To avoid the irritating custom of being announced, and to skip the pesky formality of knocking, he let himself in through a rarely used side door of Haldon Hall. He had to pick the lock, of course, but that was a minor detail, and not unexpected given the nature of his visit. Whittaker Cole, Earl of Thurston, was no fool, and when it came to the safety of his family, took no chances.
Once inside, he shot a brief glance at the ceiling, where Whit’s muffled voice filtered down from the study above. The sound drifted softer and louder as McAlistair navigated the twisting halls and stairways of Haldon, taking a side trip here and there to avoid the staff. He moved with silent efficiency, a vital talent in his former career.
He arrived at the open doors of the study without being detected—a matter he intended to discuss with Whit later—and quietly slipped inside, taking up a position in the dark shadow of a bookcase.
An argument was in progress, with Whit and Lady Thurston of the mind to keep Evie at Haldon, while William Fletcher, Mrs. Summers, and Evie were of the opinion that a trip to the shore would be in her best interest. He said nothing, simply kept to his corner and watched.
He was accustomed to watching and waiting. And, in recent years, to wanting.
He was not, however, accustomed to being indoors, boxed in by walls and surrounded by noise and movement. The mix of voices, the shuffle of feet, and the random creaks and bangs of a busy household scraped at his nerves.
But that was nothing, nothing, compared to the torture of standing so near Evie Cole. She was little more than three feet away, her back turned to him, and he could make out each soft brown curl on her head, take in the clean lingering scent of her soap, and hear every breath as it left her lips. He remembered, quite clearly, what it was like to caress that hair with his fingertips and feel that breath against his mouth.
He recalled vividly—and with far more frequency than was comfortable—that she’d tasted of lemons and mint.
He wanted to roll his shoulders again.
He really shouldn’t be there.
Dragging his gaze away from Evie, he looked to the rest of the group. The argument appeared to be at a stalemate, neither side able to claim victory or willing to accept defeat. The futility of it annoyed him, trying his already strained patience. They were wasting time. His hands itched to scoop Evie up, toss her over his shoulder, and carry her off into the woods—his woods, where he knew every trail, every noise, every hidden place. His woods, where he knew he could keep her safe…from everyone but himself
Of its own accord, his gaze tracked back to Evie and trailed up the stiff line of her back, the creamy skin of her narrow shoulders, the delicate arch of her neck. She was such a small thing, barely reaching his shoulders. Too small to defend herself against the violence of a madman. And certainly sensible enough to realize as much.
Bloody hell, she must be terrified.
Evie was having a splendid time of it.
She surveyed the scene before her and decided that it was, without question, the single most absurd bit of artifice she’d ever had occasion to witness. What a superb lot of liars they all were, she thought with affection. Who would have imagined her friends and family held such an affinity for theatrics?
And who would have guessed they’d be so proficient?
Lady Thurston was actually pale. Vale. How did one manage that sort of thing? Mrs. Summers was sitting tight-lipped and straight-backed, her hands gripped in her lap. Whit, pacing back and forth in front of his desk, looked half ready to pull out his hair. And Mr. Fletcher, with his brow furrowed and his cravat coming undone, made the perfect picture of the concerned family friend.
She, of course, was every inch the brave little soldier, keeping her chin up and her shoulders square despite the tremendously dire state of her circumstances. Upon receiving the threatening letter, she had briefly considered trying something even more dramatic—a touch of panic, perhaps even a swoon—but the notion of carrying on in such a fashion for more than a minute or two held little appeal. Besides, she had never swooned in her life and wasn’t entirely certain how to go about it. It seemed the sort of thing one ought to practice a time or two in private first.
She had selected stoicism instead and, at the risk of becoming smug, rather thought she was making a respectable go of it. They were all making a good show of their respective roles—standing-ovation and encore-worthy performances.
They should take to the stage, each and every one of them.