It would be such an easy thing to stand up and walk around that screen.
She’d been so open, so willing, so responsive the night before. He’d have little trouble convincing her to let him join her now.
Because the idea was too tempting by half, he rose from the table quickly enough to scrape the chair legs against the floor. “You need something dry to wear.”
The tub water swished, and he nearly groaned himself. He could just see how it would lap against her pale skin, and brush the edges of all that soft brown hair. She’d be smiling, gleaming—
“Beg your pardon?” she called out.
He actually had to clear his throat. He couldn’t remember a time since he’d been a green boy that he’d actually had to clear his throat to speak around desire. “I’ll be back soon.”
But not, he decided, too soon.
Evie had scrubbed herself clean, dried herself off, and was trying to decide whether McAlistair’s extended absence meant he hadn’t been able to secure clean clothes and she should therefore reclaim her dirty ones, when he finally let himself back into the room.
She peeked around the screen, a large drying cloth wrapped tightly about her. “Where did you go?”
Keeping his eyes trained somewhere over her shoulder, he handed her a simple night rail and wrap. “To find you these. From the innkeeper’s wife.”
“Oh, thank heavens.” She took the offered clothing. “You were gone a very long time.”
“I waited in the hall.” His tone was flat, but there was a hint of color to his cheeks.
Evie assumed it was from the heat of the room. “The hall? Whatever for?”
“To give you some privacy.”
“Oh. That was very kind, I’m sure, but unnecessary. The screen was sufficient.” She glanced at the table. “And now you’ve a cold meal and bath.”
“The basin will do.”
“But—”
“I ate some before I left.”
“Oh, well, but still—”
“Get dressed, Evie.”
She wondered at the gruff demand, before attributing it to exhaustion. Slipping behind the screen once more, she pulled on the night rail and wrap. They were a far cry from being a perfect fit—the sleeves ended well past her fingertips, the hems of both dragged on the floor, and the wrap was wide enough to cover her twice over—but they were clean and soft, and she was grateful for them. She could cinch the wrap tight with the tie, and she could roll up the sleeves. The extra length, however, required her to bunch up the material and carry it over her arm.
McAlistair was sitting at the table when she emerged. He lifted an eyebrow at the spectacle she made. “You look as if you’ve been swallowed whole.”
“Feel a bit like it, as well. It’s lovely.” She took a seat across from him at the table, rubbing her sore leg a little without realizing it.
His eyes caught the movement. “Better?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, much.”
He nodded, and though she’d have been happy to do it for herself, he filled a plate for her. “Your injury’s from a carriage accident?”
He asked the question casually, but it jarred her nonetheless. She wasn’t used to probing questions about her leg or scar, casual or otherwise. “I…yes, it is.”
“You needn’t speak of it, if it bothers you.”
It didn’t bother her, exactly. Snide remarks or being treated like an invalid, that bothered her, but she would feel perfectly comfortable relating the story of the accident that caused those injuries…reasonably comfortable…probably. How was she to know? It had been ages since anyone had asked it of her.
“There’s very little to tell, really,” she began, taking the plate he offered. “We were returning from a birthday celebration at our neighbor’s. It was dark, and the carriage veered off the road and slid into a tree.”
“Veered off,” he repeated. “Was it the weather?”
“No.” She thought of her father’s slurred voice, booming over her head as he whipped the horses to go faster, faster, and felt a hint of color rise to her cheeks. Perhaps there was a piece of the tale she was less than comfortable sharing. She reached for the teapot on the table. “Would you care for some?”
He shook his head. “Was the driver new? Unfamiliar with the road?”
She set the teapot down. “No.”
“One doesn’t just veer off—”
She twisted her fingers in her lap, then picked up the pot again and poured herself a cup. “He’d been drinking.”
“I hope your father took a horsewhip to him.” His face hardened as he spoke, and Evie had the passing thought that he was growing easier and easier to read.
With what she hoped was an air of nonchalance, she added two spoonfuls of sugar. “Difficult, as my father had been the one driving.” There, she’d said it. “He was killed.”