He let go with one arm, but kept the other holding her weight. “You’ve a bit of…” He chuckled and wiped a smear of algae from her shoulder.
She looked at it a moment, then threw her head back and laughed. “You’ve a bit of…” She wiped her finger across his algae-covered coat and held it up. “Everywhere.”
He glanced down at himself. “I do seem to have taken the worst of it.”
“No more than what you deserved.”
“For being shoved into a pond?”
“For speaking of me in a manner that required shoving.” She sniffed primly. “And for enacting an unjustified revenge.”
“Unjustified, was it?”
“And ungentlemanly,” she pointed out.
“Never said I was a gentleman.”
“You rarely say anything,” she teased.
“You speak enough for the both of us.”
“And now I’m a babbling ninny. Name-calling is no way to begin an apology, you know.”
“Evie?”
“Yes?”
“Hold your breath.”
“Hold my—?” She saw the glint in his eye just in time to gulp in air before he dunked her.
When she came up, spluttering and splashing, he was already halfway to shore.
“You’re deuced lucky I can swim,” she called out after him, pushing aside sopping hanks of hair.
“Not really,” he called over his shoulder. “Water’s no more than four feet deep.”
Which put it halfway up her neck when her feet hit the muddy bottom.
And when her feet sank into the muck, it put it nearly to her chin.
“Oh, ick.”
Thinking it might be better to swim rather than walk her way out of the pond, she tried pushing off the bottom, which only served to push her toes deeper into the pond floor.
Attempting to kick free, she discovered, only served to create enough space for mud to slide, thick and heavy, into her boots.
“Oh, damn.”
Disgusted, she twisted, jerked, paddled, and yanked, and accomplished absolutely nothing beyond further churning up the already murky water.
“Um, McAlistair?” She looked to him, and found him calmly watching her from the shore.
“Having a bit of trouble?” he inquired.
“Yes, I…” She trailed off, noticing for the first time that his tone was condescending, his hands were gripped behind his back in the manner of a man patiently waiting, and he was grinning like an utter loon. He knew. “You knew the bottom was muddy.”
“I might have noticed.”
“You knew I’d be stuck.”
“I might have considered the possibility.”
“You…I…” A thousand ugly names and a thousand more dire threats occurred to her, but not one of them would sound anything short of ridiculous coming from a head floating in the water. She tilted her face back to avoid getting water up her nose, then sniffed with all the haughtiness and dignity she could rally, which was really none at all.
“Are you going to help me, or not?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to be self-sufficient?”
She glowered at him. Likely the impression wasn’t any more impressive than the name-calling and threats, but it made her feel a tad better.
She sniffed again, because that too made her feel better. “Very well.”
Unable to think of any other way, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and dunked herself back under.
It was impossible to see through the murk, but vision wasn’t necessary for what Evie had in mind. She intended to undo her boots and slip out of them with the hope that without her weight pushing them down, she could pull them from the mud. She ran the very real risk of losing track of them once she was free, which was the only reason she’d asked for help initially, but it was a gamble she was now willing to take. Better she go barefoot for the rest of the day than suffer McAlistair’s condescension.
It was no easy feat to unknot wet laces, but she managed to loosen the first before needing to come up for air. Straightening, she broke the surface and took another deep breath. She heard McAlistair call her name, but she ignored him and went back under.
It took three successive rounds of dunking herself, but eventually she succeeded in slipping out of one boot and pulling it free from the mud. She broke the surface for the fourth time with a triumphant, “Aha!” And came within an inch of smacking McAlistair in the chin with her boot—would have, in fact, if he hadn’t caught her wrist at the last second.
“What the devil are you doing?” he demanded.
She blinked water out of her eyes. “I should have thought that fairly obvious. I’m taking off my boots.”
He took the boot with his free hand. “You looked as if you were drowning.”
“In four feet of water?” she scoffed. “I’m not quite that short. Although it would have served you right, abandoning me to the mire, as you did. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another boot—No!” She held her hand out when he reached for her. “I can do this myself.”
“You’ve made your point.” He pushed aside her hand, wrapped an arm under her shoulders and hauled her up against him.
There was nothing else for Evie to do but slip her arms around his neck and grin at him. “And what point was that?” she inquired, eager to draw out her victory.
He hooked his other arm under her knees and carried her toward the shore. “That you’ve a clever mind.”
Not quite the same as admitting she was self-sufficient, but she’d take it. At any rate, she wasn’t capable of forming a coherent argument at present, not with his arms around her again.
Would he kiss her? she wondered as they neared the bank.
Did she want him to?
She studied his handsome face—the full lips that were too often serious, the hard jaw that was too often clenched, and those wonderful dark eyes that were quite obviously avoiding her.
He’d said she wasn’t meant for him, and—despite the fact that she’d told him she was meant for whoever she was meant for—Evie had always believed that, in truth, she hadn’t been meant for anyone. She was, and thought she’d always prefer to be, a woman of independence.
But she wasn’t so certain of that now. How could she be, when a mere touch, sometimes no more than a single look from the man, sent her heart racing?
How could she be after she had heard him laugh? The sound of it, that wondrous joyful sound, had unlocked something in her heart. And knowing she’d been the cause of that laughter—even if indirectly—had given her more pleasure than she would have ever imagined possible.
She wanted him to laugh for her again. She wanted him to look at her in the way that made her skin tingle. She wanted him to touch. She wanted him.
No, she wasn’t at all certain she hadn’t been meant for someone.
And yes, she very much wanted him to kiss her.
Just in case he was considering the possibility, she wrapped her arms a little tighter around his neck, drawing their faces closer. His hair tickled her fingers and she had a strong urge to reach up and undo the tie that restrained it. It was wet now, turning the normally rich brown to nearly black. It looked rather dashing, really, like a pirate from one of Kate’s novels. She wondered again what it would feel like to run her hands through it. And wondered if it was strange that she couldn’t stop wondering.
Her fingers twitched of their own accord. It was the smallest of movements, just a brushing along the skin of his neck, but McAlistair clearly felt it. His gaze snapped to hers and for a moment she was certain, absolutely certain, she saw her own desire reflected in his eyes.
Surely, he would kiss her.
Without looking away, he set her down, letting her feet slowly slide to the muddy shore. It seemed only a single heartbeat passed while she stood in his arms, caught in his gaze, every nerve in her body dancing.
Suddenly, his jaw tightened, and his eyes snapped away. She thought perhaps he shuddered once, but it may w
ell have been her and then he let her go.
“I’ll pack our things. Put your boot back on.” With that staggeringly unromantic comment, he handed her the boot, turned away, and headed for the blanket.
He wasn’t going to kiss her.
Because he couldn’t see her with his back turned, she indulged herself and mimed tossing the boot at his head.
I’ll pack our things? Put your boot back on? Of all the wonderful, tender things he might have said or done in that moment, that was the very best he could do?
Hurt warred with irritation. It was only natural she found the irritation easier to swallow. She walked to the grass, sat down, and shoved her foot into the soggy boot.
She didn’t need tender, romantic moments from the likes of James McAlistair, she fumed. She certainly didn’t need him to kiss her. She’d been caught up in another fantastical moment, that was all. And hadn’t she berated herself once already for being too fanciful where he was concerned?
Apparently, she’d been in need of a reminder.
She scowled at his back and decided his hair didn’t look dashing in the least. It just looked wet. Maybe even a little mucky.
She returned her attention to the laces on her boots.
Running her hands through mucky hair didn’t sound at all appealing, now that she thought on it. Likely as not, she’d get her fingers caught in a snarl.
The image of that, of getting her hand hopelessly snagged in his hair, was just absurd enough to make her smile.
“Mood passing?” McAlistair asked in an off hand manner.
She glanced at him, and found him watching her. Her instinct was to sniff primly and turn away, but she pushed it aside. He hadn’t actually done something to merit her anger. It wasn’t required that he find her attractive, after all. And who could blame him for not, she thought with a rueful look at her muddy gown. She must look an absolute fright.
Also, she’d sniffed (primly, haughtily, or otherwise) at least three times in the last half hour. A fourth would probably be overdoing it.
She concentrated on wringing the water out of her hair. “I’m not in a mood,” she said carefully, and hoped he believed it.
He raised one brow, but refrained from comment.
She shrugged at the expectant look. “Just a trifle tired. And unquestionably damp. How much farther is the cottage?”
“Another three hours, give or take.” He picked up the folded blanket. “We should be on our way.”
She wrung water from her skirts. “But we’re wet.”
“We were wet yesterday.”
“For less than an hour. You said it was three yet to the cottage.” She looked at the horses. “It hardly seems fair, to weigh them down unnecessarily.”
“It’s water, not rock,” he pointed out, packing the blanket into one of the saddlebags. “I suspect they’ll manage.”
“I don’t know that I will.” The chafing alone—
“If you’d rather wait a bit, we can.”
She opened her mouth to agree, then shut it again, realizing that doing so meant sitting next to McAlistair, feeling embarrassed—and embarrassingly needy—for the next half hour. It would be unbearably awkward.
“I…” She struggled to come up with a creative alternative. “I think…I think I’d like a small walk.”
“A walk,” he repeated, and really, who could blame him? As creative alternatives went, it was undeniably lame.
“Just,” she waved her hand a little at the edge of the pond, “up and down a little. The movement will help dry out my gown.” It seemed a reasonable assumption, at any rate.
McAlistair gave a minuscule shrug—which annoyed her to no end—and took a seat on the ground. “Suit yourself.”
Sixteen
As Evie began her little stroll along the edge of the pond, McAlistair let out a long, quiet breath.
He was not quite as unaffected as he would have led Evie to believe. In truth, his heart and mind were racing—had been racing, since the moment he’d surfaced from the pond, a struggling Evie in his arms, and heard the sound of his own laughter.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. He honestly couldn’t recall when he had stopped finding joy in his life. It had been well before he’d arrived at Haldon, he knew that much. He could remember, clearly, pretending to laugh years ago at clubs and dinners, but that had been a means to an end.
For too long, everything he did and said had been a means to someone’s end, literally, which was, of course, the very reason he’d stopped laughing.
He looked to Evie and found her carefully nudging something brown and mushy-looking with her toe. Rotted wood, he imagined, or a glob of beached pondweed. She was no doubt disgusted and no doubt too curious to turn away. He smiled at the picture she made, walking along the bank in the sun—wet, bedraggled, and beautiful.
He’d smiled a great deal these last two days, more than he generally did in a year—a very good year. But he hadn’t realized how close he’d come to being happy until he’d laughed. The sound of it had stunned him. The idea of it still amazed him.
She’d made him laugh. She’d made him forget his shadowy past, his ambiguous future, and simply enjoy the pleasure of holding a dripping, sputtering, laughing woman in his arms.
He’d enjoyed it far too much.
He’d nearly kissed her when they had reached the bank. She’d been so close, so soft, so damnably tempting, he’d imagined indulging in more than just a kiss. He’d imagined laying her down, where the water lapped the edge of land, and peeling off her wet clothes to discover the soft curves he’d dreamed of a thousand times. He’d ached to taste, feel, and touch, to cover her soft form with his own, and forget himself completely.
Forget who he was, where they were, and what was after them.
A selfish act and a foolish mistake—that’s what it would have been. Bad enough he should overlook the danger she was in for a few moments in the pond, much worse that he’d remembered and still been tempted to overlook it for another hour or two.
Though it had nearly destroyed him, he’d set Evie aside and turned away.
She hadn’t been too pleased with his decision. Perhaps he was a little out of practice when it came to reading the moods of women—he certainly hadn’t seen that little dip in the pond coming—but he knew desire when he saw it, and he knew wounded pride and disappointment when they were staring him in the face.
He rolled his shoulders. It stung him to injure Evie’s feelings, but it couldn’t be helped. She was an innocent. She hardly knew what she asked for, surely didn’t realize of whom she was asking it. She knew too little, and perhaps he knew too much.
What he’d done was for the best. And she was the resilient sort—she wouldn’t let a few uncomfortable minutes sour her mood for long. By the time she was done with her little walk, she’d be smiling again. By the time they were on the horses, she’d be chattering.
In a few short hours, they would reach the cottage and she’d have Mrs. Summers to keep her company. As the only two women in the house, they would likely seclude themselves away to…well, he hadn’t the foggiest—to do whatever it was ladies did when they secluded themselves away.
It was possible he’d only see her for meals, or perhaps passing in the hall. The thought of no longer having her completely to himself tore at his heart, but not nearly as much as knowing he would one day be little more to her than a memory of passing adventure and flirtation. And that tore less than knowing that anything else would be a terrible mistake.
McAlistair was right on one score. Evie was smiling by the time she deemed her gown dry enough—and adequately brushed free of pondweed—to endure a long ride in the saddle. She wouldn’t have described herself as happy, and she hadn’t suddenly forgotten that McAlistair had chosen not to kiss her. It was simply that, in Evie’s opinion, smiling was the most advantageous of the limited options available to her.
Feigning a pleasant mood was the most expedient way to hide her inj
ured vanity. Reason told her that if McAlistair found her unattractive, he wouldn’t have already kissed her twice. But reason and vanity often existed independently of each other, and while she accepted and generally refused to dwell on the matter of her flawed countenance, it was impossible to wholly ignore the ugly scar that marred her face and the leg that was more often hindrance than help. It was similarly impossible to keep from wondering if McAlistair had kissed her not because he found her attractive, but because he pitied her.
That idea, however irrational, wounded deeply. And because it did, she searched out other excuses for his behavior.
Perhaps McAlistair had failed to kiss her for no other reason than that he hadn’t realized kissing had clearly been in order. He’d been a hermit a very long time, after all, and he’d already made it apparent he was rather out of practice when it came to reading the moods of others. Hadn’t she tossed him in the pond for that very reason? True, he’d noticed she was put out before her walk, but temper was easier to see than desire. Anger was an emotion recognized from earliest childhood.
It was a much simpler matter to smile as they rode away from the pond, once Evie took into consideration McAlistair’s lack of exposure to…well, anyone in recent years.
Chatting, however, was beyond her. She felt better, even reconciled, but not cheerful. They spent the next hour in silence, with McAlistair once again dashing off this way and that—not that he looked dashing, he was merely engaged in the act of dashing—and Evie watching the scenery.
They followed the same meandering stream until it joined a small river, and then followed the river until it emptied into a small cove of salt water. Beyond the cove, Evie could see the more turbulent waters of the North Sea and its long beaches of golden sand.
It was a picturesque scene—the pristine shore, the bright flashes of amber light from the setting sun reflecting off the waves. She stopped her horse, turned her face into the soft breeze coming off the water, and breathed in the sea air.
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