Flirt with Mr. Hunter, would she?
McAlistair took the back steps two at a time. Maybe he shouldn’t have put his hands on her, but it was too late to take that back. It was much too late for her to change her mind. And if Evie thought otherwise, she was sadly mistaken.
She belonged to him now.
Perhaps not forever, perhaps for only as long as it took to make her safe, but for now, for today, she was his. And only his.
Sharing, to McAlistair’s mind, had always been overrated. Any man with six brothers could attest to that.
After a brief and irritating search, he found her in the library, alone, and curled up—nearly swallowed, really—in the cushions of the window seat, with a book against her knees.
The gentle light from a spray of candles illuminated the room and cast a gold glow over her frame. A few warm brown tendrils of hair had slipped from their pins to fall in soft curls down her back. She’d grow annoyed by them eventually and shove them back in. For now, she appeared content, comfortable, lost in whatever world her book had opened for her.
She looked so beautiful.
How many times would he have to look at her before that instant of wonder he felt when she first came into view finally dimmed?
Because the answer to that sat like a weight on his heart—it hadn’t dimmed in eight years of looking at her—he cleared his throat loudly to break the moment.
She glanced up and offered a shy smile. “Good morning.”
“You shouldn’t be sitting in front of the window.”
Her brow furrowed a little at his rough tone. “The drapes are closed. And I had to try it at least once.” She closed her book and made an awkward attempt to swing her legs over the edge of the seat cushion. She succeeded in tangling her skirts and nearly rapping her head against the wall, but very little else.
Eager to get to the topic at hand, and not one to bother himself with the finer points—or any points, really—of tact, he asked, “What is Mr. Hunter to you?”
“Hmm?” She didn’t look up from where she was—he could only assume—attempting to scoot her weight to the edge of the cushions. “I believe he’s still abed.”
He stepped forward and plucked her off the cushions and set her on her feet with more force than finesse.
“Heavens.” She stepped away to right her hopelessly twisted gown. “What’s gotten into you?”
“You. Mr. Hunter.”
She blinked at that. “Well, which is it?”
“Both.”
The beginnings of temper flashed in her eyes. “I see, and what is it we’ve done?”
“That’s the question I asked you.”
She titled her head at him. “You want me to tell you what we’ve done to irritate you?”
“I want you to tell me if you’ve done something I should be irritated about.”
“As you’re quite obviously irritated already, I would say we have.” She gave her gown one final tug. “Now then, if you’re done asking silly questions, I’d like to finish my book.”
“I’m not done.” And he damn well wasn’t silly. Assassins, former or otherwise, were categorically incapable of being silly. “What’s between you and Mr. Hunter?”
Her eyes widened slightly, the temper flashed in her eyes, and then her face hardened into a cold mask. “At the moment, there are several walls and the space of roughly thirty yards between Mr. Hunter and myself.”
“Don’t play games, Evie.” He felt his hands ball into fists. “I watched you last night.”
“Watched me what, precisely?”
“Flirt.”
Flirt?
Evie didn’t mind jealousy from McAlistair. In fact, she quite liked the idea—it was a first for her, after all. She did not, however, care for the accusation that her behavior had been the cause. She’d much prefer a general sort of jealously—the kind she’d seen Whit and Alex exhibit when another gentleman glanced too long in their wives’ directions. That was rather sweet.
This was rather insulting.
“Do you think I hopped from your bed to his?” she asked in a cool, soft voice.
“I…” He had the grace to grimace a little. “No. No, I don’t.”
That was something, anyway. “Do you think me capable of—”
“No.”
“Then I fail to see why you’re angry with me.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “He’s a rake.”
She gestured impatiently at the door. “Well, go lecture him, then.”
He scowled—or continued to scowl, to be precise—and then clasped his hands behind his back in a supremely dignified sort of way that reminded her of Whit.
“I don’t like that he touched you,” he said.
Her heart softened at the reluctant embarrassment in his voice. “That he patted my hand, do you mean?”
“Was there something else?”
“No,” she quickly assured him. “It was only a consolatory gesture, McAlistair. He was being kind.”