As soon as her feet were on the ground, she shoved at him. Not hard and more with mindless frustration than an intention to harm. “I have had more than enough of being pushed about for one day,” she snapped.
“I know. Give me the gun, Evie.” His voice was filled with understanding, and the grip he retained on her waist was both implacable and impossibly gentle.
She wanted to brain him with the butt of the gun.
Sympathy and kindness were the very last things she wanted at present. They ate away at her fury, and that fury was the one thing standing between her and the unbearable feeling of helplessness.
“It’s not your gun.” Now she was just being juvenile, but that too was preferable to the alternative.
“I know,” he said softly.
“Mrs. Summers gave it to me to use as I saw fit.” And she could very clearly see herself shooting the loathsome apprentice precisely where it would give the man the most pain for the longest amount of time.
“You wouldn’t let me hurt him.”
“He didn’t come after you, did he?” She heard her voice crack, and it frightened her. A bubble formed in her throat, and tears welled and burned in her eyes. She shoved the gun at him. “Here, then. Take it.”
“I’m sorry, Evie.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Without another word, she pulled away, spun around, and stalked off in the direction of the stream. Her body itched to run, to get as far away as fast as possible, but there was so little dignity to be had in running—particularly when one was burdened with a weak leg—and she was in desperate need of what little dignity she could muster.
McAlistair fought the urge to chase after Evie. It didn’t seem right to let her go off, hurting and alone. He scowled as her form disappeared into the shade of trees that bordered the stream, but aside from leading the horses near enough that he could easily hear her call out if she needed him, he made no other move to follow. She wanted solitude, and he could give her that—give her a few minutes to storm off the worst of her temper and pull herself together.
Bloody hell, he hardly knew what to say to her, or what to do for her. He had no experience with this sort of thing. He’d grown up with brothers. He’d lived as a soldier, an assassin, and a hermit. What did he know of comforting women?
Frustrated, he shoved her gun back into the pouch behind her saddle. He needed a few minutes as well—to calm the animal still pacing inside, to bank the fury that still pounded in his blood.
He’d wanted to snap the apprentice in two.
His arms had itched to squeeze the man’s neck tighter. The hand holding the knife had ached to push deeper.
He’d wanted vengeance, and eight years ago, he would have taken it. One slice of the knife or twist of the neck, and that would have been it.
But he wasn’t the same man he’d been eight years earlier.
He’d killed for vengeance once. He knew better than most what little consolation it brought.
And then there’d been Evie, staring at him with those wide, frightened eyes. He couldn’t very well slice the bastard open with her watching, could he?
She’d already been through enough.
He looked toward the stream and decided Evie had had enough solitude.
He couldn’t tolerate the thought of her standing there alone—hurt, afraid, and angry. Maybe he didn’t know what to say, but he could at least be nearby if she needed him.
He wondered if he should force her to talk to him. It seemed the sort of thing to make her feel better. Evie was inordinately fond of talking.
He tied the horses and picked his way toward the water.
Would she be weeping? He felt his hands grow clammy.
Please, God, don’t let her be weeping.
He could make conversation, stilted perhaps, but he knew the basics. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what to do with a crying woman.
To his immense relief, he found her sitting at the very edge of the stream, her arms wrapped around her knees, and her perfectly dry eyes fixed on the water.
He sat next to her and struggled to find something to say—anything that might erase the glum frustration etched on her face.
“Feel any better?” The question was, to his regret, the very best he could come up with.
She gave the smallest of shrugs. “A little. I threw rocks at the water.”
He looked to the stream. It was narrow here, the water flowing deep and fast. He imagined a good-sized rock would produce a respectable splash. “That can help.”
“And I kicked a tree.”
“Also beneficial.”
“I don’t like it,” she said, her voice sounding heartbreakingly fragile. “I don’t like the way it made me feel.”
He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to rub at the pain in his chest. He wanted to go back to the blacksmith’s and kill the apprentice. Feeling awkward and helpless, he reached out to gently stroke her back.
“Angry?” he asked, hoping beyond hope that talking really would make her feel better.
“Well, yes, but…” She swallowed hard, and he felt her lean, just a little, into his touch, “…but mostly weak…and helpless.”