Mcalistairs Fortune

by Alissa Johnson

  “I’ll take that to mean you don’t know.”

  She stepped in and eyed the closest bench warily. It would be humiliating indeed if she were to end up with splinters in her backside. But as McAlistair was watching and waiting, there was nothing else to be done but bunch her skirts up a bit and take a seat.

  “Comfortable?” he asked, tilting the boat some as he stepped in and took his seat.

  There was already an inch of cold water in the bottom, seeping through her half boots. “Quite. You?”

  He nodded and used an oar to push them off the beach.

  Evie’s heart gave a small leap of excitement as she felt the bottom of the boat scrape away from the shore.

  This was nothing like rowing about on a lake. The water there was always still, always placid. Rowing with any strength and skill would send a boat gliding over the lake in a seamless line.

  But here on the sea, there was endless movement. Gentle waves rolled up to lick at the wood and send their little boat rocking. And rather than cutting smoothly through the water, the boat seemed to struggle through each wave, the oars battling against the tide that would push them back to shore.

  Evie estimated that it took them almost thirty minutes to make it a full ninety yards from the beach. From there, McAlistair turned the boat and began a course parallel to the shore.

  Though just that morning she had imagined sailing off into deep waters, Evie was forced to admit that, given the condition of their little boat, staying within sight of land was a wise decision. She didn’t fancy a half-mile swim back to shore.

  “What do you make of your first trip to the sea?” McAlistair asked after a time.

  “Oh, I’ve been to the sea before,” she explained. “I’ve even been in it—well, my feet have—I’ve just never been on the sea before.”

  “Ah. Well, what do you make of being on the sea?”

  She studied his appearance, noting the fine sheen of sweat that had appeared on his brow and forearms. “It appears to take a considerable amount of work.”

  “Takes some,” he agreed.

  “May I give it a go?”

  He gave her a dubious look.

  “I’ve rowed a boat before, McAlistair. We’ve a pair of them on the pond at Haldon.”

  “I know,” he replied, but made no move to hand over the oars.

  She tilted her head at him. “Are you afraid of how it might look, letting yourself be rowed about by a woman?”

  He thought about it. “Yes.”

  “Male vanity,” she muttered. “I should have known you hadn’t gone uninfected.”

  “I believe you mean unaffected.”

  “No, I really don’t.” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Move over, then. I promise not to tell a soul.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then I promise to tell every soul who will listen that I rowed the whole of the day at your insistence.”

  An eyebrow arched up. “You would lie to get your way?”

  “I’d have to, now, wouldn’t I? I just promised.” She smirked and waved her hand at him again.

  Though she was certain he knew her threat had been made in jest, McAlistair nonetheless acquiesced. He set down the oars and stood to take hold of her waist to help her balance. He pulled her close as they shuffled past each other, and the heat of his hands and the nearness of his form sent a shiver of pleasure along her skin.

  If she hadn’t been afraid of tipping them both out of the boat, she might have drawn the moment out.

  Stifling a sigh of longing, she took her seat, waited for him to do the same, then began a leisurely row up the coast. Leisurely in pace, if not in effort. Forcing the oars through the churning waters was far more difficult than McAlistair had made it look, and it hadn’t looked particularly easy to start. Her arms began aching within minutes. It would be well worth the struggle, she told herself, to be able to say she had not only been rowed about on the sea, but that she’d rowed herself about on the sea.

  Enjoying herself and her idea, she smiled despite the strain. And despite the patronizing look on McAlistair’s face.

  “Do you expect me to give up so soon?” she asked, leaning back into the next stroke.

  “Not for a few minutes yet.”

  “O, ye of little faith.”

  He smiled and made a show of stretching out his legs before him, as if settling in for a show. “Think you can row us back to shore?”

  “Certainly, I could.” She wouldn’t make it halfway. “But I’m not ready to go back. We’ve only just come out.”

  “Nearing two hours now,” he informed her. “And the longer you wait, the less energy you’ll have for the trip.”

  “I’ll rest a bit before the attempt.”

  “It won’t—”

  “If we stay out here long enough, you won’t have to cook lunch.”

  He stopped arguing.

  They spent the whole morning in the little boat, rowing up and down the shore, trading seats whenever one grew tired. Well, whenever Evie grew tired—McAlistair seemed never to run out of energy. Away from the others, he once again became the less reticent man he’d been on their trip. He spoke a little of his family, and she was surprised to learn he had kept in contact with them during his time as a hermit, with Whit bringing mail to and from the woods. She discovered he’d had a fear of storms as a very small child, and a revolting—in Evie’s opinion—fascination with insects as an older boy. He even hinted at his time as a soldier, but as he did so only with prodding and seemed to grow quiet afterward, Evie didn’t push the subject. She dearly wished to know everything about him, but she needn’t learn it all today. Today was for pleasure—for sun and smiles and laughter. She managed to draw the latter out of him. Only because she accidentally dropped an oar in the water and in her eagerness to retrieve it nearly fell overboard herself, but it was still laughter, and it warmed her heart no less than the first time she had heard it.

  They stayed out for another half hour after that, before McAlistair insisted on rowing back to shore. It was well past noon, and they couldn’t remain in their little boat forever, he maintained. A shame, to Evie’s mind. She found she liked being on the water.

  She found she liked having McAlistair as captive company even more.

  But there was no arguing with him, and all too soon he had escorted her up the back lawn and into the house, where they parted ways. He headed for the kitchen, the poor devil, while she dragged herself to her room. Her arms ached terribly, but a hot soak would likely ease the worst of it.

  She imagined hauling up the tub and water.

  Perhaps she’d just curl up in the comfortable-looking chair by the window and read for a bit.

  Then perhaps she would see about visiting McAlistair in the kitchen.

  She fell asleep in her chair and woke several hours later to a stiff neck and a loud rapping, followed by the creak of her bedroom door.

  “Evie?” Mrs. Summers stuck her head into the room. “Evie, it is time for dinner.”

  “Dinner?” She blinked the sleep from her eyes and turned to the window. “But it’s light out yet.”

  “Yes, well, Mr. McAlistair appears to be accustomed to eating at an earlier hour.”

  “He is?” He was? Bloody hell, why hadn’t she learned that today? “But I—”…wanted to not dare him into kissing me again. She snapped her mouth shut.

  “Would you prefer a plate set aside for later?” Mrs. Summers inquired.

  Evie shook her head, and stood. “No, thank you. I am rather hungry.” Just not quite as hungry as she was disappointed. “I’ll be down momentarily.”

  By the time Evie had shaken out the more unsightly wrinkles from her dress, pinned her hair back up, and made her way to the dining room, dinner had already been served and a plate fixed and waiting for her. The meat looked to be some sort of fowl, but it was impossible to ask McAlistair which sort, as he was notably absent from the room.

  “Won’t Mr. McAlistair be
joining us?” she asked Mrs. Summers as she took her seat.

  “He will. He has gone to the kitchen for the rolls.”

  “Oh, I’m not terribly late, then.”

  Christian smiled at her. “Not late at all. We’ve only just sat down.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it.” She scooped up a forkful of peas to her mouth, hesitated, and glanced about the table. Only just sat down? They hadn’t yet begun eating?

  Considering the last few meals prepared at the cottage, perhaps it would be best if she let someone else brave the first bite. Not that she hadn’t faith in McAlistair’s ability as a cook—she did. She’d eaten what he’d prepared in the woods, after all, and suffered no ill effects. But then, he hadn’t had access to spices or butter, had he? A person could do a great deal of harm to a meal with injudicious applications of spices and butter.

  She looked to Mrs. Summers, who, unfortunately, seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Her fork was raised no more than an inch above her plate, and her gaze was fixed squarely on Evie.

  Evie’s gaze jumped to Christian, who was poking at his food while simultaneously stealing glances in her direction, and Mr. Hunter hadn’t bothered picking up a utensil at all. He sat watching her, a slightly amused smile on his face.

  Bloody hell, they were all waiting for her.

  She set the fork down. “Perhaps we should wait for McAlistair.”

  “Does seem rude to begin without him,” Mrs. Summers was quick to agree, almost as quick as she was to set down her own fork.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence, made more awkward by McAlistair’s return with the rolls. Apparently unaware, or merely unconcerned, with the unnatural stillness in the room, he set down the rolls, took his seat and proceeded to eat.

  When he showed no immediate signs of illness, Evie sampled a piece of the fowl.

  It tasted like…tasted like…she stopped chewing. It didn’t taste like anything but meat. It hardly tasted like anything at all. There was no flavor to it. Not a hint. Not even a suggestion of a hint. It was as bland as the meat he’d cooked in the woods.

  Granted, that was preferable to the meat she’d cooked last night, but couldn’t he have added something? Anything? Fish and snake cooked in the woods on a cross-country journey could at least claim to be flavored with adventure. Even that was something.

  She looked to the others at the table and found Mrs. Summers frowning thoughtfully at her plate, Mr. Hunter looking expectantly at McAlistair, and Christian, not surprisingly, halfway through his meal.

  McAlistair glanced up from his plate and must have noticed that only he and Christian were eating, because he asked, “Something the matter?”

  Evie and Mrs. Summers shook their heads in unison, while Christian grunted and shoveled in another mouthful.

  Mr. Hunter threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Devil take it, man, what did you do to it?”

  Unoffended, McAlistair scooped up another bite. “Nothing.”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Hunter stabbed a finger at him. “There’s not a thing on this, is there? Not a pinch of salt, a dash of thyme, even a grain of pepper. You said you could cook.”

  McAlistair smiled a little around his mouthful. “It’s cooked.”

  “Insofar as it’s not raw, yes.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Summers murmured. “This won’t do.”

  “I could give it another go,” Evie offered, eager to take the focus off of McAlistair’s failure. “Something simpler—”

  “No.”

  The rejection may have stung a bit less if it hadn’t been uttered, loudly, by everyone at the table. She sniffed and set down her fork. “Very well, has anyone a better idea?”

  McAlistair calmly cut off another piece of meat. “Mr. Hunter’s turn.”

  She saw it then, the sly amusement in his eyes. She’d known he found their reaction to his meal to be amusing, but it was the quick flash of smug victory that told her it was sly amusement, which was an entirely different animal. He’d expected, even planned for his meal to be a failure.

  Delighted with the trick, with him, she picked up her napkin to hide her smile.

  Mrs. Summers cleared her throat delicately. “Can you cook well, Mr. Hunter?”

  Mr. Hunter kept his eyes narrowed on McAlistair. “It appears we’ll find out.”

  Twenty-three

  Unlike Evie’s offering from the night before, McAlistair’s meal was easily salvaged by a quick trip to the kitchen for salt and pepper. Evie wouldn’t have gone so far as to call the end result savory, but it was edible, even by the standards of Mrs. Summers, who after days of barely eating, managed to clear more than half her plate.

  After a spot of confusion over whose responsibility it now was to see to the dishes—settled by Christian’s entertaining, and ultimately ill-fated (for him) suggestion of drawing straws—Evie accepted Mr. Hunter’s offer of a game of chess. She rather hoped McAlistair would join them in the library, but he declined, citing a need to see to the horses.

  Evie stifled a pang of disappointment. It was a perfectly valid excuse, she told herself, and feeding and watering a handful of horses was hardly a chore that required an entire evening to accomplish. Surely, McAlistair would join them eventually. In the meantime, she had Mr. Hunter to keep her company. Generally, Evie didn’t relish the company of men she barely knew, particularly uncommonly handsome men like Mr. Hunter. Though she knew it to be irrational, she couldn’t help but look at such a man and be reminded that while she was looking at near physical perfection…he was not.

  But to her delight, she found Mr. Hunter to be—if one was willing to set aside the fact that he’d suggested she be used as bait—a man rather easy to grow comfortable with. He was exceedingly charming, and though there was a glibness and polish to him she didn’t entirely trust, she found her stammering easing in the face of his good humor and friendly manner.

  To her further enjoyment, she discovered his assessment of his chess skills hadn’t been entirely off the mark. She wasn’t yet willing to acknowledge his claim to being the very best, but she would grant, and appreciate, that he was a challenging opponent. Further to recommend him was his obvious appreciation of her own skills.

  On the last of occasion of playing one of Kate’s admirers, Evie’s opponent had made a flustered—not to mention transparent—excuse to quit the game when it became obvious he would lose. Women, apparently, were not supposed to be accomplished at games of strategy.

  Mr. Hunter, on the other hand, seemed not to mind the possibility—the very real possibility—of defeat.

  He frowned thoughtfully when she took one of his bishops. “Does all your family enjoy chess?”

  She watched him put his other bishop into a more secure position. “Yes, though Kate and I are the most evenly matched.”

  “And how is Lady Kate?” he inquired.

  Evie was careful not to smile at the topic she was most interested in discussing with Mr. Hunter. “She was quite well the last I sp-spoke with her.”

  “And her maid…Lizzy, isn’t it?” He waited for her nod before continuing. “How is it she was at Haldon rather than with her mistress?”

  She pushed one of her pawns forward. “Lizzy is my lady’s maid as well as Kate’s.”

  “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

  It was more unusual that he should ask after a lady’s maid at all, but Evie couldn’t see the benefit of mentioning it. “For women of our rank, you mean?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “And I suppose it is,” she replied. “Lady Thurston attempted to p-persuade us at one time to take on another young woman, but neither of us was willing to give up Lizzy for someone new.”

  He brought out his queen. “She’s very good at what she does, then.”

  Evie thought about that. “Not particularly,” she decided, and smiled at his surprised expression. “But we love her dearly.”

  “And Lady Kate? Does she feel the same?”

  “Very muc
h so.” She chose her next words carefully. “I’m surprised you’ve not asked her for yourself.”

  “I would, if she’d sit still long enough for me to attempt conversation.” He tapped his finger on the table idly. “She seems to be in a hurry every time we meet.”

  In a great hurry, Evie knew, to distance herself from a man who flustered her. Evie didn’t doubt for a second that Mr. Hunter was aware of Kate’s reaction to him, or that he took some pleasure from it. She’d watched the interplay between the two more than once, and she hadn’t missed the amused gleam in his eyes. Nor had she missed the desire.

  “Are you in love with my cousin?” She shouldn’t have asked, or at least should have found a way to ask with a modicum of tact, but the words were out of her mouth before she’d realized she meant to say them.

  Mr. Hunter didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Whit? That would certainly be ill-advised.”

  Evie laughed with a mixture of humor and relief that he hadn’t derided her for her rudeness. “Yes, it would. Mirabelle would have your head.”

  “The countess is too generous a soul for that and too confident in Whit’s affection. She’d pity me, and I can’t abide being pitied.” He gave her a sorrowful expression. “Do say you’ll keep my desperate secret?”

  “The Coles never make a promise they can’t keep.” She fingered the top of a bishop before changing her mind and pushing forward another pawn. “I was referring to Kate.”

  “Were you really? Imagine that.”

  “Are you going to answer the question?”

  He looked directly at her. “I am not in love with Lady Kate.”

  She studied his face, expecting to detect some sign of discomfort, an indication that he was hiding something, but his expression gave nothing away.

  “You may be just a g-good liar,” she said.

  “I take offense to that. I am an exceptional liar.” He waited until she stopped laughing to continue. “But as it happens, I speak the truth at present. I don’t believe in love. Not the sort you’re referring to.”

  “Have you ever believed in love?”