A brisk stroll was just what she needed to sort out her thoughts—or, perhaps more accurately, to sort through her confusion. Working her way around the house, she headed for the beach, barely noticing the fine mist that still clung to the air.
If Mr. Hunter was not her would-be rescuer, who the devil was? And what the devil was taking him so long? It was her third day at the cottage—how long did her matchmakers think to keep her sitting about, waiting?
And how would she feel when he arrived? It would mean making clear, once and for all, that she was not to be swept off her feet. It would mean returning to Haldon. It would mean parting ways with McAlistair.
She stopped next to a stand of rocks on the edge of the shore and looked out across the water.
The last time she and McAlistair had kissed and parted ways, she had neither seen nor heard from him again for months. Would it be the same?
Did it matter so very much if it was?
It did matter. She knew even before she’d asked the question that it mattered a great deal. For pity’s sake, she’d been disappointed merely because he’d been out of the house that morning. What would she do with a lifetime of mornings without him?
Her heart sank at the mere thought.
And then it froze when a shot rang out. The sharp sound sliced through the wet air, and something ricocheted off the rock behind her, sending up a fine mist of dust. Instinctively, she dropped to her knees and scurried behind the rocks.
Stunned, her first thought was that some idiot had come out to hunt in the woods next to the house and she’d walked between that idiot and his target. But even before she’d finished that thought, another occurred to her. There shouldn’t be a soul for miles, other than those in the house. And she was wearing an ivory gown and standing next to a dark rock. Unless the shooter was blind as well as stupid, it would have been nearly impossible to overlook her presence. Realization crept in like frost, chilling her to the core.
Someone had shot at her.
She glanced up quickly to determine how much protection was provided by the rocks. Enough, she thought. She hoped. Enough as long as she stayed low to the ground. The image of herself, helpless and crouching like a cornered animal, flashed through her mind and was firmly pushed aside. The rocks would keep her safe…unless the shooter moved. Her gaze shifted to the left, then the right…just in time to glimpse the dark form of a man before he dove on top of her, shoving her to the ground.
Panic raced through her, with fury chasing close behind. She shoved herself to one side, using the rock for leverage, and threw her fist out at the same time. It was an awkward movement, but she would have landed the jab on the man’s chin, if McAlistair hadn’t been quick enough to intercept her fist.
“It’s me. It’s all right.” McAlistair released her arm to hurriedly run his hands over her, frantically checking for injuries. “Evie, are you hurt? Are you hurt anywhere?”
She shook her head.
His eyes tracked over her. “You’re certain?”
“Yes, I…yes.” She was too stunned yet to notice the shudder that ran through him. She swallowed hard. “Someone shot at me.”
“Your gun,” he said tersely.
“What?”
“Your gun, where is it?”
What the devil was he talking about? “I don’t have a gun.”
He swore and nudged her back onto her stomach. Crouching over her protectively, he half pushed, half dragged her closer to the nearest rock. “Keep your head down.”
It was sound, if needless, advice—did he think she was going to pop up and demand an explanation? With blood pounding loudly in her ears, she watched as McAlistair aimed a gun over the top of the rock.
“How fast can you run?” he asked without looking at her.
“Not very, usually.” But then she’d never had someone shooting at her either. She almost asked if they should wait for Christian or Mr. Hunterto come from the house—surely, they had heard the shot—but she swallowed the suggestion at the last moment. She didn’t want someone else to make himself a target on her behalf.
McAlistair narrowed his eyes and squeezed off a shot. The resulting blast echoed off the rocks and set her ears ringing—she barely heard the succinct curse from McAlistair that followed.
“He’s gone.”
She heard that. “He is?” She gathered the courage to raise her head and peer around the edge of the boulder. “You’re certain?”
He stood, looked around, then hauled her to her feet by way of answering. “He had a horse.”
“You saw him?” she asked as he took her hand and started toward the house at such a clipped pace she had to run or risk being dragged. “Who was it? Why—”
“I only saw the horse and his back. I don’t know who it was. Why the devil didn’t you bring the gun Mrs. Summers gave you?”