McAlistair's Fortune (22 page)

She flicked her gaze to McAlistair and saw the slight but decisive shake of his head. It was an order.
Don’t.
She might have ignored it, but for his eyes. He stared at her, unblinking, his dark gaze holding a thousand terrors. They didn’t demand. They begged.

Though it cost her, she stood where she was and watched Herbert once again raise his lids.

“It was yesterday to me. I can still hear him whispering to my mother in the dark. He knew you were coming. He wasn’t afraid of you,” Herbert was quick to insist. “But he feared for my mother and me.”

“I never killed an innocent.”

“My father was innocent,” Herbert snapped. “An innocent man who made a mistake.”

“He made a choice. That choice netted him a substantial amount of money. And cost the lives of half a dozen good men.”

“He made a
mistake.
How was he to know what the information was to be used for?”

“He knew.”

“Did you ask him?” Herbert demanded. “Did you give him a chance to explain before you slit his throat? Did you?”

McAlistair shook his head.

“Well, then,” Herbert’s mouth curled up in a sneer, “it would appear I am the better man.”

Slit his throat? Evie looked from one man to the other. Had Herbert’s father been a soldier for the French? Had he met McAlistair on a battlefield? That would make sense, but how would he have known it was to happen? Why would he fear for his wife and child? “I don’t understand—”

“You’ll speak when spoken to,” Herbert snapped without looking at her. “I’ve things to say to McAlistair.” He took a deep breath, as if steadying himself. “I spent years looking for you. Years hunting down every damn McAlistair I could find.” He laughed suddenly. “Would’ve bloody helped to learn earlier you spell it differently than most. Do you know how
cold
it is in Scotland? Sogging lot of McAlistairs there too. I was tempted to kill a few on the off chance they might be related. But then, I’d have been no better than you, would I? No worse, but no better.”

McAlistair said nothing.

Herbert shrugged. “But even the most obscure rumors eventually reach that godforsaken country. I left the moment I heard of the mysterious McAlistair, Hermit of Hal-don Hall. I assume a man like you found eating insects and picking vermin quite a step up in life?” He chuckled a little at the jab before continuing. “And
still,
even after taking a position at Haldon, I couldn’t find you. It didn’t help matters,” he snapped suddenly, swiveling his head to glare at Evie, “to have so little time off.”

“I…” Was she expected to say something? “I’m terribly sorry?”

Herbert snorted and turned back to McAlistair. “By the time I discovered your little cabin, you were gone.
Gone.”
He groaned and laughed at the same time. “Have you any idea how
aggravating
that was? To search so long, to come so close?” He shook his head as if dismissing the memory. “Luring you into the open remained the only avenue left to me. And you, my dear,” he said with a quick, almost appreciative glance at Evie. “You provided me with the perfect means. All it took was one glimpse of the veiled lady creeping back into her room in the dead of night to spark my interest and a quick peek in your little desk to discover what you were about.”

Evie’s stomach twisted. Her ledger, her drafts of letters to newspapers and government officials. Yes, it would have been easy to figure out what she was doing by picking the lock on her desk.

“You used her,” McAlistair growled.

“Speaking again, are we?” Herbert jeered. He shrugged. “As I said, it was the only avenue left to me. The staff could talk of little else but how you’d come out of hiding to help Lord Thurston save his pretty wife. How brave. How daring. How romantic.” He smirked. “How very convenient for me. One threat and you came running to Haldon. One shot at Miss Cole and you came running to the beach. It was indulgent of me, I know, but I needed to see you fear, just once see you fear the way my father did.”

“She’s an innocent.”

The sneer returned, colored by a hint of amusement. “Doubtful, given what I just walked in on. Now, as enjoyable as this interlude is—and it is
immensely
enjoyable—I fear it’s time for its inevitable conclusion. Your friend outside will realize the trail he’s following is a false one sooner or later. McAlistair, if you’ve a final word—”

“You sabotaged the carriage,” Evie said quickly. She knew she risked bringing on his wrath, but she had to do something, and since Herbert had taken every opportunity to brag, stalling him with a question seemed the best way to purchase time.

Herbert waved his hand about in false modesty. “A simple enough thing. Hadn’t expected you to run off to Suffolk, mind you, or for you to push forward so quickly after your little accident. But I had a bit of luck breaking into Thurston’s desk. Needed coin for the trip, you know, and what should I find but these lovely dears,” he waggled one gun and patted the other, “and a letter from Mrs. Summers detailing the accident and mentioning your progress to Suffolk. I left that very hour. It being my half day off, I imagine I made it all the way to Cambridgeshire before I was missed. Now then, no more questions, I’m afraid. I’m quite out of time.”

He lifted the gun and took square aim at McAlistair.

Terrified, desperate, and unable to think of another question, Evie did the only thing that came to mind.

She fainted.

Much to Evie’s dismay, it quickly became apparent that executing a proper swoon really
was
something a person ought to practice a time or two before attempting in public.

It was also best left to those with a soft chair or large settee at their disposal.

She hit her knee against the table leg on the way down, bent her knees in what had to have been an obvious ploy to soften her fall, and had she not thrown out her arm at the last second, would have cracked her head soundly against the wood floor.

Fortunately, form, grace, even believability, had not been Evie’s ultimate goals. She wanted a distraction, and
that
she accomplished quite well.

Herbert laughed, and from slitted lids, Evie saw his feet turn toward her.

Then he swore, and there was a flash of tangled arms and legs as McAlistair lunged into Herbert, sending them both crashing to the ground.

She scrambled up to her hands and knees, and heard herself cry out in terror when the gun went off. But the bullet flew wide, shattering a glass platter on a shelf behind McAlistair.

The struggle lasted only a moment, just long enough for Evie to crawl over and snatch the pistol that had fallen from Herbert’s pocket and gone skittering across the floor. And just long enough for McAlistair to land one hard punch to Herbert’s jaw, rendering her newly obtained weapon unnecessary.

Herbert was out cold.

She remained where she was, shivering and panting, while hideous visions of McAlistair dying before her eyes danced through her head.

Not dead, she told herself firmly, raking her eyes over his crouching form.

He’s not dead.

“You’re all right,” she heard herself whisper raggedly. “You’re all right.”

“Are you hurt?” McAlistair demanded.

Her lungs felt too small, her knee throbbed like the very devil, and her heart was pounding hard enough to qualify as torture. She shook her head, tossed the gun aside, and scrambled over to throw herself around him.

She was shaking uncontrollably and knew her attempts to bring him near were awkward and clumsy. She didn’t care. She couldn’t help it. Burying her head in his shoulder, she grasped at his back, his shoulders, his waist.

McAlistair crooned in her ear, “Shh. Easy, sweetheart. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

She struggled against him. He wasn’t close enough. She couldn’t bring him close enough. And he wasn’t helping. He’d only put one arm around her shoulders in a half embrace.

“Hold me,” she pleaded.

A low groan rumbled through his chest.
“Evie.”

“Hold—”

“Sweetheart. My arm.”

She unwound herself from him in a trice, her eyes jumping to his left arm. He was holding it protectively at his side, and blood had begun to seep through his upper sleeve, turning the green fabric a horrifying dark brown.

Fear, thick black waves of it, swamped her. He was bleeding. He’d been shot. He could die.

“No,” she heard herself say. “No, it hit the platter.”

“Caught me first. But it’s—”

She wasn’t listening. She flew to her feet, the pain of her knee forgotten, and snatched a clean rag from the table. Dropping down beside him, she pressed it to his wound. Tears gathered and fell as the white cloth turned crimson.

“I need more rags.”

“Evie, sweetheart. It’s only a scratch. I’ll be all—”

“It’s not a scratch,” she choked out on a hiccup. In her mind, it was an enormous gaping wound, and it was bleeding rivers of blood. “You need to lie down. You need a physician. You need—”

“Bleeding’s slowed.”

She blinked, hiccupped again, and looked at the cloth. He was right; the flow of blood had diminished.

Letting out a tremulous breath, she dashed tears away with the back of her hand. “You still need a physician.”

“Right now I need some rope for Herbert.”

Sniffling, Evie drew back a little to look down at the still-unconscious footman. She noticed for the first time that her knee was wedged solidly into Herbert’s side.

Good.

“There should be some rope or twine about.” McAlistair said. “I need you to find it.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The quicker Herbert was tied up, the quicker she could find help.

Before she had the chance to stand, Mr. Hunter came charging into the room, half dressed and wielding a gun. Mrs. Summers followed directly behind him, a large silver candlestick at the ready. She took one look at the scene before her and, tossing the candlestick aside, dropped to her knees beside Evie. “Evie! Are you hurt? Are you—”

“No. McAlistair.”

McAlistair shook his head at Mr. Hunter’s and Mrs. Summers’s concerned glances. “Just a scratch. Bleeding’s nearly stopped.”

“It’s not a bloody scratch,” Evie berated. But there was no edge to her tone. Relief had taken it away. It
wasn’t
a mere a scratch—the man wouldn’t move his arm, for pity’s sake—but it no longer looked to be life-threatening, either. “It needs to be seen to.”

“Mr. Hunter can look at it, after we’ve taken care of Herbert.”

“Who the blazes is Herbert?” Mr. Hunter demanded.

“John Herbert.” Evie accepted Mrs. Summers’s assistance in standing. “A footman at Haldon. He…I…”

“Herbert’s grievance was with me,” McAlistair told the group. “Mr. Hunter, get me some rope. Mrs. Summers, take Evie upstairs.”

Mrs. Summers slipped an arm around her shoulder and coaxed her toward the door. “Come along, dear.”

“But—”

“Pour a bit of brandy in her,” Mr. Hunter suggested.

“I don’t need brandy. I—” I need McAlistair, she thought.

But her protests went ignored and in short order she found herself bustled out of the room.

W
ith his arm aching like the devil, McAlistair paced the hallway outside the library. It was an unusual behavior for him, pacing, and one he found fairly lowering. He wasn’t in the habit of indulging in nervous movement. But though he had tried, he couldn’t seem to sit still. The inner calm he’d relied on for years had abandoned him, leaving him a bundle of nerves and energy.

Not wholly unexpected, he supposed, when a man was working through the details of a marriage proposal.

But still irritating.

And absurd. He hadn’t a thing to be nervous about. His plan was sound, his reasoning infallible. Evie would marry him.

He had come to the decision only minutes earlier, while he, Christian, and Mr. Hunter had draped a bound and newly conscious Herbert over the back of a horse. The man had ranted and raved, promising one revenge after another. That was only to be expected, and McAlistair might have simply ignored the noise if Herbert had limited his threats to him. But the footman had had quite a lot to say about Evie as well…until Christian had stuffed a gag in his mouth, anyway.

McAlistair stopped pacing just long enough to drag a hand down his face.

It was
his
fault. The threatening letter, the carriage accident, the attempt on Evie’s life—all of it was because of him. Evie had been no more than a pawn in a man’s quest for vengeance. Bloody hell, if it hadn’t been for him, she would have spent the week safely at Haldon, comfortably going about doing…whatever it was she did at Haldon.

Scowling, McAlistair walked to the door to stare at it without seeing.

It was exactly what Evie
did
do when she wasn’t embroiled in someone else’s vengeful scheme that had propelled him to decide on marriage. The woman didn’t spend her days balancing ledgers and rowing out on the lake. She spent at least some of her time thumbing her nose at violent men. True, at the moment she did so in secret, but how long would she be content with that? How long before someone else broke into her writing desk?

She was rash by nature and too overconfident by half.

He remembered, yet again, that horrible moment when he had been certain she would throw herself in front of Herbert’s gun. She never would have reached him in time to keep him from firing. She simply wasn’t fast enough. The act would have killed her. And yet she would have tried.

He’d never felt so sick, so horrified, so utterly helpless as he had in that moment. Not even when he’d heard the shot on the beach or seen her fighting the blacksmith’s apprentice or disappearing beneath the water of the pond, or…

Bloody hell, the woman was in perpetual peril—half of it of her own doing.

And between the danger he’d put her in and the danger
she
courted, Evie’s future safety looked fairly bleak.

Well, he could do something about that.

He could protect her. He
would
protect her. From herself and from whatever ghosts from his past sought to punish him through her. But to do so, he needed to be close to her, not hidden away in a remote cabin. And being close required marriage. There was nothing else for it.

She might not be amenable to the idea of becoming his wife—and he, admittedly, was no longer amenable to the idea of her becoming someone else’s wife—but she could be made to see reason. Or he could drag her in front of a vicar, kicking and swearing. Either way, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight again.

Resolute, he pushed his way through the library door.

Evie stood next to the fireplace, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and Mrs. Summers at her side.

“I want a moment with Evie, alone.”

Mrs. Summers merely winged up one brow. “Do you, indeed?”

“Please,” McAlistair added begrudgingly.

Mrs. Summers pursed her lips but nodded. “I shall be just down the hall.”

He waited impatiently for Mrs. Summers to leave. When she finally did, he stepped to Evie, and wrapping his strong arm around her, pressed his face to her neck and simply breathed her in.

Evie burrowed into him. “Your arm? You’re all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” He set aside nerves and anger, and let himself savor the feel of Evie, safe and warm against him. He ran his hand up her back, into her hair, down her shoulders. “Mr. Hunter bandaged it for me. He and Christian have taken Herbert to the magistrate in Charplins.”

She nodded, her cheek brushing against his chest. “It’s over then.”

No, not over, he thought, pulling away. Not quite yet.

* * *Evie started a little at McAlistair’s sudden withdrawal.

“Is something the matter?” she asked hesitantly, pulling the blanket closer around her.

His answer was to give her a hard, penetrating glare, then turning to pace the length of the room.

“Are…Are you angry with me?”

“Yes. No.” He stopped pacing. “Yes.”

“Well, if you’re certain,” she said unsteadily, hoping to tease him out of his mood.

He stepped closer to her and pinned her with one very unamused stare. “You were going to step in front of that gun.”

“Hardly necessary, as he was already aiming at me a good deal of the—”

“You know bloody well that’s not what I mean!”

Evie’s felt her eyes turn to saucers at McAlistair’s bellow. She watched, torn between feeling awful and fascinated, as he stormed to one end of the room and stormed back. He muttered, ran a hand through his hair once, twice,
three
times, until the majority of his dark locks slipped free from their tie and fell across his face—a face that held none of the cool assurance to which she was so accustomed. There were deep furrows across his brow, a muscle working in his jaw, and his lips—when they weren’t muttering—were peeled back in something akin to a snarl.

Misery lost to fascination, and to relief that he should show so much vigor so soon after being shot. Good Lord, the man was
furious.
She hadn’t expected that, hadn’t even once considered the possibility that he was capable of such a temper.

Oddly enough, the knowledge that he was, and that he lost that temper because she’d thought to place herself in danger, made her feel stronger, even calm.

He stopped and stabbed a finger at her. “You were going to try for the gun. When his eyes closed. You were going to try.”

“Yes.” Remembering, she felt her stomach roll in a queasy circle. Perhaps not entirely calm, she amended, perhaps just better.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

“That I was closer.”

The snarl grew more pronounced.

“Well, I was.” Really, what did the man expect her to say?

He jabbed a finger at her. “You’re rash, impetuous, hard-headed, and reckless.”

She pursed her lips, thought about that, and decided she preferred the description over gentle, delicate, and naive. “I can live with that. Although—”

“You’ll marry me.”

“—I don’t…” She immediately forgot what she was about to say. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“You’ll marry me.”

Suspicion bloomed alongside hope. “Will I? Will I, really?”

“Unless you care to live in sin?” he inquired in a derisive tone.

“Not particularly.”

“Then we marry. I can’t protect you if we’re in separate houses, and you need looking after.”

Hope and suspicion were swallowed by absolute shock.
“Looking after?”

“Yes, you—”

“That wasn’t a request for clarification,” she snapped. “It was a statement of disbelief.” Accompanied by a healthy dose of insult. “I most certainly do not need looking after. Furthermore—”

“Your connection to me is no longer secret. That in itself puts you in a precarious situation. In addition, you work for a dangerous cause. You visit the worst slums of London.” He jabbed his finger at her yet again. “There will be no more of that. You can find other ways of helping those women.”

She tossed her blanket aside. “How dare—”

“You sneak out of your home to sleep alone in the woods. You kiss strange men in those woods—”

“Man,” she corrected. “One man.
You.”

“You thought to wrestle a gun from a lunatic.”

“I didn’t
want
to. And you
did
—”

“You gave your innocence to a near stranger.”

“A hermit, a soldier, and the man I love, you arrogant, heartless
arse.”

He visually started at that, and for a moment, it looked as if he might relent, but then he shook his head, as if shaking off her words. “You’re being foolish—”

“Don’t! Don’t you dare tell me what I’m being. What I am.
Who
I am. I’ve had enough of that from you. More than enough.”

“Evie—”

She didn’t wait for the remainder of his sentence, couldn’t think of any reason she should. With tears of anger burning her eyes, she left the parlor at a run, intent on making it safely to her room, where she could fall apart in private.

He called for her again, at the bottom of the stairs just as she reached the top. But she didn’t turn around.

And he didn’t come after her.

McAlistair watched her go.

That hadn’t gone quite as he had planned.

He took hold of the banister and climbed the first step with the intention of following her. They’d have this out. She would listen until—

He winced when the door slammed hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Perhaps he’d wait until she’d settled, he decided, and stepped back down again.

She’d come around. She just needed time. He could give her that while they were at the cottage, and on the return trip to Haldon. Safety wasn’t such a concern at present, not with Herbert gone, and with Evie miles away from the work that put her in danger.

It would be best if he let her be for now—gave her the opportunity to see the sense in what he’d said.

And give himself the opportunity to come to grips with what she had said.

The man I love.

Holy hell.

He spun on his heel and headed straight to the study. From there, he headed directly to the sideboard. He rarely drank. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d indulged in the last eight years. Nearly all of them, he realized grimly as he poured himself a finger of brandy, had occurred in the last week.

The man I love.

He added more to the glass.

She couldn’t mean it. She couldn’t possibly love a man who’d been nothing to her only months, possibly only weeks, ago. A man whose sins had put her life at risk. That had been his initial, albeit in part irrational, reaction—she didn’t
know
all his sins, did she?—the moment the words left her mouth, followed shortly thereafter by the single most brilliant pang of joy he had ever known.

Evie wouldn’t say the words unless she meant them. It wasn’t in her nature to lie. Well, yes, he amended, it was in her nature to lie, but not about
that.
He was sure of it. She wasn’t the sort to make a sport of something so important.

She
loved
him. Despite his reticence, despite his less-than-auspicious origins, despite all common sense, really, she loved him.

The man I love.
Her voice echoed in his head.
You arrogant,
heartless arse.

He downed the glass in one long swallow.

If she bloody well loved him, she could bloody well marry him. What could be more natural?

Admittedly, a woman in love might have hoped for a proposal with a bit more romance. But how the devil was he to have known she was in love?

She complained of
his
reticence. He snorted—actually snorted—and considered pouring another glass. She hadn’t said a word about love. Not a single word.

If she had, he might have broached the idea of marriage a little differently. He might have tried to appeal to her heart rather than her head.

She would just have to live with it, he decided in another burst of temper. In fact, she should be thrilled for it. What was wrong with having appealed to her head—to her sense of reason—as he would have a man’s? Isn’t that what she’d harped on about in the past? Women not being respected for their minds?

It damn well was.

He slammed the glass down on the counter and strode from the room.

He was going to his bedroom. Then he was going to pack his things for tomorrow’s journey back to Haldon. Then he was going to wait.

Evie could bloody well come to him. * * *

Evie could not recall a time in her life when she’d ever indulged in such a fit of violent temper. It could be assumed that she’d had her moments as a small child, but as an adult, she preferred the simplicity of a few choice curses followed by a short period of brooding. Nothing too dramatic.

But right now, right at this very moment, she wanted to break something. Pick it up, dash it against the wall, and watch it shatter into a million little shards. Then she wanted to do it again. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to destroy something.

She stood in the middle of her room, seething with a rage that could find no outlet. Making a loud fuss would only bring members of the house rushing to see what was the matter.

And there was nothing in the room she could break, because nothing in the damn room belonged to her. She dearly wished there was something in it that belonged to McAlistair. Something expensive and fragile. Like her heart.

Frustrated beyond measure, she stalked to the bed, picked up a pillow, and hurled it against the wall. The soft and wholly unsatisfying thump it made only served to infuriate her further.

“Argh.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she picked up another pillow and tossed it as well. It was, she decided, marginally better than nothing.

“Need keeping, do I?” she fumed between gritted teeth.
“Keeping?”
She tossed the next pillow. “Like a child, or a
pet?”

She hurled the last. “Bloody
keeping?”

She couldn’t believe, quite simply could not wrap her head around the fact that he’d had the gall to use such a monstrously insulting phrase. There was little else the man could have said that would have infuriated her so effectively…or cut her more deeply.