She shook her head again.
He shoved the coin back in his pocket with a hand that had begun to shake. “Likes a woman what knows to do as she’s told even better than one what keeps her mouth shut. Pull your hood back.”
He moved to circle the bench, and when she would have done the same to avoid him, he reached across and snagged her arm.
Promise or not, she might have yelled out at the feel of his bony fingers digging into her skin, but in a swift and agile move, he spun her around and yanked her back against him. He used one arm to pin her in place and the other to cover her mouth.
“No need for all this,” he hissed when she squirmed. “No need. Only wanted a taste.”
Her mind filled with fear and revulsion. The arm around her waist squeezed like a band of iron. The smell of smoke, sweat, and onions assaulted her nose, bringing on a wave of nausea.
She struggled, kicking at his shins, twisting an arm half free and throwing an elbow back into his stomach. But she hadn’t the strength to break away, and there wasn’t enough space between them for her blows to have any real power. Her efforts gained a single grunt from him and then a long, infuriating giggle.
“Cat still got your tongue?” he panted, pressing his fingers harder against her mouth. “I’ve somethin’ better for it than that.”
He moved to push off her hood with his chin.
She moved to bite his hand.
And then he was simply gone. In a single heartbeat, the hard fingers and rotten breath vanished.
Blinded by her hood, she whirled around and threw her hands up, expecting a blow or another grab.
“Evie? Are you hurt?”
McAlistair’s voice cut through the panic. But with her own fingers trembling, it took several tries before she managed to pull the hood away from her eyes to find him standing four feet away, his arm locked around the apprentice’s neck.
She hadn’t heard him come from the workshop, hadn’t even been aware of his presence as he pulled her assailant away. He’d just…appeared.
“Evie?”
She stared at him as her breathing evened, and her racing heart slowed. A strange sort of calm stole over her.
“Evie.”
She blinked slowly, finding her vision a little dim. It took a moment before she remembered his question. She shook her head at him.
“Certain?”
She nodded. Wasn’t she certain? She felt fine…No, that wasn’t quite true. She didn’t feel fine, or calm, as she’d thought a moment ago. What she felt was oddly numb.
She watched, almost as if from a distance, as McAlistair turned his attention to his captive. The young man’s face was turning red, his mouth gaping as he struggled to take in air around McAlistair’s arm. He struggled once, only to have McAlistair briefly increase the pressure, cutting off his breath entirely. The man stilled, then gasped when the stingy amount of air returned.
“Apologize to the lady,” McAlistair ordered.
She thought he sounded remarkably calm and wondered—rather stupidly, she would admit later—if he was experiencing the same sort of numbness that she felt.
But then she saw it—the cold fury in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw, and the taut coil of his muscles. He wasn’t merely calm. He was deadly calm. His movements were smooth and precise, his voice soft and terrifyingly indifferent—as if he might snap the young man’s neck at any second. Or not. It made very little difference to him.
This was no longer the McAlistair she had teased and flirted and argued with for days. This was the wild, dangerous man she’d almost forgotten was there under the clothes and manners of a gentleman. Here was the untamed hermit, the disciplined soldier, the lethal cat.
“Apologize.” A knife appeared in McAlistair’s hand. He ran it down the apprentice’s cheek until the tip of it pressed into the underside of his jaw.
The young man strained his neck back to avoid the blade. “But she’s only a bit o’ muslin!”
Evie saw McAlistair shift and felt her stomach drop to her toes. She stepped forward, intent on pulling him away. His name formed on her lips, but one bone-chilling look from McAlistair had her swallowing the words and stopping in her tracks. There was such violence in his eyes that she felt a shiver of fear along her spine and guilty relief when he turned his attention back to the apprentice.
“You’ll use that black tongue to form an apology,” McAlistair said softly. He brought the knife up to the man’s gasping mouth and poised it between his lips in a vicious mockery of a kiss. “Or I’ll cut it out of your head.”
“Sorry! I’m sorry!”
McAlistair looked to her, but it took several seconds for her to realize he was waiting for her to accept or refuse the apology. She nodded frantically.
She let out a slow breath as McAlistair put his knife away. It was done, then. It was over. They could leave and—