“It’ll be lovely. The weather’s cooled some, and—” She broke off when a fat raindrop hit her thigh. She scowled at it, then at the one that landed on her knee, her other knee, her wrist. “Bit of rain, that’s all. Won’t kill us. Might be nice, really, falling asleep to the sounds of the odd raindrop hitting the leaves.”
The sky opened up, simply opened up and rained down a great wall of water. The noise was instantaneous, as was Evie’s soaking—right down to the skin, as if someone had dumped a very large, very full bucket of water over her head.
McAlistair jerked his chin at the green cape, thick and dripping with water, and lifted his voice over the roar of rain. “It’s washed. Put it on.”
Ten
What little good had come from shaking out the cape was cancelled by the deluge of rain. Wet wool was never a pleasant thing to behold. Wet, ill-fitting, smelly wool moved right past unpleasant to utterly revolting.
Evie looked, felt, and no doubt smelled like a wet rodent. The inn’s stable hand seemed to think so. After being subjected to her presence, the young boy had taken the horses and scurried off with such haste that Evie wondered if he feared she’d give pursuit.
“This is humiliating,” she grumbled as they made their way under the eaves of the old building. With the rain and wind out of her eyes, she took stock of their shelter for the night.
Weathered wood, sagging roofline, and missing shutters all gave the distinct impression that whatever better days the inn might have seen were at least several decades past. At the sound of rhythmic squeaking above her, Evie stepped back and looked up to see the inn’s shingle, dangling precariously from one chain.
“The Sow and Boar,” she read aloud, squinting her eyes through the rain. That didn’t bode well, did it?
“Why this one?” she asked McAlistair over the howling wind. “We passed a much nicer inn not five minutes ago.”
“Nicer wants wedding bands. Keep your hands under the cape here,” he suggested. “Just in case.”
“Ah.” She pulled her hands inside. “Right.”
An inn catering to the well-heeled wasn’t likely to sully its reputation by allowing a man and woman who were not husband and wife to take a room. She and McAlistair might be tossed out on their respective ears if they tried it.
McAlistair tugged the hood farther over her face. “And keep quiet.”
The first bolt of lightning lanced through the sky as they pushed through the heavy front door, and the chasing roll of thunder sounded as McAlistair closed the door behind them.
She was relieved to find the interior at least marginally more maintained than the exterior. The furnishings were as old and scarred as the floor beneath their feet—which, she couldn’t help noticing, sloped heavily to the left—but someone seemed to have taken a broom and duster to them in the last year, and there was a not altogether unpleasant smell of candle wax and hot food in the air. Then again, a fresh pile of horse manure might seem an improvement at the moment.
She dearly wanted to get out of the wretched cape.
McAlistair procured a room with a minimum of fuss. Though the squat, balding man who introduced himself as the innkeeper made several poorly concealed attempts at sneaking a peak under her hood, he appeared more curious than concerned. And when that curiosity led him to lean just a bit closer, he received little more for the effort than a great waft of wet, stinking wool.
Nose wrinkled, he jerked back. “Top of the stairs, second door on the right. Fire going already to dry your things. Would…er…would the missus care for a hot bath?”
“Oh, yes—”
“A basin of water will do.”
She scowled at McAlistair, for all the good it did her. The innkeeper wasn’t the only one who couldn’t see through her hood. Still, it made her feel a touch better to make a face at McAlistair’s back as he led them upstairs.
The room was small and sparsely furnished, with only a table and two chairs, a changing screen, and a bed, but it was clean, dry, and came with a cheerful fire blazing in the hearth. She felt her spirits lifting.
She tore the cape off the moment the door closed and, fearing the odor might fill the whole room, decided to fold it into a corner rather than dry it in front of the fire.
“I should have liked that bath,” she grumbled, then waved her hand dismissively before McAlistair could respond. “I know, we can’t have staff coming and going.” She grudgingly relinquished her daydream of hot water and soap and moved to warm herself in front of the fire. “Why didn’t you ask for two rooms?”
McAlistair stripped off his overcoat. “Suspicious.”
She wondered about the cleanliness of the floor, then considered whether she had the energy to drag a chair over from the table.
She took a seat on the floor. “You could have told him we were siblings.”
“More suspicious.”
“I can’t see how.”
He actually sighed a little, a fact she found both gratifying—gaining any sort of reaction from McAlistair was gratifying—and irritating. She didn’t think it was too much to ask for him to explain his choice of actions.
“He knows we’re lying, but assumes we’re hiding a lovers’ tryst. He’s curious but otherwise unconcerned. Should we take separate rooms—”
“He’d have to assume we’re lying for other reasons,” she finished for him. “I suppose you’re right.”
He studied her a moment before pulling off his waistcoat and tossing it in front of the fire. He hadn’t bothered with a cravat that morning, and a smooth triangle of tanned skin was visible where his dry shirt opened at the chest. Evie found herself mesmerized by the sight. That skin was smooth and tan right down to the waist, she remembered. Feeling the beginnings of a blush, she tore her eyes and thoughts away from the memory of McAlistair’s muscled chest.
“How is your leg?” he asked.
“I…fine, thank you.”
His dark eyes searched her face. “Does it pain you?”
“I am a bit sore,” she admitted, accepting that another conversation about her infernal leg couldn’t be avoided. “But not unbearably so.”
A line formed across his brow. “You’re certain—”
“I’m quite fine, I assure you. A hot bath would have helped, but a decent night’s sleep will no doubt be sufficient.”
He nodded and reached for the leather tie holding his hair. “You’ll want dinner first.”
If it hadn’t been for the mention of food, Evie was certain she would have sighed at the sight of McAlistair’s thick hair falling forward to brush his shoulders, then sighed again when he swept it back and retied it. But even her peculiar fascination with McAlistair’s locks couldn’t compete with the promise of a real meal.
“Oh, yes, please,” she breathed. “I know it’s early, but—”
“I’ll see to it.”
Though she could have comfortably fallen asleep fully dressed right there on the floor, she gathered the energy to bend over and begin untying her boots. “Thank you.”
“When I knock, stand behind the screen.”
She straightened back up. “Behind the screen? Whatever for?”
“They have to bring in the tray.”
“This is absurd—”
“The screen or the cape. Your choice.”
She was too tired and too hungry to argue. “I’ll take the screen.”
Though she felt a fool, Evie moved to hide behind the wooden screen when the knock sounded at the door twenty minutes later. She debated for a moment as to whether a response was required, then shrugged and called for the group to enter.
A moderate commotion followed—furniture scraped, plates rattled. She heard something actually clang—which confused her—and someone muttered a mild oath. There had to be nearly half a dozen pairs of feet shuffling about, Evie realized, barely resisting the urge to peek. Why the devil would it take half a dozen people to haul up a dinner tray?
“Shall we put it behind the screen,
sir?” someone asked in a strained voice.
“No. In front of the fire.”
“And the screen, sir?” someone else asked. “Shall I move it?”
As she couldn’t see properly, she could only assume McAlistair shook his head at the man. And why wouldn’t he? Who ate behind a screen in a private room? She heard the distinct jingling of coins, the retreating shuffle of feet, and then the creak of the door before it closed.
“You can come out.”
“It was hardly necessary for me to hide to begin with. What in the world was that—” She broke off as she stepped around the screen and saw a very small tub set before the fire. It was already filled almost half full of water hot enough to let off steam. A small stack of drying cloths and a fresh bar of soap sat beside it.
“A hot bath,” she breathed, and turned to find McAlistair sitting at the small table now piled high with platters of food. “And a hot dinner.”
He stood and moved to fold the screen and place it in front of the tub. “Better if it were one at a time, but this limited intrusions. Which do you want first?”
“First?” She looked from the tub to the table to the tub again. She felt almost lightheaded with anticipation. “I don’t know.”
“The bath, then,” he suggested. “Before it grows cold.”
“Yes…of course…um…” She eyed the food, unable to recall a time she’d felt so torn. “Perhaps…” A wonderful idea occurred to her. She lifted a lid off one of the platters to discover thick slices of lamb. Stabbing one piece onto the end of a fork, she lifted it to her mouth for a bite. “Both.”
“Both? You want to eat in the tub?”
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Despite the fact that it was, she took her slice of lamb with her behind the screen. It took some doing, undressing with only one hand, but she succeeded after a time and soon slid into the warm water. The tub was small, and the lamb something less than skillfully prepared, but the combination after two days of hard riding was nothing short of wonderful. She groaned in pleasure.
She ought to feel uncomfortable, she mused, sitting naked in a tub not four feet from McAlistair with only a thin screen between them, but she just couldn’t rouse the energy for it.
“This was a marvelous idea, McAlistair.” She spoke around a mouthful of food. “And most thoughtful of you. Thank you very much.”
There was a long pause before he answered. “You’re welcome.”
McAlistair stared at the screen. He couldn’t pull his eyes away. He couldn’t stop his imagination from dwelling on what was behind that thin barrier of wood—
Evie. Naked, and wet.
Through a tremendous act of will, he’d managed not to think of her undressing, concentrating instead on washing with the soap and basin of hot water he’d procured for himself. And he’d succeeded in ignoring that first soft splash of water when she’d slipped into the tub, studiously turning his attention to his meal.
But then she’d groaned—that low, soft sound of pleasure—and his mind had been wiped clean of everything but Evie.
Naked and wet.
It would be such an easy thing to stand up and walk around that screen.
She’d been so open, so willing, so responsive the night before. He’d have little trouble convincing her to let him join her now.
Because the idea was too tempting by half, he rose from the table quickly enough to scrape the chair legs against the floor. “You need something dry to wear.”
The tub water swished, and he nearly groaned himself. He could just see how it would lap against her pale skin, and brush the edges of all that soft brown hair. She’d be smiling, gleaming—
“Beg your pardon?” she called out.
He actually had to clear his throat. He couldn’t remember a time since he’d been a green boy that he’d actually had to clear his throat to speak around desire. “I’ll be back soon.”
But not, he decided, too soon.
Evie had scrubbed herself clean, dried herself off, and was trying to decide whether McAlistair’s extended absence meant he hadn’t been able to secure clean clothes and she should therefore reclaim her dirty ones, when he finally let himself back into the room.
She peeked around the screen, a large drying cloth wrapped tightly about her. “Where did you go?”
Keeping his eyes trained somewhere over her shoulder, he handed her a simple night rail and wrap. “To find you these. From the innkeeper’s wife.”
“Oh, thank heavens.” She took the offered clothing. “You were gone a very long time.”
“I waited in the hall.” His tone was flat, but there was a hint of color to his cheeks.
Evie assumed it was from the heat of the room. “The hall? Whatever for?”
“To give you some privacy.”
“Oh. That was very kind, I’m sure, but unnecessary. The screen was sufficient.” She glanced at the table. “And now you’ve a cold meal and bath.”
“The basin will do.”
“But—”
“I ate some before I left.”
“Oh, well, but still—”
“Get dressed, Evie.”
She wondered at the gruff demand, before attributing it to exhaustion. Slipping behind the screen once more, she pulled on the night rail and wrap. They were a far cry from being a perfect fit—the sleeves ended well past her fingertips, the hems of both dragged on the floor, and the wrap was wide enough to cover her twice over—but they were clean and soft, and she was grateful for them. She could cinch the wrap tight with the tie, and she could roll up the sleeves. The extra length, however, required her to bunch up the material and carry it over her arm.
McAlistair was sitting at the table when she emerged. He lifted an eyebrow at the spectacle she made. “You look as if you’ve been swallowed whole.”
“Feel a bit like it, as well. It’s lovely.” She took a seat across from him at the table, rubbing her sore leg a little without realizing it.
His eyes caught the movement. “Better?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, much.”
He nodded, and though she’d have been happy to do it for herself, he filled a plate for her. “Your injury’s from a carriage accident?”
He asked the question casually, but it jarred her nonetheless. She wasn’t used to probing questions about her leg or scar, casual or otherwise. “I…yes, it is.”
“You needn’t speak of it, if it bothers you.”
It didn’t bother her, exactly. Snide remarks or being treated like an invalid, that bothered her, but she would feel perfectly comfortable relating the story of the accident that caused those injuries…reasonably comfortable…probably. How was she to know? It had been ages since anyone had asked it of her.
“There’s very little to tell, really,” she began, taking the plate he offered. “We were returning from a birthday celebration at our neighbor’s. It was dark, and the carriage veered off the road and slid into a tree.”
“Veered off,” he repeated. “Was it the weather?”
“No.” She thought of her father’s slurred voice, booming over her head as he whipped the horses to go faster, faster, and felt a hint of color rise to her cheeks. Perhaps there was a piece of the tale she was less than comfortable sharing. She reached for the teapot on the table. “Would you care for some?”
He shook his head. “Was the driver new? Unfamiliar with the road?”
She set the teapot down. “No.”
“One doesn’t just veer off—”
She twisted her fingers in her lap, then picked up the pot again and poured herself a cup. “He’d been drinking.”
“I hope your father took a horsewhip to him.” His face hardened as he spoke, and Evie had the passing thought that he was growing easier and easier to read.
With what she hoped was an air of nonchalance, she added two spoonfuls of sugar. “Difficult, as my father had been the one driving.” There, she’d said it. “He was killed.”
His expression softened instantly. �
��I’m sorry.”
I’m not. The thought came unbidden, and though there was a moment’s instinctive guilt that followed, Evie pushed it aside. She wasn’t particularly sorry her father was dead; she was only sorry he hadn’t been the sort of man she could grieve over. If that made her a terrible person, so be it.
She shrugged by way of answering McAlistair and poured a dollop of cream into her tea. “It was a long time ago.”
And not nearly long enough, came the next unwelcome thought. Better he’d driven himself off the road years earlier.
“Do you miss him?”
“Not for a second.” The spoon she’d been using to carefully stir her tea fell to the table with a clatter. “I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Did you mean it?”
“I…” Her eyes fell on her cup. “I’m not even thirsty.”
He nudged her plate with a finger. “Eat.”
Hunger had disappeared as well. But the urge to talk, to tell the part of the story she’d kept from everyone save Lady Thurston, was overwhelming. She swallowed hard and bunched her hands in her lap. “He insisted on driving. He made such a fuss in the drive and likely embarrassed my mother. I remember he was fond of that—shaming her in front of others. One of the ways he kept her cowed.” She frowned at the scarred table. “One of many. I shouldn’t have said I didn’t miss him.” She swallowed hard. “But I meant it.”
“Why should you miss him?” McAlistair asked. “Or lie and say you have?”
“He was my father.”
“He was an ass.” With that matter-of-fact pronouncement, McAlistair picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating.
“He—” She blinked, and then, to her astonishment, felt the corners of her mouth twitch with humor. “Yes, he was. That’s exactly what he was. Nothing more than a habitually drunk ass.”
He cut off a piece of lamb. “An inebriated ass.”
Mcalistairs Fortune Page 10
