She nodded again, but found it hard to meet his gaze. “It does, yes.”
He didn’t sigh, but he hesitated, which made Evie suspect he wanted to sigh. And that was very nearly the same thing. Despite his obvious misgivings, he scooped up the blanket and pillow and tossed them back on the bed.
“Roll over. Go to sleep.”
She didn’t care for the implication that perhaps she had planned on doing something other than going to sleep. Well, in all honesty, she wasn’t completely averse to the idea of doing something else—kissing him again came to mind—but she hadn’t planned on it. And no matter how much the idea of kissing McAlistair might appeal to her, at the moment, she was too exhausted to give any real thought to turning theory into reality.
She scooted over and turned her back without comment. The mattress dipped as he settled on the bed.
“Get some sleep,” she heard him say from what sounded like the very far edge of the mattress. “We’ll leave at first light.”
She made a face into her pillow. Why did people always feel the need to leave at first light? “What’s wrong with second or third?” she mumbled.
“Beg pardon?”
“Nothing. Good night, McAlistair.”
She fell asleep without hearing his response.
*
McAlistair lay in bed, listening to the patter of rain and the last distant rolls of thunder. It was somewhere near four in the morning, he estimated, and he’d accumulated somewhere near three hours of sleep.
The creak of floorboards in the hall had woken him from a light doze. It had only been a late-arriving guest, but it had warranted investigation—as had the creak an hour before, and the sound of voices from the yard the hour before that.
He’d slept better the night before, surrounded by the comforting sounds of the woods. And with a little more distance between himself and Evie. Within minutes of falling asleep, she’d turned toward him and rolled over to his side of the bed. He hadn’t had the heart to wake her, and he had no intention of moving to the other side of the bed, leaving her closer to the door. But it was damn hard trying to sleep with her legs brushing his, the scent of her hair on the pillow, and her sweet face just inches away. She was a sound sleeper, he noted. After that first migration to his side of the mattress, she hadn’t moved except to wrap her arms around her pillow.
He’d noticed last night that she hugged in her sleep—only then it had been his waistcoat. He’d taken it off and slipped it under her head in the night. He’d even had to shift her a bit to untangle a curl of her hair from a button. But she hadn’t woken, and she hadn’t said a word about it in the morning.
Likely as not, she hadn’t noticed, he thought with a small smile. The woman was hopeless before noon.
He hadn’t expected that. He would have guessed—in fact, he had guessed—that morning was her favorite time of day. Morning fit her. It was soft and gentle, as she was. It had always reminded him of Evie.
There was nothing more pure, more promising than the first light of morning.
He suspected she wouldn’t understand the comparison. He wondered if anyone else did or would. Her friends? Her family?
Her future husband?
He frowned at nothing in particular. What if she were right about the ruse? He didn’t think it likely; there were too many holes in that theory. But what if? What if the events of the last two days were nothing more than a supremely idiotic way to see her matched? A hard burn flared in his stomach. Unsurprised by his violent reaction to the idea of Evie being attached to another man, he acknowledged the pain and set it aside.
If William and the rest had set this business up, and if, despite the ridiculousness of it all, Evie found a love that would make her happy, then so be it.
He’d congratulate her. Right after he gutted William, slowly, and with his dullest knife. Never mind that he didn’t own a dull knife; he’d buy one just for the occasion. Something with a bit of rust on it.
He watched her sleep, knowing that after they reached the cottage, he’d never again have the opportunity.
Because she was never meant for him.
He lifted a finger and traced it a fraction of an inch above her cheek. He knew the pale ivory skin would feel soft and fragile—easily bruised with rough palms, easily soiled with dirty hands.
He drew his hand back.
No, she wasn’t meant for him. And he wouldn’t take her if she were.
A man didn’t destroy what he loved.
He rolled to his back and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. A man could, however, buy a rusty knife and slice through the one responsible for giving that loved one away to someone else. And for playing him for a fool.
Even if it was only in his head.
Mollified by the thought, he closed his eyes, let his mind drift, and listened for the next creak in the hallway.
Twelve