disappointing. She’d been looking forward to the chance to try out her sea legs. By the looks of the tiny boat before them, that particular experiment would have to wait. Just the simple act of standing up would likely capsize them.

  She noticed several patches in the wood. “Is it seaworthy?”

  He looped the loose rope and tossed it aside. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “That’s not at all reassuring.”

  “Thinking of changing your mind? We could go back inside, play cards or—”

  “No.” Good heavens, no. She detested cards. “I’m sure it’s perfectly safe. Probably. Why else would Mr. Hunter keep it?”

  McAlistair shrugged, which again did very little to reassure her.

  She tapped her toes against the bottom. “It looks as if it might leak.”

  Actually, it rather looked as if it might take on gallons of water at a time, but she preferred the appearance of caution over cowardice. “Should we take something along just in case it does take on water? A pail perhaps?” Or a lifeboat?

  “We’ll be fine.” He gathered up the tarp and set it with the rope. “And it’s she, not it.”

  She felt her brows rise. “You can’t be serious.”

  “All boats are she.”

  “No matter how small?” And pathetic?

  “Yes.”

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “So, if it floats—and to be honest, I have my doubts where this boat is concerned—one refers to the vessel as a female.”

  “Yes.” He pushed the boat into the water. “As long as it was made by man.”

  “Who else would make it?”

  “I meant you can’t grab a floating log and decide to name it Santa Maria the Second.”

  She thought about that. “What of rafts, then? They’re no more than a few logs tied together with a bit of rope. Does that still count?”

  He gave her a blank look. “Get in the boat, Evie.”