“It won’t—”
“If we stay out here long enough, you won’t have to cook lunch.”
He stopped arguing.
They spent the whole morning in the little boat, rowing up and down the shore, trading seats whenever one grew tired. Well, whenever Evie grew tired—McAlistair seemed never to run out of energy. Away from the others, he once again became the less reticent man he’d been on their trip. He spoke a little of his family, and she was surprised to learn he had kept in contact with them during his time as a hermit, with Whit bringing mail to and from the woods. She discovered he’d had a fear of storms as a very small child, and a revolting—in Evie’s opinion—fascination with insects as an older boy. He even hinted at his time as a soldier, but as he did so only with prodding and seemed to grow quiet afterward, Evie didn’t push the subject. She dearly wished to know everything about him, but she needn’t learn it all today. Today was for pleasure—for sun and smiles and laughter. She managed to draw the latter out of him. Only because she accidentally dropped an oar in the water and in her eagerness to retrieve it nearly fell overboard herself, but it was still laughter, and it warmed her heart no less than the first time she had heard it.
They stayed out for another half hour after that, before McAlistair insisted on rowing back to shore. It was well past noon, and they couldn’t remain in their little boat forever, he maintained. A shame, to Evie’s mind. She found she liked being on the water.
She found she liked having McAlistair as captive company even more.
But there was no arguing with him, and all too soon he had escorted her up the back lawn and into the house, where they parted ways. He headed for the kitchen, the poor devil, while she dragged herself to her room. Her arms ached terribly, but a hot soak would likely ease the worst of it.
She imagined hauling up the tub and water.
Perhaps she’d just curl up in the comfortable-looking chair by the window and read for a bit.
Then perhaps she would see about visiting McAlistair in the kitchen.
She fell asleep in her chair and woke several hours later to a stiff neck and a loud rapping, followed by the creak of her bedroom door.
“Evie?” Mrs. Summers stuck her head into the room. “Evie, it is time for dinner.”
“Dinner?” She blinked the sleep from her eyes and turned to the window. “But it’s light out yet.”
“Yes, well, Mr. McAlistair appears to be accustomed to eating at an earlier hour.”
“He is?” He was? Bloody hell, why hadn’t she learned that today? “But I—”…wanted to not dare him into kissing me again. She snapped her mouth shut.
“Would you prefer a plate set aside for later?” Mrs. Summers inquired.
Evie shook her head, and stood. “No, thank you. I am rather hungry.” Just not quite as hungry as she was disappointed. “I’ll be down momentarily.”
By the time Evie had shaken out the more unsightly wrinkles from her dress, pinned her hair back up, and made her way to the dining room, dinner had already been served and a plate fixed and waiting for her. The meat looked to be some sort of fowl, but it was impossible to ask McAlistair which sort, as he was notably absent from the room.
“Won’t Mr. McAlistair be joining us?” she asked Mrs. Summers as she took her seat.
“He will. He has gone to the kitchen for the rolls.”
“Oh, I’m not terribly late, then.”
Christian smiled at her. “Not late at all. We’ve only just sat down.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” She scooped up a forkful of peas to her mouth, hesitated, and glanced about the table. Only just sat down? They hadn’t yet begun eating?
Considering the last few meals prepared at the cottage, perhaps it would be best if she let someone else brave the first bite. Not that she hadn’t faith in McAlistair’s ability as a cook—she did. She’d eaten what he’d prepared in the woods, after all, and suffered no ill effects. But then, he hadn’t had access to spices or butter, had he? A person could do a great deal of harm to a meal with injudicious applications of spices and butter.
She looked to Mrs. Summers, who, unfortunately, seemed to have come to the same conclusion. Her fork was raised no more than an inch above her plate, and her gaze was fixed squarely on Evie.
Evie’s gaze jumped to Christian, who was poking at his food while simultaneously stealing glances in her direction, and Mr. Hunter hadn’t bothered picking up a utensil at all. He sat watching her, a slightly amused smile on his face.
Bloody hell, they were all waiting for her.
She set the fork down. “Perhaps we should wait for McAlistair.”