He knew who she was the minute he laid eyes on her. Before he’d taken up residence in the Haldon woods, Whit had given him a description of every member of the house. Small, curvy, and with a scar running the length of her cheek, the object of his adoration could be none other than eighteen-year-old Miss Evie Cole.
He’d watched her and a younger, taller girl who could only be Lady Kate Cole as they played with a pair of lop-eared puppies in the grass. He stayed no more than a quarter hour, just long enough to witness the gentle way she tussled with the pups, the affectionate way she teased her friend…and the disturbing way his body tightened when she stood up and bent over to pick up one of the puppies, showing him a clear outline of her backside.
He’d walked back to his camp that afternoon with a love very different from the sort with which he’d walked out.
Pity, he thought now, that it hadn’t been the fleeting sort.
He found the stream and knelt to cool his face. It wasn’t frigid as he had hoped, but it did the job. Calmer, if not exactly comfortable, he sat back on his heels and took stock of the situation.
He’d kissed Evie—again—and that couldn’t be undone. He doubted he would take it back even if he could. It had been heaven, and no man gave up paradise willingly, even when it was undeserved.
A man could, however, make a better effort not to steal it.
He’d keep his distance from her. He would remember who she was—a lady, an innocent, cousin and niece to the people he owed more than he could hope to repay. More importantly, he would remember who he was, and what he had been.
Feeling considerably more resolute, McAlistair stood and began a walk around the perimeter of the camp. He hadn’t the least expectation of finding anything. He wouldn’t have indulged in the kiss or gone stomping through the woods if he had believed, for a moment, that anyone could have followed them without his notice.
It wouldn’t matter if a pursuer had taken every precaution to go undetected; McAlistair would have known of the danger. He had, after all, made a fine living from ferreting out men who had done their very best to hide.
Still, he wouldn’t be comfortable forgoing the patrol.
Evie would no doubt consider the precaution pointless. Scowling again, McAlistair carefully pushed his way through a cluster of low-hanging branches. This notion she had of a matchmaking ruse troubled him. Not because he thought there was any truth to her theory, but because a woman certain of her safety was far more likely to take chances with her person.
It irritated him as well that she hadn’t accepted his rejection of the theory. She had an unexpected stubborn streak.
Bullheadedness, however, could not stand forever against reason and reality. She’d come around eventually. And likely it was best she do so in stages. It would be less traumatic for her to grow accustomed to the idea gradually, rather than to be hit over the head with it all at once. He rather doubted she was inclined toward hysterics, but one never knew.
And he could keep her safe in the meantime.
With that settled and his patrol completed, he turned his steps toward camp…and his mind back to the kiss.
It occurred to him suddenly that apologizing to Evie might be the proper thing to do.
To hell with that.
It was enough that he had pulled away before things had gotten out of hand. He’d let the matter drop—simply pretend it hadn’t happened. It had been some time since he had been subject to the rules of gentlemanly behavior, but he was certain—well, relatively certain—that pretending the kiss had never occurred was the next best thing to apologizing for it.
It would have to be. He wouldn’t steal paradise, but damned if he’d apologize for sneaking a glimpse.
Left alone after McAlistair stormed off into the woods, Evie had considered staying up simply because he had ordered her to go to sleep, but in the end, she’d decided that pretending to sleep was a sight less humiliating than standing about, waiting for him to return.
Staring up now into the thin sliver of night sky afforded in the clearing, she might have taken some pleasure in the realization that her pile of leaves, branches, and a layer of thick blanket made for a surprisingly soft bed—might have, if she hadn’t been so damnably uncomfortable.
Her body still hummed from McAlistair’s kiss, making her hot and restless, and her mind still reeled from his sudden withdrawal.
Why had he turned away? Why had he tossed her the blanket, then run away? She wondered where he’d gone and when he would come back.
Perhaps she should have gone after him. Perhaps she should go after him now.
She wondered how mortifying it would be if she tried it, slipped and fell in the dark, and had to call out for his help.