She was weighing the benefits of getting up and pacing off her agitation around the glowing remains of the fire, when she heard the rustle of branches. Slowly (she was attempting to feign sleep, after all) she turned her head to the side. Squinting into the dark, she was able to discern the outline of McAlistair’s form as he gathered branches at the edge of the clearing.
She turned her head back, rolled over, and shut her eyes as he made his way toward her. She wanted to ask if he was quite done being snippy, but thought better of it—particularly after he settled down behind her. He was so close she could hear his every breath. If she were to roll over, she could reach out and touch him. The urge to do just that was nearly overpowering. But even stronger was the desire for it to be him who reached.
“Evie?” he called softly, and nearly had her jumping off the blanket.
“Yes?” She winced at the wealth of hope in that one word.
“It’s James. My first name is James.”
“Oh.” Heavens, the man really was odd. “Shall I…shall I call you James?”
“No. My father was James, as well.”
“McAlistair, it is, then.”
He wouldn’t reach, she realized, but at least he wasn’t angry or cold. Willing to accept that for now, she closed her eyes and let exhaustion drag her into sleep.
Nine
The sun had yet to break over the tops of the trees when Evie next woke. It filtered through branches and leaves to shoot long beams onto the forest floor and softly light the clearing. She blinked blurry eyes at McAlistair’s blanket, only to find him gone.
She sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness of her leg and…well, the stiffness of everything, really. “McAlistair?”
She was answered by the soft crunch of leaves behind her. Turning, she saw McAlistair stride out from the trees into the clearing, two fish dangling lifelessly from one hand.
She made a futile attempt to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “Where did you get those?”
“Stream. Caught them.”
She saw no sign of a fishing pole or net. “With what?”
He held up his free hand, wiggled his fingers.
“Oh, you did not.” She laughed. He couldn’t possibly have. She watched him set his catch down next to the fire and stir the embers. “Did you?”
A corner of his mouth hooked up. “I could show you.”
“What, now?”
He shook his head. “At the cottage. There’s a stream.”
“You’ve been there?”
“No. I asked Mr. Hunter to draw a map at Haldon.”
“Oh.” She yawned hugely. “Is it nice?”
He glanced up. “Wasn’t a portrait. Just a sketch of surrounding towns, landmarks, buildings.”
Of course it was. What else would it be—a rendition of every room, brick, and tree in watercolor? She grimaced. “I’m not at my best in the morning. I much prefer evenings and nights. In London—”
She broke off, suddenly remembering last night in particular.
That she could have forgotten, even for a moment, was a testament to just how muddled she was in the mornings.
Good heavens, he’d kissed her. She’d kissed him back. Rich delight warred with a sudden wash of nerves. Should she say something—somehow acknowledge what had happened? Would he?
He slapped a fish down on a large flat rock and pulled out his knife. “In London, what?”
Apparently, he would not. “I—Nothing.”
Disappointment neatly wedged out delight. Had it been so mundane to him, that he could so easily dismiss what had passed between them? Or was it simply that what she had felt—that wonderful, nearly overpowering thrill, had not touched him as well? It was a humiliating thought, and because she didn’t care for humiliation as a rule, she pushed it aside.
He was being a gentleman, that was all. A man of breeding would never remind a lady of what some might consider a moral lapse. Never mind the fact that a gentleman would not have kissed her to begin with; he was being one now. She should be grateful, really. It would save her from a considerable amount of awkwardness, not to mention another round of fanciful daydreams.
He’d told her she was meant for someone else, hadn’t he? To her mind, that excuse was tantamount to a “no, thank you.” That, along with his sudden forgetfulness, told her that a few stolen kisses were all he was interested in. She would be wise to remember it.
Pasting on an indifferent expression, she wandered forward and eyed the fish on the rock. “Whit and Alex would be monstrously impressed—”
She broke off again and made a face as he began the cleaning process.
He glanced up. “Haven’t you seen a fish gutted before?”
“Oh, yes. Many times.” She kept her eyes studiously away from him and his work. “Whit and Alex often fish. Have since they were young boys.” She made another face. “Boys have a tendency to play with the bits and pieces.”
“Left them in your bed, did they?”
“And face the housekeeper’s wrath?” She laughed and shook her head. “They preferred chasing us about the yard with the head and…whatnot, stuck to the end of a stick.”