As she was the only one of the girls who enjoyed walking the woods at odd hours and eschewing the trails when there was still light, Whit had made certain to repeat his warning to her at regular intervals.
She hadn’t believed a word of it…until she’d seen McAlistair that day on the rocks, with the dying light of the sun outlining his taut frame in gold. It had only taken a heartbeat for him to catch her eye, and then he was gone, into the woods. She’d stared after him for a long time, feeling as if she’d caught a glimpse of something unworldly, something magical. Something wonderful. Every time she’d stepped into the trees after that, it had been with the hope she would glimpse that magic again.
Which was, she thought now, a perfectly ridiculous reaction—golden light and magical sightings. Honestly. When had she become so fanciful? And why the devil had she not realized it before now? She should have told her friends about seeing him, rather than keeping it to herself all these years. They would have laughed and gossiped and speculated, and otherwise turned the whole business into what it truly was—silly and insignificant.
It wasn’t particularly important, Evie assured herself. His hadn’t even been her first kiss. She wondered what McAlistair would say to that. Not a thing, she decided with an annoyed puff of breath. Likely as not, he’d simply gift her with that disconcerting stare he had—the one that made her heart race and her skin tingle.
She caught sight of her exasperated expression in the vanity mirror and groaned. Then groaned again when she noticed her plain ivory gown. If she’d known McAlistair was to come, she would have changed—worn something perhaps a bit less comfortable and a bit more flattering. Not that the dress wasn’t lovely; it was, but Lady Thurston had taught her that there was lovely, and then there was lovely. And while she may have blown the kiss out of proportion, it hardly followed that she couldn’t do her very best to remind McAlistair of why he’d kissed her. As she had noticed that men had a tendency to allow their eyes to drift downward from her face when in her company for more than a few moments, she rather thought one of the reasons might be her generous bosom.
Rising, she stepped closer to the mirror to study her face. It was nice enough, she thought without vanity—heart-shaped with wide brown eyes, a thin nose, and full lips—but it wasn’t beautiful. She would never be beautiful. Her finger traced the long thin scar that ran from her temple to her jaw, another result of the carriage accident in her childhood.
She’d been terribly self-conscious of the flaw as a child, perhaps because the injury had taken so long to heal. Even months after the wound had closed, the skin around it had remained red and swollen. And between her marred countenance and noticeable limp, she’d been certain she appeared a veritable monster.
It hadn’t helped, particularly, to have her own mother pale at the mere sight of her.
Evie had taken to hiding herself away from the gaze of others and to stammering when their gazes couldn’t be avoided. It wasn’t until Lady Thurston had brought her to live at Haldon (an offer Mrs. Cole had accepted with great relief) that the worst of her shyness had begun to ease. She’d been so quickly accepted, so openly loved by her aunt and cousins that, over time, she regained some of the confidence she had lost. Now she only grew nervous and stammered when faced with the staring eyes of someone she didn’t know well…someone like McAlistair.
“You’re going in circles, girl,” she berated herself
And because she was, it was probably best that her musings were interrupted by the crash of the connecting door to her room. Lizzy, the lady’s maid she and Kate shared, rushed in, looking breathless and excited.
“Is it true, miss? Is he really here?”
Evie turned from the mirror and resumed her seat in the chair. “I assume you’re referring to Mr. McAlistair?”
Lizzy rolled her eyes. “No, the smithy. I’m always such aflutter when he arrives. Yes, of course McAlistair.”
Evie laughed despite her foul mood. She rather thought Lizzy had to be the cheekiest lady’s maid in all of England—a distinction Evie appreciated and encouraged.
“Mr. McAlistair has indeed graced us with his presence.”
“Mister, now, is it?” Lizzy raised her eyebrows comically. Of average height and build, with a long nose and round face, she was a woman some might consider plain. But Evie had always been of the opinion that Lizzy’s dramatically expressive face made her uniquely attractive. It was impossible not to smile while in her company. “Is he a gentleman, all of a sudden?”
“He was dressed as one.”
“Oh.” Lizzy’s face fell. “I’d rather hoped to see him in all his hermit glory.”
“Life is rife with disappointment.”
“Apparently.” Lizzy took the seat across from her. “What’s he like as a gentleman, then? Is he handsome? Or have years of living as a savage taken their toll?”
“He’s handsome enough.” Enough to steal the air from her lungs.