While Mrs. Summers and Mr. Hunter passed their shares to Christian across the table, Evie shot a covert glance at McAlistair. For all her bravado after he’d left her in the kitchen, she’d found herself unable to meet his gaze in the dining room. Her body still hummed everywhere he’d touched her and in a few places he hadn’t. She was certain the prickly need she felt for him was evident in her eyes, along with the stinging heat of embarrassment. Perhaps McAlistair hadn’t been the first man she’d ever kissed, but he had certainly been the first man to kiss her like that.
Feeling the beginnings of a blush, she looked at him only long enough to discern that he didn’t appear to be suffering from any lingering aftereffects of the kiss, the insufferable cad. He wasn’t blushing or shifting about in his chair or sneaking peeks through lowered lashes—all of which she’d been guilty of in the last quarter hour. He was sitting still as a statue, his gaze—and she could only assume his thoughts—fixed firmly on his plate.
At the sight of his indifference, Evie felt her heart crack just a little.
Then he looked up, caught her eye, and smiled. And she felt that crack widen, until she thought her heart might split in two…for him.
No one should have to smile like that, was all she could think. No one should ever have to smile like that.
There was no pleasure in the small, nearly imperceptible curve of his lips. There was nothing that spoke of amusement, or subtle teasing, or even the simple delight to be had in a shared secret. She searched his dark eyes, hoping to find a spark of joy, but she found only apology, and a sorrow she didn’t understand.
She wanted to stand up and go to him. She ached to put her arms around him and press her lips to his…and demand he tell her why he hurt.
Instead, she smiled back.
Setting aside the pain in her chest, she offered a smile infused with every ounce of laughter and affection and forgiveness that she could muster. Never mind that she hadn’t any idea what she was forgiving him for—if he needed it, he’d have it.
His lips curved a little higher.
Her smile grew into a grin.
And then, to her vast relief, some of the dark clouds lifted from his eyes.
Better, she thought. So much better.
“Does that sit well with you, Miss Cole?”
Evie barely refrained from jerking at Mr. Hunter’s question. She snapped her eyes away from McAlistair. Oh dear, what had the others been speaking of? “Er…yes?”
“Excellent. You can assist Mrs. Summers and Christian in their duties as needed. McAlistair can take over the preparation of meals.”
McAlistair raised a single brow at the assumption, then shrugged. “I can cook.”
When the meal—such as it was—was completed, Evie took herself off to the library, Mrs. Summers retired to her room with her needlework, and the gentlemen headed to the study with their brandy. Evie found the last highly amusing. She’d always considered the business of brandy in the study a ritual reserved for formal dinners and house parties. But if this was a house party, it was quite the oddest one she had ever attended.
Smiling to herself, she stepped into the library, gave the window seat an assessing look—perhaps tomorrow—and began to hunt for a book that might catch her imagination. As she was an avid reader with a broad range of interests, it was generally a task completed in a matter of minutes. But she soon discovered that Mr. Hunter had inexplicably filled his shelves almost exclusively with books dedicated to the businesses of trade and farming.
Eventually, she managed to find a small section of philosophy and chose several tomes from there. It wasn’t a topic that usually captured her interest, but it was preferable to a detailed history of the various breeds of English cattle.
With her selection tucked comfortably under her arm, she headed for her room, planning to retire early so she might start her day of sailing before noon.
She barely spared a thought to the murmur of masculine voices drifting from the study…until she heard her name mentioned.
Evie paused at the entrance. The door to the study was ajar, leaving an inch or two of space, and she could see—with a bit a maneuvering that required her to set down her books—McAlistair, Christian, and Mr. Hunter seated around a small, ornate table in the corner.
“As no one appears willing to bring it up, I suppose the duty falls to me.” Mr. Hunter swirled the brandy in his snifter. “Perhaps we should consider drawing the culprit, or culprits, out of hiding.”
“With what?” Christian asked.
Mr. Hunter looked up pointedly to the ceiling, which also happened to be the floor to Evie’s bedroom. “Bait.”
McAlistair fairly snarled. “No.”
“Merely exploring all the avenues available to us. It doesn’t sit well with me, this sitting about, doing nothing, whilst Alex and Whit see to business.” Mr. Hunter scowled down at his glass. “I feel like a wife.”
“It’s sensitive, you are,” Christian said with a grin. “On account of that pretty face. Would you be wanting someone to take care of that problem for you?”
“I’d have to be a woman to lose a fight to the likes of you,” Mr. Hunter said with a snide smile of his own. “An old blind, deaf, senile, bedridden, armless—”
“If we’re done?” McAlistair pinned Mr. Hunter with a cold look. “We brought Evie here to keep her hidden, to keep her safe—”
“Evie, now, is it?”