She could admit to some initial surprise at Mr. Fletcher’s suggestion that she leave for the coast with a small group of armed guards. But, confident they couldn’t possibly mean to send her where she would be out of their interfering reach, she chose to argue in favor of the trip. For no other reason, really, than to cause a bit of trouble. She might be willing to play along in the interest of getting the silly matchmaking business over and done with, but there was no point in making it easy on the meddling schemers.
“I’ll not send her half a country away,” Whit snapped. Tall, fit, and gifted with a deep voice suited for authority, her cousin had always struck Evie as very much the quintessential lord of the manner. Not that she was in the habit of ceding to that authority; she merely appreciated the image.
Mr. Fletcher pinched the bridge of his bulbous nose. “Norfolk is hardly half a country. It is a mere two days’ journey.”
“Two days too far from her family,” Lady Thurston replied.
“It’s for the best,” Evie argued, and my, didn’t she sound noble? “My presence here puts everyone else in danger. And with Mirabelle and Kate returning next week from the Rockefortes’, things will only—”
At the mention of his wife, who was currently expecting their first child, and his younger sister, Whit cut her off with a curt wave of his hand. “I can easily extend their visit.”
“They would be more than happy to stay, I’m sure,” Evie agreed. She’d been truly disappointed when a head cold had kept her from making the trip to see Alex and Sophie, the Duke and Duchess of Rockeforte, and their three-month-old son, Henry. ‘At least until word of this reaches them—and it will most certainly reach them—then they’ll insist on returning.”
Either to enjoy the scheme or to stand beside her in a perceived time of need, Kate, Mirabelle, and Sophie would most certainly come. As her cousin, Kate was the only one of the three considered family by blood, but in their hearts, all of them were sisters. They would never allow themselves to be kept removed from such a situation.
“I’ve already sent word to Alex,” Mr. Fletcher said. “I suspect he’ll be here before morning.”
Evie nodded. “You can be sure Sophie will be, as well, and with Kate and Mirabelle in tow.”
Whit swore softly but emphatically. Evie supposed it was a testament to how important their ruse was to Lady Thurston that she did little more than sniff disapprovingly at her son’s language.
“This conversation is going nowhere,” Lady Thurston pronounced.
“We need an objective opinion,” Mr. Fletcher agreed with a nod before turning in Evie’s general direction. “What do you think, McAlistair?”
That simple question, obviously addressed to someone directly behind her, instantly dashed Evie’s enjoyment of the scene. Her heart stopped beating in her chest—an uncomfortable feeling, to say the least—and she turned around slowly, certain she’d misheard. And uncertain whether she hoped or feared she had not.
She hadn’t.
The man in question was standing in the shadow of a bookcase not three feet away from her—a fact that had her heart starting again with one great, painful thud.
Dear Lord, there he was…McAlistair, the Hermit of Haldon Hall.
Only he didn’t much look like a hermit at present, she noted as he stepped into the light. She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of the transformation. The last time she had seen McAlistair had been in the Haldon woods. He’d been wearing the serviceable garments of a peasant. His hair had been long and wild, almost as wild as his dark eyes. And he’d been carrying a rather large knife.
Now he was dressed in gentleman’s attire—a well-tailored green waistcoat, tan breeches, a pair of Hessians, and a perfectly knotted cravat. He’d trimmed his thick brown hair and pulled it back into a neat, if unfashionable, tail at the nape of his neck. His jaw was clean shaven, his hands scrubbed free of dirt, and there was nary a weapon in sight. He looked utterly respectable.
And somehow twice as dangerous.
Evie took in the sharp arch of brows, the square cut of jaw, and the nose that had obviously been broken more than once. She noticed—and blushed upon noticing—the bulge of muscle in his legs, the broad width of his shoulders, and the wiry strength of his arms. McAlistair was no London dandy come to call. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, she thought, that’s what he was, or possibly a big cat with a collar about its neck. He might look harmless, or tamed, but one need only peer closer at his eyes to see the lie. They were still just as wild.
She had stared into those eyes once—lost herself in them—right before she’d lost herself in his kiss one fantastical evening in the woods. And she had thought of him, as she had promised to think of him, every day since.
For five bloody months.
She narrowed her eyes further, the flush of heat giving way to the burn of anger. He had told her he’d be away and had made no promises to return, but really, would it have been so terribly difficult for the man to have sent one blasted letter? Even she could have managed as much—if she’d known where to find him—and she was a dismal correspondent.