Mcalistairs Fortune

by Alissa Johnson

  He stopped and stabbed a finger at her. “You were going to try for the gun. When his eyes closed. You were going to try.”

  “Yes.” Remembering, she felt her stomach roll in a queasy circle. Perhaps not entirely calm, she amended, perhaps just better.

  “What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

  “That I was closer.”

  The snarl grew more pronounced.

  “Well, I was.” Really, what did the man expect her to say?

  He jabbed a finger at her. “You’re rash, impetuous, hard-headed, and reckless.”

  She pursed her lips, thought about that, and decided she preferred the description over gentle, delicate, and naive. “I can live with that. Although—”

  “You’ll marry me.”

  “—I don’t…” She immediately forgot what she was about to say. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “You’ll marry me.”

  Suspicion bloomed alongside hope. “Will I? Will I, really?”

  “Unless you care to live in sin?” he inquired in a derisive tone.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then we marry. I can’t protect you if we’re in separate houses, and you need looking after.”

  Hope and suspicion were swallowed by absolute shock. “Looking after?”

  “Yes, you—”

  “That wasn’t a request for clarification,” she snapped. “It was a statement of disbelief.” Accompanied by a healthy dose of insult. “I most certainly do not need looking after. Furthermore—”

  “Your connection to me is no longer secret. That in itself puts you in a precarious situation. In addition, you work for a dangerous cause. You visit the worst slums of London.” He jabbed his finger at her yet again. “There will be no more of that. You can find other ways of helping those women.”

  She tossed her blanket aside. “How dare—”

  “You sneak out of your home to sleep alone in the woods. You kiss strange men in those woods—”

  “Man,” she corrected. “One man. You.”

  “You thought to wrestle a gun from a lunatic.”

  “I didn’t want to. And you did—”

  “You gave your innocence to a near stranger.”

  “A hermit, a soldier, and the man I love, you arrogant, heartless arse.”

  He visually started at that, and for a moment, it looked as if he might relent, but then he shook his head, as if shaking off her words. “You’re being foolish—”

  “Don’t! Don’t you dare tell me what I’m being. What I am. Who I am. I’ve had enough of that from you. More than enough.”

  “Evie—”

  She didn’t wait for the remainder of his sentence, couldn’t think of any reason she should. With tears of anger burning her eyes, she left the parlor at a run, intent on making it safely to her room, where she could fall apart in private.

  He called for her again, at the bottom of the stairs just as she reached the top. But she didn’t turn around.

  And he didn’t come after her.

  McAlistair watched her go.

  That hadn’t gone quite as he had planned.

  He took hold of the banister and climbed the first step with the intention of following her. They’d have this out. She would listen until—

  He winced when the door slammed hard enough to rattle his teeth.

  Perhaps he’d wait until she’d settled, he decided, and stepped back down again.

  She’d come around. She just needed time. He could give her that while they were at the cottage, and on the return trip to Haldon. Safety wasn’t such a concern at present, not with Herbert gone, and with Evie miles away from the work that put her in danger.

  It would be best if he let her be for now—gave her the opportunity to see the sense in what he’d said.

  And give himself the opportunity to come to grips with what she had said.

  The man I love.

  Holy hell.

  He spun on his heel and headed straight to the study. From there, he headed directly to the sideboard. He rarely drank. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d indulged in the last eight years. Nearly all of them, he realized grimly as he poured himself a finger of brandy, had occurred in the last week.

  The man I love.

  He added more to the glass.

  She couldn’t mean it. She couldn’t possibly love a man who’d been nothing to her only months, possibly only weeks, ago. A man whose sins had put her life at risk. That had been his initial, albeit in part irrational, reaction—she didn’t know all his sins, did she?—the moment the words left her mouth, followed shortly thereafter by the single most brilliant pang of joy he had ever known.

  Evie wouldn’t say the words unless she meant them. It wasn’t in her nature to lie. Well, yes, he amended, it was in her nature to lie, but not about that. He was sure of it. She wasn’t the sort to make a sport of something so important.

  She loved him. Despite his reticence, despite his less-than-auspicious origins, despite all common sense, really, she loved him.

  The man I love. Her voice echoed in his head. You arrogant, heartless arse.

  He downed the glass in one long swallow.

  If she bloody well loved him, she could bloody well marry him. What could be more natural?

  Admittedly, a woman in love might have hoped for a proposal with a bit more romance. But how the devil was he to have known she was in love?

  She complained of his reticence. He snorted—actually snorted—and considered pouring another glass. She hadn’t said a word about love. Not a single word.

  If she had, he might have broached the idea of marriage a little differently. He might have tried to appeal to her heart rather than her head.

  She would just have to live with it, he decided in another burst of temper. In fact, she should be thrilled for it. What was wrong with having appealed to her head—to her sense of reason—as he would have a man’s? Isn’t that what she’d harped on about in the past? Women not being respected for their minds?

  It damn well was.

  He slammed the glass down on the counter and strode from the room.

  He was going to his bedroom. Then he was going to pack his things for tomorrow’s journey back to Haldon. Then he was going to wait.

  Evie could bloody well come to him. * * *

  Evie could not recall a time in her life when she’d ever indulged in such a fit of violent temper. It could be assumed that she’d had her moments as a small child, but as an adult, she preferred the simplicity of a few choice curses followed by a short period of brooding. Nothing too dramatic.

  But right now, right at this very moment, she wanted to break something. Pick it up, dash it against the wall, and watch it shatter into a million little shards. Then she wanted to do it again. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to destroy something.

  She stood in the middle of her room, seething with a rage that could find no outlet. Making a loud fuss would only bring members of the house rushing to see what was the matter.

  And there was nothing in the room she could break, because nothing in the damn room belonged to her. She dearly wished there was something in it that belonged to McAlistair. Something expensive and fragile. Like her heart.

  Frustrated beyond measure, she stalked to the bed, picked up a pillow, and hurled it against the wall. The soft and wholly unsatisfying thump it made only served to infuriate her further.

  “Argh.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up another pillow and tossed it as well. It was, she decided, marginally better than nothing.

  “Need keeping, do I?” she fumed between gritted teeth. “Keeping?” She tossed the next pillow. “Like a child, or a pet?”

  She hurled the last. “Bloody keeping?”

  She couldn’t believe, quite simply could not wrap her head around the fact that he’d had the gall to use such a monstrously insulting phrase. There was little else the man could have said that would have infuria
ted her so effectively…or cut her more deeply.

  She felt the sting of that wound now, as the worst of her temper began to ease in small increments.

  With a sound that was half growl and half sob, she sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

  Hadn’t he come to know her at all?

  Didn’t he love her even a little?

  The sting grew into a heavy ache in her chest. She pressed at it with the heel of her hand, as if she could rub it away as McAlistair had rubbed away the pain in her leg.

  Exhausted and heartbroken, she crawled on top of the bed, curled into a ball, and wished she had a pillow to cry on.

  Twenty-nine

  Evie slipped into a fitful sleep and woke to the late-afternoon light barely seeping through the wool curtains.

  She could open those now, she thought dully, and rose stiffly from the bed.

  After letting in the meager light, she straightened her appearance, replaced the pillows on the bed, and then, finding herself with nothing left to do, sat back down.

  She felt drained to her very core, completely hollowed out…except for her head, which felt stuffy…and her neck, which had a substantial kink in it…and her knee, which still throbbed from its encounter with the kitchen table. But the rest of her felt empty, as if someone had reached inside and torn out her heart.

  It was almost amazing, she thought without feeling the least bit amazed, how one could be numb and yet hurt unbearably at the same time.

  It was similarly odd that one could feel ill and hungry at the same time. But then, she’d had very little to eat all day, and while her appetite might occasionally suffer some from nerves and anger, it was never quelled for long. She hadn’t gained her curvy figure by skipping meals.

  Resigned to filling her grumbling stomach, she headed downstairs, careful to keep an eye out for McAlistair. She wasn’t ready yet to see him, let alone speak with him—not while she was surrounded by what she assumed was expensive artwork and knew to be fragile vases.

  She was careful to keep her foray into the kitchen brief. The room held unpleasant memories now, too fresh to linger over food choices. She grabbed an apple—a convenient and inexpensive projectile, should she run into McAlistair—and headed back upstairs.

  She was at the foot of the main staircase when the front door swung open with a crash.

  Heart in her throat, Evie spun around to see the Duchess of Rockeforte come stumbling in. Short of breath, wearing a wrinkled and dusty traveling gown, and with her dark hair escaping in large sections from her bonnet, she looked positively wild.

  Evie gaped at her. “Sophie?”

  Sophie ran forward to throw her arms around her. “Evie. You’re safe.”

  “Yes, I—” She returned the embrace. “What are you doing here? Has something happened?” A horrible thought occurred to her. Mirabelle, Whit’s wife, was expecting. “Mirabelle. The baby. Has something happened to—”

  “No. No.” Sophie drew back, but gripped Evie’s shoulders. “It’s John Herbert,” she panted. “The footman from Haldon.”

  “John Herbert?” Alternately relieved, baffled, and alarmed, Evie shook her head. “I don’t understand. Did he escape?”

  “Escape?” Sophie blinked. “From Haldon?”

  “Haldon? What? No, from Christian and Mr. Hunter.”

  “Christian? Mr. Hunter?” Sophie dropped her hands. “We’re a set of parrots. What are you talking about?”

  “John Herbert. He was here this morning. Christian and Mr. Hunter have taken him to the local magistrate. What are you talking about?”

  “Absolutely nothing of relevance, apparently.” Sophie laughed suddenly. “We’d come to inform you of John Herbert’s treachery.”

  “We?”

  “I came with Alex, Whit, and Kate.” Blowing out a long breath, and looking calmer for it, Sophie searched out a chair next to the hall side table and sat down heavily. “We came as soon as Herbert’s absence was noticed.”

  “Oh.” Evie still felt utterly lost. “Well, that was very…er…loyal of you. I’m surprised Alex allowed it.”

  “He didn’t.” Sophie shrugged. “I came anyway.”

  “Ah.” She looked in the direction of the still-open door. “Where is he? And the others?”

  “A minute or two back.” She stretched out her legs with a grimace. “We raced the last two miles. Well, Kate and I did. Alex and Whit were checking their map and left somewhat unawares.”

  “You left them behind?”

  “Unfortunately, they gave chase soon enough,” Sophie replied. “They’ve been the worst of traveling companions. Arguing for the first half of the journey and lecturing for the second.”

  Evie looked warily at the front door again, expecting a storming pair of men at any moment. “I suppose Whit is no more pleased with Kate at present than Alex is with you.”

  “They are a mite put out,” Sophie admitted, without, Evie noticed, the slightest hint of regret. “As is Lady—”

  Sophie broke off as Lady Kate Cole entered through the front door, looking much as Sophie had only a minute before, her pale blonde hair mostly loose from its pins, and her wide blue eyes bright with worry.

  “Evie! You’re all right!”

  “I’m perfectly well,” Evie insisted, even as Kate flew into her arms.

  Keeping a tight hold on her friend, Kate threw a look over her shoulder at Sophie. An easy maneuver, as Kate was several inches taller than Evie. “Did you tell her? Does she know about John—”

  “She knows,” Sophie cut in. “She knew already.”

  Kate drew back, a line appearing across her brow. “What? How?”

  Sophie untied the ribbons of her bonnet. “Mr. Herbert made an appearance several hours ago and was subsequently apprehended.”

  Unless Evie was much mistaken, Kate’s shoulders slumped a little. “It’s done then? It’s over?”

  “You needn’t sound disappointed,” Evie pointed out.

  “I’m not, I…” Kate drew back and made a face. “Well, yes, I am. Just a little. I rather fancied the idea of riding to your rescue.”

  “The effort is noted and appreciated,” Evie drawled.

  Kate snorted, but her eyes danced with humor. “I missed Miss Willory’s birthday celebration for this.”

  Evie smirked. Miss Willory was one of Kate’s least favorite people. One of her own, as well. “I am so terribly sorry.”

  “And my mother is supremely irritated with me.”

  “You disobeyed Lady Thurston by coming?” The very idea was bewildering. “Kate—”

  “No lectures, I beg you. I’ve had my fill.”

  “You’ll make room for more,” a cool voice said from the front door.

  Whit entered, looking travel-worn and more than just “a mite put out,” as Sophie had phrased it. He shut the door carefully behind him, sent one cold, hard look at Kate and Sophie that promised retribution of a most grievous nature, and then stepped forward to place a kiss on Evie’s cheek.

  “Evie, you’re well?”

  She’d never been so miserable. “Perfectly.”

  Whit nodded and pulled off his gloves. “Fetch the others, if you would. I’m sure Kate and Sophie have taken it upon themselves to inform you of our news.”

  “It is why we came,” Sophie pointed out.

  “And it hardly matters now, at any rate,” Kate added. “It’s over. We’ve come too late.”

  Evie rolled her eyes at the overly dramatic statement.

  Whit went still. “Too late? Herbert was here?”

  “This morning,” Evie confirmed, and wondered if she would have to explain yet again when Alex arrived. “Christian and Mr. Hunter have taken him—”

  Whit swore viciously even as concern, and just a hint of fear, crossed his face. He cupped her chin in his hand, his eyes searching. “You’re not hurt? He didn’t hurt you?”

  “I’m perfectly well,” she repeated. “We all are.”

  He looked at her a moment longer be
fore dropping his hand and enveloping her in a hard embrace. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said hoarsely.

  Touched, as she always was by his unfailing loyalty, she blinked back tears and returned the embrace. “I’m quite well, Whit, honestly. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

  “I should have been here. It is my responsibility to see to the safety of my family.” He looked around her to glare at Kate. “Though some would do their best to make that task impossible.”

  Kate sent Evie an exaggerated look of sympathy. “Pay him no mind. It’s not your fault John Herbert is a lunatic.”

  Whit let go of Evie to jab a finger at Kate. He opened his mouth to deliver what would no doubt be a blistering response, but the sound of the front door once again swinging open cut him off.

  Alex, the Duke of Rockeforte, marched in. In the past, Evie had thought Alex’s tousled coffee-colored locks gave him a somewhat boyish air. That thought didn’t occur to her at present. Just now, he looked to her to be very much a grown duke—a tall, dark, and furious duke. “Whose bloody idea was it to race?”

  Sophie smiled brightly at her husband. “It was a joint decision.”

  “It sure as hell wasn’t a group one,” he growled.

  “Well, it couldn’t have been,” Sophie argued reasonably. “You’d have said no.”

  “You’re damn right I would have,” Alex snapped and either didn’t hear, or chose to ignore, Sophie’s mumblings about the annoyance of poor losers. Instead, he turned to Evie and looked her over. “You’re well?”

  Evie managed, barely, to swallow a groan. “I’m entirely unharmed and John Herbert is on his way to the magistrate.”

  “He’s been caught?” His face brightened as he stepped forward to plant a kiss on Evie’s cheek. “Excellent. How?”

  “He made an appearance this morning. Perhaps we should wait until Christian and Mr. Hunter return for a full recounting. I’m certain you have questions for them as well.”

  Alex and Whit nodded.

  “If that’s settled,” Sophie commented, “I should like to find Mrs. Summers. Perhaps—”

  “The issue of your impromptu race has not been settled,” Alex interrupted in a cool tone. “It was reckless. You could have been injured.”