Mcalistairs Fortune

by Alissa Johnson

  Without the strength to move there was nothing she could do but let him continue his delicate exploration, until she thought she might go mad for wanting more.

  He meant to sample, nothing more.

  That was what McAlistair had told himself when he’d made the bet and what he swore even as he’d taken Evie’s hands in his and bent his head to find her mouth. But after that first taste, that first intoxicating taste that was uniquely Evie, he was forced to admit what part of him had known all along: it was a promise he might not be able to keep.

  Just the hint of her, that slightest meeting of lips, had the blood pounding in his veins and need clawing at his skin. Erotic images whirled dangerously through his mind: his hands in her hair, on her waist, under her skirt. Evie’s hands on his face, on his back, on his skin.

  Restraining her hadn’t been the act of a man intent on lording power over a woman. It had been the act of a man who feared the power that woman had over him. A single brush of her fingers would be enough, more than enough, to snap his control. And he was furiously determined to retain what small amount he could still claim.

  Just one more taste, one more sample, and he would force himself to stop.

  Her tongue brushed his. It was just the tip, darting out in a gesture both hesitant and bold, but it was sufficient to make his blood boil and his need roar until he heard nothing else.

  Chasing the need was fear.

  He snapped himself back, gripping her shoulders as if he could hold or perhaps push her away. Later, he would realize it was a senseless gesture, as she was not only sitting, but sitting perfectly still. For now, however, it seemed absolutely necessary to keep her at arm’s length.

  “Enough.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded strained.

  Evie blinked her eyes open slowly.

  Enough? How could it possibly be enough?

  There was more, wasn’t there? she wondered, as her mind floated several inches above her head. Yes, of course there was more. She’d heard prostitutes speak of that more in very explicit terms. Those terms had sounded a little unreasonable to her at the time, but just now, she thought they sounded rather…interesting.

  “Don’t you want more?”

  The moment the words were out of her mouth, her mind came crashing back to leave her stunned and reeling. “I don’t…I c-can’t…” She bit the end of her tongue. “I can’t believe I said that.” Even if she was terribly keen to hear his answer. It simply wasn’t something a lady said. Worse, it came perilously close to begging.

  McAlistair released her arms and stood, and the sudden distance left her feeling cold despite the warm night air. She searched for something to say, anything to break a silence she felt becoming increasingly awkward, but he turned away and walked a few feet to their supplies before anything appropriate came to mind.

  Evie stood to watch him. She could have watched just as easily while sitting, but it added another layer of discomfort, to be on the ground like something discarded whilst he was up and about.

  McAlistair grabbed the thicker blanket and brought it to her.

  Instinctively, she stretched out her hand to take it. “I thought I’d lost the better blanket,” she said softly.

  “No, you lost the chance to choose. Go to sleep.”

  Just like that? After what they’d done, what she’d felt? Have a blanket and go to sleep? She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “If you’re angry—”

  “I’m not angry,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “Well then, if you’re—”

  “I’m not.”

  The lump turned into one of annoyance. “How can—”

  “Let it alone, Evie.”

  She blew out an irritated breath. “For a man who speaks little, you interrupt a great deal.”

  “For an intelligent woman, you require a great deal of interrupting.”

  She gaped at him. “Are you…are you being snippy?”

  His only response was a growl before he turned and stalked off into the woods.

  It was a simple matter for McAlistair to move through the dark. It was his element, his milieu, and he’d had years to hone his skills. He could move easily and silently through the trees and underbrush without disturbing a single twig.

  He just wasn’t doing it right now.

  In fact, he was, he could admit, stomping just a little. It couldn’t be helped. Speed was of the essence. There was a stream nearby, and with any luck, it would be frigid. He planned on dunking his head in it.

  What the devil was wrong with him? What the hell had he been thinking, kissing Evie Cole again?

  That was the crux of the problem, of course—he hadn’t been thinking.

  He scowled at his faulty reasoning. No, he had been thinking plenty—of holding her, tasting her, loving her. He’d thought of little else for years. The trouble was, imagining what it would be like to make love to Evie Cole while he’d been in the woods, alone, was very different from imagining what it would be like while they were in the woods, alone together. Now the temptation was very real.

  He’d known it would be. The moment he’d led her into the woods without the others, he knew they’d be spending days with only each other for company, but he’d been sure he could resist. He’d had confidence in his self-control.

  Bloody fool.

  He hadn’t been able to resist her for more than ten seconds the first time she’d been within grabbing distance. What had made him think he could manage it after a full day of trying, and failing, not to look at the pale skin of her bare legs, the way her body moved with the rhythm of her horse, and the way her light brown hair slipped from its pins to be tousled by the breeze? Why the devil had he thought he could resist her while they sat alone under the moonlight, her face kissed by the glow of the fire and her warm laughter floating on the dark air?

  It was the laughter that did it. That low, almost husky sound of pleasure had been his initial introduction to Miss Evie Cole. He’d heard it his first week as the Hermit of Haldon Hall, drifting up through the trees from the back lawn. It had had the strangest effect on him. He’d been sitting there, staring at the small stream that ran through the woods, alternating somewhere between blissfully numb and dangerously on edge. Without a mission to accomplish, with nothing else to occupy his mind, his thoughts had turned to the life he’d waited too long to leave behind and the bleak future that lay ahead.

  He had felt hollowed out, burned to his very core.

  And then he’d heard her.

  He would never be able to say why it was her laugh and no one else’s that affected him so strongly. Why her voice had felt like a balm against his wounds, cooling the worst of the burn, softening the hardest edges of his memories. Perhaps because it was such a genuine sound—after years of dealing in lies, in the false, it was the sheer honesty of her delight that had moved him.

  There had been nothing artificial in it, nothing that spoke of the phony or the designed.

  There was still truth in the world, he’d realized, and it could be found in one woman’s laughter.

  He’d fallen in love with her that very day. Without seeing her, without even knowing for certain who she was, he’d fallen in love. It had been an innocent sort of love initially, the sort a lost and hungry man might develop for a woman who takes him in and enchants him with food and kindness.

  But it had been love nonetheless.

  For a time, he’d been content with that level of affection, to simply listen for and appreciate the sound of her laughter. But he was only a man, and eventually his desire to know more had led him to seek her out. Drawn by the sound of her voice, he’d made his way to the edge of the woods by the lawn one evening and caught his first glimpse of the woman who’d brought him some measure of peace.

  He knew who she was the minute he laid eyes on her. Before he’d taken up residence in the Haldon woods, Whit had given him a description of every member of the house. Small, curvy, and with a scar running the length of her cheek, the o
bject of his adoration could be none other than eighteen-year-old Miss Evie Cole.

  He’d watched her and a younger, taller girl who could only be Lady Kate Cole as they played with a pair of lop-eared puppies in the grass. He stayed no more than a quarter hour, just long enough to witness the gentle way she tussled with the pups, the affectionate way she teased her friend…and the disturbing way his body tightened when she stood up and bent over to pick up one of the puppies, showing him a clear outline of her backside.

  He’d walked back to his camp that afternoon with a love very different from the sort with which he’d walked out.

  Pity, he thought now, that it hadn’t been the fleeting sort.

  He found the stream and knelt to cool his face. It wasn’t frigid as he had hoped, but it did the job. Calmer, if not exactly comfortable, he sat back on his heels and took stock of the situation.

  He’d kissed Evie—again—and that couldn’t be undone. He doubted he would take it back even if he could. It had been heaven, and no man gave up paradise willingly, even when it was undeserved.

  A man could, however, make a better effort not to steal it.

  He’d keep his distance from her. He would remember who she was—a lady, an innocent, cousin and niece to the people he owed more than he could hope to repay. More importantly, he would remember who he was, and what he had been.

  Feeling considerably more resolute, McAlistair stood and began a walk around the perimeter of the camp. He hadn’t the least expectation of finding anything. He wouldn’t have indulged in the kiss or gone stomping through the woods if he had believed, for a moment, that anyone could have followed them without his notice.

  It wouldn’t matter if a pursuer had taken every precaution to go undetected; McAlistair would have known of the danger. He had, after all, made a fine living from ferreting out men who had done their very best to hide.

  Still, he wouldn’t be comfortable forgoing the patrol.

  Evie would no doubt consider the precaution pointless. Scowling again, McAlistair carefully pushed his way through a cluster of low-hanging branches. This notion she had of a matchmaking ruse troubled him. Not because he thought there was any truth to her theory, but because a woman certain of her safety was far more likely to take chances with her person.

  It irritated him as well that she hadn’t accepted his rejection of the theory. She had an unexpected stubborn streak.

  Bullheadedness, however, could not stand forever against reason and reality. She’d come around eventually. And likely it was best she do so in stages. It would be less traumatic for her to grow accustomed to the idea gradually, rather than to be hit over the head with it all at once. He rather doubted she was inclined toward hysterics, but one never knew.

  And he could keep her safe in the meantime.

  With that settled and his patrol completed, he turned his steps toward camp…and his mind back to the kiss.

  It occurred to him suddenly that apologizing to Evie might be the proper thing to do.

  To hell with that.

  It was enough that he had pulled away before things had gotten out of hand. He’d let the matter drop—simply pretend it hadn’t happened. It had been some time since he had been subject to the rules of gentlemanly behavior, but he was certain—well, relatively certain—that pretending the kiss had never occurred was the next best thing to apologizing for it.

  It would have to be. He wouldn’t steal paradise, but damned if he’d apologize for sneaking a glimpse.

  Left alone after McAlistair stormed off into the woods, Evie had considered staying up simply because he had ordered her to go to sleep, but in the end, she’d decided that pretending to sleep was a sight less humiliating than standing about, waiting for him to return.

  Staring up now into the thin sliver of night sky afforded in the clearing, she might have taken some pleasure in the realization that her pile of leaves, branches, and a layer of thick blanket made for a surprisingly soft bed—might have, if she hadn’t been so damnably uncomfortable.

  Her body still hummed from McAlistair’s kiss, making her hot and restless, and her mind still reeled from his sudden withdrawal.

  Why had he turned away? Why had he tossed her the blanket, then run away? She wondered where he’d gone and when he would come back.

  Perhaps she should have gone after him. Perhaps she should go after him now.

  She wondered how mortifying it would be if she tried it, slipped and fell in the dark, and had to call out for his help.

  She was weighing the benefits of getting up and pacing off her agitation around the glowing remains of the fire, when she heard the rustle of branches. Slowly (she was attempting to feign sleep, after all) she turned her head to the side. Squinting into the dark, she was able to discern the outline of McAlistair’s form as he gathered branches at the edge of the clearing.

  She turned her head back, rolled over, and shut her eyes as he made his way toward her. She wanted to ask if he was quite done being snippy, but thought better of it—particularly after he settled down behind her. He was so close she could hear his every breath. If she were to roll over, she could reach out and touch him. The urge to do just that was nearly overpowering. But even stronger was the desire for it to be him who reached.

  “Evie?” he called softly, and nearly had her jumping off the blanket.

  “Yes?” She winced at the wealth of hope in that one word.

  “It’s James. My first name is James.”

  “Oh.” Heavens, the man really was odd. “Shall I…shall I call you James?”

  “No. My father was James, as well.”

  “McAlistair, it is, then.”

  He wouldn’t reach, she realized, but at least he wasn’t angry or cold. Willing to accept that for now, she closed her eyes and let exhaustion drag her into sleep.

  Nine

  The sun had yet to break over the tops of the trees when Evie next woke. It filtered through branches and leaves to shoot long beams onto the forest floor and softly light the clearing. She blinked blurry eyes at McAlistair’s blanket, only to find him gone.

  She sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness of her leg and…well, the stiffness of everything, really. “McAlistair?”

  She was answered by the soft crunch of leaves behind her. Turning, she saw McAlistair stride out from the trees into the clearing, two fish dangling lifelessly from one hand.

  She made a futile attempt to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “Where did you get those?”

  “Stream. Caught them.”

  She saw no sign of a fishing pole or net. “With what?”

  He held up his free hand, wiggled his fingers.

  “Oh, you did not.” She laughed. He couldn’t possibly have. She watched him set his catch down next to the fire and stir the embers. “Did you?”

  A corner of his mouth hooked up. “I could show you.”

  “What, now?”

  He shook his head. “At the cottage. There’s a stream.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “No. I asked Mr. Hunter to draw a map at Haldon.”

  “Oh.” She yawned hugely. “Is it nice?”

  He glanced up. “Wasn’t a portrait. Just a sketch of surrounding towns, landmarks, buildings.”

  Of course it was. What else would it be—a rendition of every room, brick, and tree in watercolor? She grimaced. “I’m not at my best in the morning. I much prefer evenings and nights. In London—”

  She broke off, suddenly remembering last night in particular.

  That she could have forgotten, even for a moment, was a testament to just how muddled she was in the mornings.

  Good heavens, he’d kissed her. She’d kissed him back. Rich delight warred with a sudden wash of nerves. Should she say something—somehow acknowledge what had happened? Would he?

  He slapped a fish down on a large flat rock and pulled out his knife. “In London, what?”

  Apparently, he would not. “I—Nothing.”

  Disappoint
ment neatly wedged out delight. Had it been so mundane to him, that he could so easily dismiss what had passed between them? Or was it simply that what she had felt—that wonderful, nearly overpowering thrill, had not touched him as well? It was a humiliating thought, and because she didn’t care for humiliation as a rule, she pushed it aside.

  He was being a gentleman, that was all. A man of breeding would never remind a lady of what some might consider a moral lapse. Never mind the fact that a gentleman would not have kissed her to begin with; he was being one now. She should be grateful, really. It would save her from a considerable amount of awkwardness, not to mention another round of fanciful daydreams.

  He’d told her she was meant for someone else, hadn’t he? To her mind, that excuse was tantamount to a “no, thank you.” That, along with his sudden forgetfulness, told her that a few stolen kisses were all he was interested in. She would be wise to remember it.

  Pasting on an indifferent expression, she wandered forward and eyed the fish on the rock. “Whit and Alex would be monstrously impressed—”

  She broke off again and made a face as he began the cleaning process.

  He glanced up. “Haven’t you seen a fish gutted before?”

  “Oh, yes. Many times.” She kept her eyes studiously away from him and his work. “Whit and Alex often fish. Have since they were young boys.” She made another face. “Boys have a tendency to play with the bits and pieces.”

  “Left them in your bed, did they?”

  “And face the housekeeper’s wrath?” She laughed and shook her head. “They preferred chasing us about the yard with the head and…whatnot, stuck to the end of a stick.”

  “Nasty lot, little boys.” He smiled and reached for a fish. “Did you enact retribution?”

  “Tied their lines into hopeless knots,” she confirmed. She tilted her head to study him. He was practically chatty all of a sudden—asking about her family, offering to teach her to fish, initiating conversation. He was bright-eyed, alert, almost cheerful, or as cheerful as she’d ever seen him.