For a time, Evie had been in the habit of collecting swear words. It had begun as a sort of academic study—an attempt to understand the colorful language that was sometimes tossed about in the less respectable neighborhoods she visited. But it had quickly grown into a hobby. One she’d enjoyed immensely. She’d badgered anyone who had been willing to aid her in her quest and, over time, had managed to amass a truly impressive arsenal of curses.
She used each and every one of them now.
The most vulgar came first, spat out between gritted teeth and a jaw locked tight with pain. A small part of her cringed at what she was saying and hoped desperately that it was unintelligible. But as that small part of her was also insisting she stop talking, it went largely ignored.
As the burn began to ease, so did the intensity of her curses. The merely moderately offensive were brought out as the daggers retracted, and when the last cramped muscle relaxed, she ended her symphony of profanity with the phrase, “Oh, bloody, bloody, bloody hell,” and fell back onto the grass with a long exhale.
Utterly exhausted, she remained there with her eyes closed and her breath coming in pants. She was aware of McAlistair moving around her, even going off into the trees for a bit, and wondered what he was doing. But it was several more minutes before she mustered the energy to open her eyes and assuage her curiosity.
She found him standing over her with what looked to be a damp cloth in his hand. Kneeling, he pressed the cloth to her forehead. “Better?”
She nearly whimpered with pleasure at the feel of the cool water against her brow. Another layer of misery slid away. “Much, thank you.”
He turned the cloth over. “You swear.”
There was no censure in his voice, no shock or disappointment, just a hint of surprise. It was such a mild response to the horrid words she’d spoken. If the air was actually capable of turning blue, Evie imagined the space between them would be darker than the deepest part of the ocean, at night.
She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I beg your pardon.”
“No need.”
She remembered suddenly that at least one of those swears had been specifically addressed to him. She grimaced. “There is. I told you to…that is, I said—”
“You were in pain. It’s understandable.”
“Thank you.” She waited for him to say more, then realized that waiting for McAlistair to elaborate on something was rather like waiting for ice to thaw in January. A singularly pointless pursuit. She searched for something else to say, instead. “Aren’t you going to ask how I learned them?”
“Same as everyone else. From others.”
“I…” She pursed her lips. “I could have read them in a book.”
“All of them?” He cocked his head. “May I borrow it?”
She felt a smile form slowly. “Was that a joke, Mr. McAlistair?”
He withdrew the cloth from her forehead. “Of a sort.”
Of a sort counted, she decided. “Not half bad for a man who appears to be out of the habit.”
“I wanted to see you smile.”
Her heart warmed. “And a kind word to boot. I should make myself uncomfortable more often. It’s made you positively charming.”
“Uncomfortable? Is that how you’d describe it?”
She was surprised to see a muscle work in his jaw, more surprised to be the one responsible for putting it there. Studying him, she kept her smile in place and her voice light. “Well, I could use a few more fitting adjectives, but I do hate repeating myself.”
His face visibly relaxed at her small jest. “Certain you’re all right?
He leaned in farther, his eyes searching her face, and suddenly, she was all too aware of how close they were. He was so near, so very near, that she could make out the smallest details of his face. He had wonderfully long lashes, endearing lines at the corners of his eyes, and the single most enthralling mouth she’d ever seen. She wanted to brush her finger along the full bottom lip. She wanted to reach up and spear her fingers into his hair—hair, she noticed for the first time, that was not just brown, but a luscious blend of browns and blacks and even reds where the sun hit it. A few strands had fallen from their tie to frame his face.
She imagined pulling him down for another kiss.
What would he do? she wondered. Pull away? Push her away? Or kiss her back, cede to her demands and lie down where she could feel the weight of him, taste him, breathe in that aroma that only came in tantalizing wisps now.
“Evie?”
“Hmm.” He’d hold her this time, not stand aloof as he had before.
“Evie.”
“Hmm?” She blinked, snapping herself back. “What? What?” She focused her eyes and noticed that the tic in his jaw had returned. “I’m sorry?”