But McAlistair seemed content with her company. And, if not content, at least willing to scan the countryside in long sweeping glances from his place beside her.
As a conversationalist, he was…well, not a dead loss, not exactly. It could safely be said, however, that he would never be considered one of the great orators of the ton. But what he lacked as an active contributor, he made up for as a passive participant. As Evie rambled from topic to topic—and after the stressful events of that morning and two days of riding in silence, she couldn’t seem to keep herself from rambling—McAlistair nodded, commented, and even asked the occasional question. In short, he listened.
And not in the way that Whit, and even Alex, sometimes listened when manners and familial loyalty dictated they feign interest in a topic they cared very little about. Just the other week, she’d seen Whit listen to Lady Thurston discuss Kate’s upcoming Season in just that way—the glazed eyes, the tapping finger, the covert glances of longing at the nearest exit.
No, McAlistair paid attention—as if he cared, as if what she said and what she thought were important. It was just what she needed after being made to feel small and helpless.
She spoke of her friends and family, of her work and her hobbies. She was so engaged in the exchange—she really didn’t know what else to call it—that it took her several minutes to realize he’d led them onto a narrow road.
She lapsed into silence. Until now, McAlistair had taken pains to keep them away from all signs of civilization whenever possible.
The road was little more than two long ruts separated by a line of tall grass. Still it was, by definition, a road, and she was surprised to be on it. She was even more surprised when they came upon a small hunting box settled back in a stand of trees. The lack of chimney smoke and the shuttered windows indicated it was unoccupied, but how could McAlistair possibly have known?
“Do you know this place?” she asked.
“Belongs to Mr. Hunter.”
“Oh.” She eyed the building thoughtfully. “Why would Mr. Hunter have a box here and a cottage only a few hours away?”
“How far is Haldon from your London townhouse?”
“Not far at all,” she admitted. “They’re for two very different purposes.”
“This is a hunting box. The other’s a coastal cottage.”
“One can’t hunt on the coast?”
“One fishes on the coast.”
“Yes, but…” She trailed off, shaking her head. What did it matter if Mr. Hunter owned half the buildings in England?
McAlistair led them around the side of the house, passing a half wall in need of repair and a small garden long since gone to seed.
“Doesn’t look as if he’s been here recently,” Evie commented.
“He’s never been here. He just owns it.”
“Why would anyone purchase a hunting box and never visit?”
“Have you been to every property owned by your family?”
She hadn’t the foggiest idea how many properties Whit owned. “I can say, with complete confidence, that I have never failed to visit a property I personally own.”
“Do you own any property?”
“Not a square inch.”
He smiled at her and led them along a small trail through the stand of trees at the back of the house. It opened immediately onto a large pond surrounded by tall reeds and rimmed green with algae. A short, boatless dock jutted out from the muddy shore.
McAlistair turned to her. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat.” Her stomach was a little jittery yet, but it was well past noon, and she’d had only the tea and apple from that morning.
“Lunch, then.”
They spread a blanket out on the soft ground a little way from the shore and dined on bread, cheese, and fruit. McAlistair had brought more than enough, and Evie found her appetite satisfied before finishing half the portion he’d given her.
Her eyes and mind turned toward the pond. With its green, murky water, it was less appealing than the clear bubbling stream they’d been following, but it would do for a quick, cooling soak of the feet…or hands. An intriguing idea came to her.
“McAlistair?”
He made some sort of masculine grunting noise to indicate he was listening, but didn’t look up from his meal.
“Do you suppose that dock is sound?”
He spared it a brief glance. “Looks it.”
“Are there fish in the pond, do you think?”
“Fair bet.”
“Can you fish with your hands from a pond?”
This time he looked up and smiled at her. “Harder, but I imagine so. You want me to teach you.”
“If we haven’t time, I understand—”
“We’ve time.” He finished the last of his apple, stood, and crumbled the remainder of the bread in his hand. “Not likely to catch anything this time of day, not in a pond, but I can show you the basics.”
She bounded up. “Excellent.”
“You’re very interested in this,” he commented.
She shrugged and followed him toward the dock. “I’m interested in anything that lends itself to self-sufficiency.”
“You’d like to be self-sufficient?”
“I should like to know I could be.”