“This and that.”
When he failed to elaborate, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, that’s fine, then.”
It earned a chuckle from Mr. Hunter. “I believe McAlistair means to ride into Charplins, the nearest village.”
“I see.” She wanted to ask if she could go along, but knew too well what the answer would be. “Is it far?”
“The round trip takes several hours,” Mr. Hunter supplied.
“So long?” She couldn’t imagine climbing back into a saddle for hours so soon after their arrival. She turned to McAlistair. “Surely you needn’t go today. Couldn’t you take a day to rest?”
“No. The town has an inn.”
“Many towns do.”
“Inns are the center of information in a town,” Christian said, lifting his attention from his enormous plate of food for the first time.
“Oh.” She looked to McAlistair, wondering why he hadn’t given her the explanation, why he was offering almost nothing to the conversation.
And then it came to her. He’d grown silent for the same reason she’d begun stuttering…because there were others in the room.
She didn’t think it was shyness, as it was for her. It was caution. The man was careful in a way she didn’t understand. He was deliberate in everything—what he said, how he moved, in the company he kept. She wondered if he was being careful of himself or of everyone else.
He’d become much less careful around her, she realized. The change had simply been so gradual over the past few days, she’d hardly noticed the vast difference until now.
Wary of destroying a progress she’d only just discovered, she made no further attempt to draw McAlistair into conversation. Not that she was given much opportunity. With the business of sailing settled, the conversation soon moved to the topic of steam power, of which Evie knew absolutely nothing. After ten minutes of listening to Christian and Mr. Hunter debate the future of such an unlikely resource, Evie made her excuses, gathered up a batch of dishes, and with a stifled groan, reluctantly brought them to the kitchen for washing.
It was going to require a mountain of soap to remove all that butter.
Nineteen
Bloody hell, he was sore.
McAlistair stood inside the front door of the house and indulged in a brief acknowledgment of his various aches and pains. The majority centered on his lower body, and all of them were attributable to too many hours in the saddle.
He rolled his shoulders, stretched his back a little, then peeled off his gloves. Aching or not, saddle-sore or not, the trip into town had been necessary. It hadn’t netted him any new information, but it had been fruitful nonetheless.
According to the proprietor of Charplins’s sole inn and tavern, McAlistair and Christian were the only newcomers to cross his threshold in the last four days. For a reasonable fee—reasonable by the innkeeper’s reckoning, substantial by anyone else’s—he would be more than happy to send word to Mr. Hunter’s should any travelers arrive.
McAlistair had handed over the money—along with a word of caution against failing to own up to the bargain—and that had been the end of his business at the inn. After a ride through town to familiarize themselves with the streets, he and Christian had ridden back to the Mr. Hunter’s.
They’d carefully scouted the area along the way—assessing routes, vantage points, and hiding places—but they discovered nothing out of the ordinary. Either their enemy hadn’t followed them to Suffolk, or he’d found shelter elsewhere. There was little else to do now but watch and wait.
It scraped at his nerves, this waiting. A man of action, he longed to hunt Evie’s adversary down himself, and though he’d not admit it aloud, it grated not to be included in the chase. But far more unappealing was the idea of leaving Evie’s safety in someone else’s hands.
Pulling absently at his cravat, McAlistair made his way down the hall. He stopped at the open doorway of the library, a slight movement catching his eye.
Evie sat at a small writing desk, her back to the window, a stream of late-afternoon light falling over her hair, infusing the soft brown with strands of bronze. His heart tripped. It always did at the first sight of her. Unaware of his presence, she slowly brushed the end of her pen back and forth along her bottom lip. He found the act adorable…and painfully erotic.