She made a face and, to his surprise, agreed with him. “I know. After next year, I’ll have to give it up for a time. Work on something else or somewhere else. It was the same for London.”
“You met women in London?” His palms went clammy at just the idea of Evie sneaking around London alone.
She didn’t appear to notice his discomfort. “Oh, yes, and with far more frequency, but then, there are more women and more places to meet, aren’t there? Still after a while, I thought it best to reduce the amount of time I was there.”
A sensible decision, he was forced to admit. In fact, everything she’d told him so far struck him as being fairly sensible. And that struck him as infuriating. He didn’t want her to be sensible. He wanted her to have been careless in some way. How else could he be angry with her for putting herself in danger? Never mind the fact that he admired her work; a small, selfish part of him wanted a reason to demand she stop.
And that small part of him was determined to have its way. “How is your mail delivered to you?”
Her brow furrowed a little at his sudden change of subject. “It is delivered to a small, unoccupied cottage at the far outskirts of Benton, where it is slipped under the door until I retrieve it. And before you ask, I am there no more than once a month.”
“The cottage is in your name?”
“No, it belongs to a fictional widow by the name of Mrs. Eades. She lives with her sister in Wales. You’ll have to ask Lady Thurston, or perhaps Whit, how she managed to arrange for that.” She paused to yawn. “I couldn’t say.”
McAlistair could have come up with a half dozen other questions for her, but knew now wasn’t the time. Evie’s eyes had gone from merely sleepy to red-rimmed, and her posture from defensive, to weary, to half asleep.
“We’ll continue this later. It’s time for bed.”
“In a moment,” she said, perking up a little in her seat. “I’ve a few questions for you as well.”
Bloody hell. “It’s late.”
“It can’t be much more than half past nine.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Hasn’t it just.” She pinned him with a hard look. “I answered your questions, McAlistair. It’s only fair you answer mine.”
“I’m not the one in danger.” And he wasn’t in the habit of playing fair.
She completely ignored that statement. “Why did you become a hermit?
“I was done being a soldier.”
“Why did you become a soldier?”
He’d been unbearably angry. “I was good at it.”
“You couldn’t have known that until you joined.” She scowled at him and slumped against the back of her chair once more. “You’re not going to cooperate, are you?”
Since he knew she wouldn’t care for the answer, he chose to say nothing at all.
Evie pressed her lips into a thin line, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at him through narrowed eyes.
While he waited for the lecture that was sure to come, he let his eyes wander over her face—the high arch of her brows, the long sweep of her lashes, the soft sprinkle of freckles across her nose. The freckles were new, he realized, a result of riding without a bonnet. He should probably remedy that tomorrow. Or maybe not. He liked the look of them, nearly as much as he’d enjoyed seeing her soft brown hair tied in a loose braid down her back. If he found her a bonnet, she’d hide the braid and the freckles. Then again, if she hid the braid and freckles, maybe he would stop fantasizing about unraveling the first and trailing his lips along the second. Then again—
He blinked, cutting off his own line of thought. Why was it so quiet? Hadn’t Evie been about to lecture him? He took in her cross-armed, narrowed-eyed posture. She hadn’t moved a muscle in the last five minutes. And she hadn’t said a thing.
Not a word. Not a syllable. Not a single solitary sound.
Holy hell, the chit was trying to stare him down.
Evie knew she didn’t have a prayer of succeeding.
McAlistair had probably gone days, weeks, even months without speaking. Her record for silence, on the other hand, was directly correlated with the longest amount of time she’d ever spent asleep.
But she hadn’t been able to come up with an alternative solution to his infuriating reticence. And fighting fire with fire had a certain expediency she appreciated. Pity it seemed to have so little effect on McAlistair.
He leaned back in his chair, appearing perfectly at ease and, unless she was entirely mistaken, a little pleased.
Her eyes narrowed further.
A corner of his mouth curved up.
The silence stretched out.
Woefully ill-equipped for such a contest, Evie tried fisting her hands, shifting her weight, and tapping her foot in an effort to alleviate her discomfiture. All to no avail. She was on the verge of surrender when, much to her surprise, he spoke.
“Are we to sit here the remainder of the night?”
It wasn’t an admitted capitulation—likely as not, it was an act of mercy—but she’d take it. “That depends on you.” Realizing that gave him more power than she had intended, she added a rather lame, “Somewhat.”