“Evie?” Whit set his drink down, a furrow appearing in his brow. “Chit’s been moping about the house for days.”
Pleasure warred with worry and guilt. “She happen to tell you why?”
“The girl won’t tell me anything other than that, as a member of the male species, I deserve to be slowly roasted on a thick spit over an open flame. I’d say that safely rules out any lingering distress from her trip to the coast. In fact, I’d venture to assume there’s a gentleman involved except, well, Evie’s never had a particularly high opinion of men. And she’s been with the lot of you for the last week.”
McAlistair steeled himself for the worst and met Whit’s eyes. “Yes. She has.”
Whit was too astute to miss what was not being said. His expression went from baffled to black in the space of a heartbeat. “Do I need to call you out?”
“Your choice. I want to take her as my wife.”
“That’s not what I asked you.” Whit rose from his chair. “Did you touch her?”
“Evie is a woman grown.”
“She is my cousin, unmarried, and under my care,” Whit snapped.
“And what was Mirabelle?”
Whit’s lips compressed into a thin line. McAlistair could practically hear the internal debate between defending his wife’s honor and retaining his own by telling the truth. It had to be hell on a man like Whit.
Apparently deciding that discretion really was the better part of valor, Whit sat back down, but his expression remained hard. “The fact that I may or may not be guilty of a similar transgression does not absolve you of—”
“I’m in love with her.”
It was a moment before Whit responded, and when he did, it was with a much softer and much more worried expression. “I see.”
“I’ve been in love with her for years.”
“You hardly knew her until just recently.”
“I know,” McAlistair replied with just a hint of wryness. “But I loved her.”
“I see,” Whit repeated. “And has she made her feelings known to you?”
“Yes. No.” Damn it. “In part.”
“That sounds something less than promising.”
“She said she loved me.”
Whit’s expression brightened. “Well, then—”
“Then referred to me as an arrogant, heartless arse.”
“Ah.” Whit’s lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Does create something of a problem. Any particular reason she’s put out with you?”
“I spoke of marriage.”
“Again, less than promising.”
“When I say ‘spoke,’ I mean ‘demanded.’”
“You demanded marriage?”
“More or less.” He shoved aside the urge to wince. “Mostly more.”
“Placing demands on Evie is the most likely way to ensure the least amount of cooperation. Demanding marriage from Evie is doubly—”
“I’m aware of it,” McAlistair cut in. “What I need to know is if I have leave to make things right with her.”
“Leave?”
The urge to wince now required a harder shove. “I am asking for permission to court your cousin.”
“But not to marry her?” Whit asked in a cool tone.
“I’d like to do things in the proper order this time.”
“Bit bloody late for that. The proper order now is marriage. And you’ll offer it, properly, as you put it, today.”
“She deserves a courtship—” He cut himself off as the meaning behind Whit’s words filtered through the rising temper. “You really want us to marry.”
“Have I left that in doubt?”
“I was uncertain you would agree to the match.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You love her and will treat her well, there seems to exist the possibility she loves you in return, and—” Whit’s expression caught somewhere between sympathetic and amused—“to be honest, I can’t make any promises where her treatment of you is concerned. I suspect she’ll drive you half mad at least once a week.”
A small bloom of hope settled in his chest. He tried not to let it grow. “You know what I’ve been.”
Whit nodded once. “Yes, and I know what you are now.”
“It could hurt your family, to have your cousin attached to the Hermit of Haldon Hall.”
“I don’t think so. You’re not the first man from a good family to become a hermit.”
“Name one,” McAlistair dared.
“Mr. John Harris.” Whit sat back in his chair. “He has spent the better part of the last century in a cave after his parents refused to allow him to marry the woman he loved. Brought his manservant along, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You made that up.”
Whit shook his head.
“His manservant.” The hope grew until it manifested in a smile. “Really?”
“Mr. Harris was good enough to give him his own cave.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Not if you convince Evie to marry you,” Whit said darkly. “Otherwise, yes.”
Still smiling, McAlistair nodded and rose from his chair.
“You should speak to my mother about this,” Whit added. “She’s in the parlor.”
McAlistair felt a moment of raw panic. “Lady Thurston? You want me to confess all to Lady Thurston?”
Whit made a face. “I would consider it a personal favor if you were to refrain from confessing all to my mother. She’s not one for the vapors, but that conversation just might do it.” He picked up a pen from his desk and tapped it thoughtfully. “I think she would find it touching if you sought her approval of the match.”
“Of course.” He should have thought of that himself.
Whit stopped tapping the pen to give him a pointed look. “I think Evie would as well.”
“Yes, of—” He broke off, again, and for the first time in days, actually grinned. “That’s good. That’s brilliant.”
Because she was a woman, Lady Thurston’s agreement was not considered necessary. In fact, in the eyes of society, her opinion need not be sought at all. It was just the sort of inequality Evie despised. And knowing McAlistair had given Lady Thurston the respect afforded any senior male member of a family might be just the thing to soften Evie’s heart.
He would have paid that respect, anyway—at least, he would have once Whit pointed it out—but there was no reason not to enjoy the added benefit of impressing the woman he loved.
He turned to leave again, only to be stopped short of the door.
“McAlistair?”
“What?” He was in a hurry to leave.
“If you can’t convince Evie to have you, I won’t call you out.”
“Yes, fine.”
“But I will make your life a living hell.”
“I…fair enough.”
Though the idea of speaking to Lady Thurston was, in fact, brilliant, the execution of that idea was a trifle harder to appreciate. The conversation was distinctly uncomfortable. Fortunately, it was also decidedly brief. After a moment of well-hidden, but nonetheless perceivable surprise and pleasure, she settled into the business of finances and prospects. They were topics he had ready answers for. He had ample money saved from his days in the war department. Mr. Hunter had handled his investments successfully. He planned to take Evie to his cottage while he built a modest home not far from Haldon.
She adamantly refused to hear of Evie living in the hunting cabin, but relented on her position that the two of them reside at Haldon until their new home was built. She even smiled when they reached a compromise—McAlistair would let and build a house near Benton. But her smile dimmed a little when next she spoke.
“I shall be frank, Mr. McAlistair. You are not what I would have chosen for my niece.”
He kept his gaze steady and unapologetic. “Yes, I know.”
“I had someone a bit…softer in mind. An academic or a poet.”
“I understand.” He didn’t really. Bloody hell, a soft-spoken, no
se-in-a-book, milquetoast for Evie? She’d run roughshod over him in a fortnight and leave both of them miserable. It seemed wiser, however, to say he understood than to say anything that began with “bloody hell.”
Lady Thurston sighed. “That choice, I think, would have been a mistake.”
It bloody well would have been.
She tilted her head at him. “Do you love her?”
“I’ve been in love with her for nearly eight years,” he admitted.
“Eight?” Lady Thurston gaped at him. He wouldn’t have thought her the sort of woman who gaped, but there it was. “Eight years? And you are only now getting around to doing something about it?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake.” She rose from her chair. “I shall fetch her from her room immediately. Eight years,” she breathed again as she headed toward the door. “Honestly.”
He waited for Evie with something approximating patience for twenty minutes.
Twenty excruciatingly long minutes of pacing the parlor, eyeing the decanter of brandy, picking up and studying feminine little bits and pieces in which he hadn’t the slightest interest.
Would Evie want to fill their home with such things?
“Do you have a fondness for rosebud vases, Mr. McAlistair?”
He set the vase down and turned slowly.
There she was. And there was that sweet pang he felt every time he saw her.
She was so heart-wrenchingly beautiful…and she looked so terrifyingly resolved. He could see it in the stiff posture of her small frame and the way she kept her chocolate eyes shuttered—she’d given up on him.
“Have I come too late, Evie?”
Please, God, don’t let it be too late.
Only a slight widening of the eyes told him the question had taken her aback. “Too late for what?”
“For you.”
She twisted her lips and stepped into the room. “Is this another demand of marriage?”
“No.” He forced a breath into a chest gone tight. “It is a request to court.”
He had the small pleasure of seeing her stop in her tracks. “To court?”
“If you would allow it,” he answered with a nod. “I have obtained your cousin’s approval and your aunt’s.”
“Lady Thurston?” She sat down heavily on the settee. “You asked Lady Thurston’s permission to court me?”
“Yes. If you—” He swallowed hard. “If you could find it in yourself to forgive me for my earlier…stupidity.”
Very well, it wasn’t the most eloquent of speeches, but it was effective. Her expression softened—just a little about the eyes and mouth, but it was enough to give him hope.
“McAlistair—”
She cut off when he held up his hand to plead for silence. “Before you make a decision, any decision, you should be aware of who I am. Who I was.”
“Who you were?”
He nodded and placed his hands behind his back where she couldn’t see them curl into tight fists. “You have asked me of my past, of my days as a soldier.”
“Yes,” she said with a small, careful nod.
“I…I was not a soldier, not in the traditional sense.” He cleared his throat. “I was responsible for discharging certain individuals whose immediate and silent removal was vital for the safety of our country.”
“You…” Her face scrunched up as she deciphered that convoluted—and well-rehearsed—bit of information. “You killed people?”
He could barely hear himself speak over the hard pounding of his heart. The truth now, he told himself, she deserved the truth. “I was an assassin.”
Her hand flew to her chest. “An…You…I don’t know what to say to that.”
He wanted to go to her. He had an almost painful urge to wrap his arms around her, to bind her to him long enough for the chance to explain, to plead his case. But he feared her resistance, her rejection, as strongly as he desired her touch. So he settled for walking to the door, turning the key in the lock, and dropping the key in his pocket.
She watched him with an eyebrow cocked. “Why would you do that?”
He walked back to stand before her and thought his words through before speaking.
“I have tried to keep you at arm’s length for this very reason. I warned you that I was not meant for you. You refused to listen.”
“If you were so very certain of it, why did you…” Two spots of pink rose high on her cheeks. “Why did we—”
“I am only a man. We made love because I wanted you, beyond reason. I proposed…because I love you.”
Her shock was evident, and painful to see—why hadn’t he had the courage to tell her before now?—but he pushed forward before she could speak—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say he stumbled forward. It was so damnably hard to find to find the right words.
“I…I never thought you could…” No, that wasn’t right. It hadn’t been a resistance on her part. “I thought perhaps you shouldn’t…” No, pointing out why she shouldn’t was a terrible idea. He blew out a frustrated breath and tried again. “I was resigned, almost, to not having you. But you…you changed things. You gave me…things.” Oh, bloody hell. “You made me laugh. You gave me hope. And love.”
He looked down at his hand, flexed his fingers. “It is one thing to…to not reach for what you desire. It is another to let what you have…what you love, go without a fight.” His gaze came up to settle resolutely on hers. “I’ll not let you go without a fight. You’ll listen to what I have to say.” Suddenly remembering that his high-handed tactics were in part responsible for his current groveling, he added a belated, and somewhat anticlimactic, “Please.”
It was clear by her serene expression that sometime during his spectacularly dreadful speech, Evie had gotten over her shock. She stared at him in silence for a moment, then cocked her head to the side, and asked, “Do you know what I find troublesome?”
Did the woman want a list?
She didn’t wait for his response. “That you should claim to love a woman in whom you have so little faith.”
He started at the accusation. “I have every faith—”
“Then why insult me?” she demanded. “Why imply the love I’ve offered you is so weak, so fickle, that I would toss it and you aside because of a murky time in your past? And without even allowing you a word in defense?”
It was a trifle more than “murky,” as she so delicately put it, and he had no defense to speak of, but McAlistair knew better than to argue against himself. “My apologies.”
“Accepted.” She held out her hand expectantly.
Though it cost him to do so, he fished the key out of his pocket and handed it to her. He watched, a little baffled, as she simply palmed the key.
“Aren’t you going to unlock the door?” he asked.
“No, I want to finish this.”
“What happened to trust and—”
“I’m not the one in the habit of hiding away.”
He might have been annoyed at the sentiment if he hadn’t seen the corners of her lips twitch. She was teasing him.
He took a seat next to her and took her hand to press a kiss into her palm. “I don’t deserve what I intend to keep.”
She smiled a little and closed her hand as if to keep the kiss. “Whether or not you have me and whether or not you’re deserving is still up for debate. I believe you were telling me what sort of soldier you were.”
He nodded and sat back, but he kept hold of her hand.
“I worked for William Fletcher, for the War Department. I accepted missions to…to…”
“Assassinate,” she prompted.
He nodded. “Yes, but only those whose actions endangered the lives of our own men—spies and traitors. Those who couldn’t be brought to trial because of their rank, or because they were not British, or because of information they would reveal.”
“John Herbert’s father?”
“A prominent member of the War Department,�
�� he said. “He sold a list of agent names to the French. Several of those agents paid for his betrayal with their lives. I didn’t kill at random, Evie, or for money. I was paid, I wouldn’t have you think otherwise, but I didn’t kill for money. I believed in what I was doing.”
“I see.” Evie stared at their joined hands. The idea of executing a man without a trial troubled her deeply. The fact that every soldier who fired a shot on a battlefield did essentially the same thing was cold comfort.
“War is a dark and ugly business,” she murmured.
“It is, yes.” He gripped her hand tighter. “And it is easy…too easy, for a young man to grow comfortable in that darkness. After a time, it is easy to forget it is another life taken.”
“Is that why you stopped?” she asked, looking up. “Why you wouldn’t tell me of this?”
There was a long pause before he said, “I failed in a mission. I killed the wrong man.”
Her heart contracted painfully in her chest. “You…”
“That surprises you.”
“I…yes,” she admitted. “It shouldn’t, I suppose. You’re only human, after all, and humans make mistakes. But when that mistake results in the death of an innocent man—”
“It wasn’t a mistake,” he corrected, his voice growing cold. “Not in the sense you mean. And he wasn’t innocent.”
“I don’t understand.”
He nodded, but it was a moment more before he spoke. “You asked earlier if the Burnetts had ever been found.”
She shook her head, clearly confused by the jump in topic. “You said no.”
“I lied.”
McAlistair steeled himself against the hurt in Evie eyes. The truth, he reminded himself. All of it.
“I found him. In the very house of a man I’d been sent to silence. He was living under an assumed name and working, of all things, as a tutor.”
She made a sound of disgust.
Perversely, he found comfort in her reaction. “My target was having a house party—”
“You were going to sneak in and kill a man during a house party?”
“No, I wanted a lay of the building—the rooms, where the staff slept, that sort of thing. I charmed an invitation.”
Mcalistairs Fortune Page 29
