Mcalistairs Fortune

by Alissa Johnson

“Perhaps, when I was boy. Then again, I also believed that if I found a comb on the ground and bent to pick it up, the mermaids would come to spirit me away.” He smiled at her bewildered look. “An old Irish myth. My grandmother was an O’Henry.”

  “Oh. Did you dismiss the idea of love when you dismissed the idea of mermaids? Or is there a story behind your reluctance to believe? Did someone break your heart?”

  “Of course. But not romantically.”

  She opened her mouth to respond with a clever quip, but thought better of it. Heartbreak under those circumstances could have originated from anywhere—a family member, a friend. For all that she knew, he could have lost a child.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” she said instead.

  He smiled and used his rook to take her pawn. “The heart is merely a piece of the body, and it heals like any other.”

  It scarred like any other, too. She thought of McAlistair’s sad smile and resisted the urge to touch the line on her cheek.

  McAlistair watched Evie and Mr. Hunter from the darkened hall. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the scene—nothing untoward in the time or setting, nor in the behavior of the people involved. There was nothing at all to justify the tight ball of fury that had settled in his chest.

  Though he had little experience with the emotion, he knew it to be jealousy. Nothing else could possibly explain the irrational anger, the longing, the sense of impotence. Not for you, he reminded himself, and curled his hands into fists.

  She’s not for you.

  Even as he imagined using those fists on Mr. Hunter’s grinning face, he turned and walked away.

  Twenty-four

  Evie greeted the next morning with considerably less enthusiasm than she had the previous day. A quick peek through the drapes told her it was raining, which meant there was no chance of cajoling McAlistair into another row on the sea. A late start to the day meant she’d missed breakfast, which Mrs. Summers was kind enough to inform her had been exceptional. And the news that Mr. Hunter and Christian were engrossed in a card game in the study while McAlistair was out searching the grounds meant there was little else to do but accept Mrs. Summers’s suggestion of needlework in the parlor.

  It was, Evie decided, a perfectly stupid way to spend the day.

  “Did you enjoy your chess match with Mr. Hunter, dear?”

  “Hmm?” Evie glanced up from the knot of thread she was trying, and failing, to untie. “Oh, yes. He’s a charming man and a skilled player, though not as skilled as he would lead me to believe.”

  “You won the match?”

  “Well, no. We’ve not finished it yet, but I will win.” She studied Mrs. Summers. “I hadn’t realized you’d come into the room. I thought you had retired for the night.”

  “I came down for a spot of warm milk. I peeked in briefly.”

  “Oh.” Had she peeked in when they’d been discussing Kate? Evie couldn’t imagine Mrs. Summers would approve of such a conversation.

  “You seemed…preoccupied.” In an uncharacteristic show of nerves, Mrs. Summers set down her sewing. Picked it back up again. Set it down once more. “You find him charming?”

  Ah, so here it was at last. Evie weighed her answer carefully. “I find many people charming. Present company included.”

  “Oh, well, thank you, dear. But…do you…” Mrs. Summers cleared her throat delicately, and to Evie’s great surprise, reached forward to clasp her hands, a very pained expression on her face. “You have not developed a tendre for the man, have you?”

  “No,” Evie said, startled into honesty. “I have not.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” Mrs. Summers let out a shaky breath and straightened once more in her chair. “I had feared…well, I had thought…it would have been disastrous.”

  Because they had chosen someone else, Evie realized. “Disastrous seems a rather strong word. Why—”

  “He is not meant for you.”

  Heavens, was the woman going to admit all? “Oh? And whom am I meant for?”

  “I am sure I do not know,” Mrs. Summers said primly, dashing Evie’s hope of a confession. “But it is not Mr. Hunter.”

  “You don’t approve of him?”

  “Certainly I do.” She picked up her sewing once again. “His interest lies with Lady Kate.”

  It was several seconds before Evie found her voice. “You know of that?”

  “Well, I’m not blind, am I?” Mrs. Summers huffed. “Why is it the very young assume only they can recognize these things? One would think they might be capable of recognizing experience just as well, and—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Evie cut in, and wisely bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “I don’t know what I was thinking, when you’ve a beau of your own.”

  Mrs. Summers looked as if she might say something disapproving, but then her lips twitched and her eyes lit up with pleasure. “I have, haven’t I?” She gave a lustful, and therefore most un-Mrs.-Summers-like, sigh. “I must say, it is quite a thing to find oneself in love at my age.”

  “You’re in love with Mr. Fletcher?”

  “I rather think I might be.” She sighed again and with a dreamy expression—also most unlike her—returned to her needlework.

  Evie had seen that sort of wistful, far-off expression on Kate before and knew quite well that she’d been summarily dismissed from Mrs. Summers’s thoughts.

  Not bothering to hide her smile now, Evie set down her own work and murmured a desire for something to drink. She didn’t take offense when Mrs. Summers failed to respond; she simply slipped quietly out of the parlor and, upon discovering the rain had eased, quietly out the front door as well.

  A brisk stroll was just what she needed to sort out her thoughts—or, perhaps more accurately, to sort through her confusion. Working her way around the house, she headed for the beach, barely noticing the fine mist that still clung to the air.

  If Mr. Hunter was not her would-be rescuer, who the devil was? And what the devil was taking him so long? It was her third day at the cottage—how long did her matchmakers think to keep her sitting about, waiting?

  And how would she feel when he arrived? It would mean making clear, once and for all, that she was not to be swept off her feet. It would mean returning to Haldon. It would mean parting ways with McAlistair.

  She stopped next to a stand of rocks on the edge of the shore and looked out across the water.

  The last time she and McAlistair had kissed and parted ways, she had neither seen nor heard from him again for months. Would it be the same?

  Did it matter so very much if it was?

  It did matter. She knew even before she’d asked the question that it mattered a great deal. For pity’s sake, she’d been disappointed merely because he’d been out of the house that morning. What would she do with a lifetime of mornings without him?

  Her heart sank at the mere thought.

  And then it froze when a shot rang out. The sharp sound sliced through the wet air, and something ricocheted off the rock behind her, sending up a fine mist of dust. Instinctively, she dropped to her knees and scurried behind the rocks.

  Stunned, her first thought was that some idiot had come out to hunt in the woods next to the house and she’d walked between that idiot and his target. But even before she’d finished that thought, another occurred to her. There shouldn’t be a soul for miles, other than those in the house. And she was wearing an ivory gown and standing next to a dark rock. Unless the shooter was blind as well as stupid, it would have been nearly impossible to overlook her presence. Realization crept in like frost, chilling her to the core.

  Someone had shot at her.

  She glanced up quickly to determine how much protection was provided by the rocks. Enough, she thought. She hoped. Enough as long as she stayed low to the ground. The image of herself, helpless and crouching like a cornered animal, flashed through her mind and was firmly pushed aside. The rocks would keep her safe…unless the shooter moved. Her gaze shift
ed to the left, then the right…just in time to glimpse the dark form of a man before he dove on top of her, shoving her to the ground.

  Panic raced through her, with fury chasing close behind. She shoved herself to one side, using the rock for leverage, and threw her fist out at the same time. It was an awkward movement, but she would have landed the jab on the man’s chin, if McAlistair hadn’t been quick enough to intercept her fist.

  “It’s me. It’s all right.” McAlistair released her arm to hurriedly run his hands over her, frantically checking for injuries. “Evie, are you hurt? Are you hurt anywhere?”

  She shook her head.

  His eyes tracked over her. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes, I…yes.” She was too stunned yet to notice the shudder that ran through him. She swallowed hard. “Someone shot at me.”

  “Your gun,” he said tersely.

  “What?”

  “Your gun, where is it?”

  What the devil was he talking about? “I don’t have a gun.”

  He swore and nudged her back onto her stomach. Crouching over her protectively, he half pushed, half dragged her closer to the nearest rock. “Keep your head down.”

  It was sound, if needless, advice—did he think she was going to pop up and demand an explanation? With blood pounding loudly in her ears, she watched as McAlistair aimed a gun over the top of the rock.

  “How fast can you run?” he asked without looking at her.

  “Not very, usually.” But then she’d never had someone shooting at her either. She almost asked if they should wait for Christian or Mr. Hunterto come from the house—surely, they had heard the shot—but she swallowed the suggestion at the last moment. She didn’t want someone else to make himself a target on her behalf.

  McAlistair narrowed his eyes and squeezed off a shot. The resulting blast echoed off the rocks and set her ears ringing—she barely heard the succinct curse from McAlistair that followed.

  “He’s gone.”

  She heard that. “He is?” She gathered the courage to raise her head and peer around the edge of the boulder. “You’re certain?”

  He stood, looked around, then hauled her to her feet by way of answering. “He had a horse.”

  “You saw him?” she asked as he took her hand and started toward the house at such a clipped pace she had to run or risk being dragged. “Who was it? Why—”

  “I only saw the horse and his back. I don’t know who it was. Why the devil didn’t you bring the gun Mrs. Summers gave you?”

  Oh, that gun. “Because I’m not in the habit of strolling about with firearms.” She threw her free hand up as he pushed through the back door and hauled her into the kitchen. “For pity’s sake, where would I even put it?”

  They ran nearly headfirst into Christian, Mr. Hunter, and Mrs. Summers. All three, Evie noticed, were carrying weapons and looked quite prepared to use them…even Mrs. Summers, whose implement of choice appeared to be some sort of wooden club.

  Oh, hell. Oh, bloody hell. Had she been so very wrong? A carriage accident was one thing, but guns and…whatever that was Mrs. Summers held…were quite another.

  “Evie!” Mrs. Summers set aside her weapon to throw her arms around Evie. “We heard shots. Are you hurt?”

  “No…I…” Feeling dazed, Evie extended the hug to the point of clinging. “No, I’m unharmed.”

  “Oh, thank heavens.” Mrs. Summers whipped her head toward McAlistair, obviously checking for injury even as she asked, “Where is he?”

  “Gone,” he answered, but he didn’t look at Mrs. Summers. His eyes, dark and unblinking, remained focused on Evie. “Horseback.”

  “We can track him,” Mr. Hunter said, shoving his pistol into a coat pocket and heading toward the door. “The rain will make it easy.”

  McAlistair shook his head. “He’s gone to the road.”

  Mr. Hunter swore.

  “The road?” Evie pulled away from Mrs. Summers. “Isn’t it easier to find someone on a road?

  “Not unless you’re already looking at them,” Christian explained. “Can’t distinguish one set of hoofprints from another on a road. He’ll follow it a bit, no doubt, then head off before reaching town.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, quite at a loss for anything more intelligent to say.

  Christian ran a hand through his hair. “Where was he shooting from?”

  And still McAlistair didn’t take his eyes off of Evie. “Woods. West side.”

  “And where were—?”

  “Evie was at the rocks. I was leaving the house.”

  Mrs. Summers gave Evie a hard look. “You were walking about alone?”

  She hadn’t been alone, apparently, but she knew that wasn’t what Mrs. Summers meant.

  “I thought it was safe,” she mumbled instead. “I’ve been out on the beach before—”

  “Not alone.”

  “Chastising her now won’t help,” McAlistair said quietly.

  Evie was torn between gratitude for his defense and embarrassment at the use of the word “chastise.” She felt like a naughty five-year-old. A five-year-old of less-than-average intelligence. “If I’d thought, even for a moment, there might be a l-lunatic hiding in the woods waiting to shoot at me, I certainly would not have gone. I’m n-not an idiot. I’m not—” She broke off when her voice cracked. She wasn’t angry with Mrs. Summers; she was frightened and ridden with guilt. And furious with herself for twice having been caught in a dangerous situation without her gun. She crossed her arms across her waist, gripping her elbows in an effort to stem her trembling.

  Mrs. Summers patted Evie’s arm gently. “We’ll speak of this later. After we have both settled.”

  “We’ll be needing to send word to Haldon,” Christian commented. “I’ll ride into town. Could be someone will have seen a lone traveler come before me as well.”

  Mr. Hunter nodded as Christian left. “McAlistair and I will search the grounds.”

  McAlistair didn’t move. His gaze remained steadfastly on Evie. “He’s gone.”

  “Can’t hurt to double check.” When McAlistair still failed to move, Mr. Hunter took him by the arm, nearly dragging him away. “You can take the grounds closest to the house,” Evie heard him say, “in case the women have need of us. I’ll search past the cove and to the north…”

  Mr. Hunter’s voice faded to an unintelligible murmur as he led McAlistair off in one direction and Mrs. Summers, taking Evie’s arm, led Evie off in another.

  Twenty-five

  McAlistair searched the grounds closest to the house, and he searched the house itself, checking and rechecking the locks on the doors and windows. He knew full well there was nothing wrong with them. Just as he knew full well that anyone determined to get inside would find a way. But he needed something to do while Mrs. Summers settled Evie in her room.

  It seemed to take a prodigious amount of time.

  In truth, it may have been no more than half an hour, but it felt like an eternity passed before Mrs. Summers slipped out through Evie’s door and headed to her own. And another eternity before a soft snore emanated from Mrs. Summers’s room.

  He considered what he knew regarding the lady and her naps, and estimated he’d have at least two hours.

  What he meant to do in those hours, he hadn’t decided. He only knew he needed to spend them with Evie.

  Unwilling to knock and risk the chance of being turned away, McAlistair pushed open Evie’s door. Decisively at first, then cautiously when it occurred to him she might be sleeping—or changing.

  She was standing by the window, but not, he noted, directly in front of it. She stood a good four feet back from the glass. A good, safe distance that kept her hidden from anyone who might be looking from the ground.

  She was afraid now. It occurred to him that he might have been mistaken in his efforts to convince her that the threat was real. He hated that she’d been made to feel afraid. Better he had kept a closer eye on things, caught the bastard, and then convinc
ed her.

  She turned as he stepped into the room. “Did you find him? Did you—?”

  “No. We will.” He shut the door behind him. “How are you?”

  “Aside from embarrassed, I’m perfectly well.” She walked over to fiddle with a piece of paper on a desk. “Mrs. Summers isn’t feeling quite the thing after all the excitement. She’s gone to lie down.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh. Well. I…” She cleared her throat before continuing in a soft voice. “I owe you an apology. You were right, it would seem, about the ruse. You must be—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Oh. Right.” Her eyes darted away from his. “Of course. You’ve every call to be angry. I—”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He didn’t bloody care who’d been right and who had been wrong. “That’s not what matters. I’m not angry with you, I…” He drew a hand through his hair. “I thought you’d been shot. I thought…”

  He wasn’t surprised to see her mouth fall open a little at his lack of composure. “I’m fine,” she said carefully. “Honestly. I’ve little more than a few scratches to show for the incident.”

  “You were lucky.” He hadn’t realized quite how lucky until he’d returned to the spot where she’d been standing and found the bullet mark in the rock less than a foot away. The bullet had missed her by inches. Mere inches.

  He’d noticed her absence too late. She was already at the rocks by the time he’d left the house, and when the first shot rang out, he’d still been a solid fifty yards away. It felt like fifty miles, and might just as well have been, for all the good he could do her from that distance—close enough to see the largest flecks of rock go flying, but too far away to protect her.

  He’d never run so fast in his life, and never felt so slow. His legs had felt impossibly heavy and his heart and lungs had begun laboring before he’d taken the first step.

  He’d been certain he was going to lose her, terrified the bullet had cut through her before hitting the rock.

  It nearly had. Bloody hell, it nearly had.

  “I need…I…” He strode forward and wrapped his arms around her. She came willingly into the embrace, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing her face against his chest. She was warm, soft, and alive, and he took some measure of comfort from the beat of her heart and the rise and fall of her chest.