“I don’t need brandy. I—” I need McAlistair, she thought.
But her protests went ignored and in short order she found herself bustled out of the room.
Twenty-eight
With his arm aching like the devil, McAlistair paced the hallway outside the library. It was an unusual behavior for him, pacing, and one he found fairly lowering. He wasn’t in the habit of indulging in nervous movement. But though he had tried, he couldn’t seem to sit still. The inner calm he’d relied on for years had abandoned him, leaving him a bundle of nerves and energy.
Not wholly unexpected, he supposed, when a man was working through the details of a marriage proposal.
But still irritating.
And absurd. He hadn’t a thing to be nervous about. His plan was sound, his reasoning infallible. Evie would marry him.
He had come to the decision only minutes earlier, while he, Christian, and Mr. Hunter had draped a bound and newly conscious Herbert over the back of a horse. The man had ranted and raved, promising one revenge after another. That was only to be expected, and McAlistair might have simply ignored the noise if Herbert had limited his threats to him. But the footman had had quite a lot to say about Evie as well…until Christian had stuffed a gag in his mouth, anyway.
McAlistair stopped pacing just long enough to drag a hand down his face.
It was his fault. The threatening letter, the carriage accident, the attempt on Evie’s life—all of it was because of him. Evie had been no more than a pawn in a man’s quest for vengeance. Bloody hell, if it hadn’t been for him, she would have spent the week safely at Haldon, comfortably going about doing…whatever it was she did at Haldon.
Scowling, McAlistair walked to the door to stare at it without seeing.
It was exactly what Evie did do when she wasn’t embroiled in someone else’s vengeful scheme that had propelled him to decide on marriage. The woman didn’t spend her days balancing ledgers and rowing out on the lake. She spent at least some of her time thumbing her nose at violent men. True, at the moment she did so in secret, but how long would she be content with that? How long before someone else broke into her writing desk?
She was rash by nature and too overconfident by half.
He remembered, yet again, that horrible moment when he had been certain she would throw herself in front of Herbert’s gun. She never would have reached him in time to keep him from firing. She simply wasn’t fast enough. The act would have killed her. And yet she would have tried.
He’d never felt so sick, so horrified, so utterly helpless as he had in that moment. Not even when he’d heard the shot on the beach or seen her fighting the blacksmith’s apprentice or disappearing beneath the water of the pond, or…
Bloody hell, the woman was in perpetual peril—half of it of her own doing.
And between the danger he’d put her in and the danger she courted, Evie’s future safety looked fairly bleak.
Well, he could do something about that.
He could protect her. He would protect her. From herself and from whatever ghosts from his past sought to punish him through her. But to do so, he needed to be close to her, not hidden away in a remote cabin. And being close required marriage. There was nothing else for it.
She might not be amenable to the idea of becoming his wife—and he, admittedly, was no longer amenable to the idea of her becoming someone else’s wife—but she could be made to see reason. Or he could drag her in front of a vicar, kicking and swearing. Either way, he wasn’t letting her out of his sight again.
Resolute, he pushed his way through the library door.
Evie stood next to the fireplace, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and Mrs. Summers at her side.
“I want a moment with Evie, alone.”
Mrs. Summers merely winged up one brow. “Do you, indeed?”
“Please,” McAlistair added begrudgingly.
Mrs. Summers pursed her lips but nodded. “I shall be just down the hall.”
He waited impatiently for Mrs. Summers to leave. When she finally did, he stepped to Evie, and wrapping his strong arm around her, pressed his face to her neck and simply breathed her in.
Evie burrowed into him. “Your arm? You’re all right?”
“I’ll be fine.” He set aside nerves and anger, and let himself savor the feel of Evie, safe and warm against him. He ran his hand up her back, into her hair, down her shoulders. “Mr. Hunter bandaged it for me. He and Christian have taken Herbert to the magistrate in Charplins.”
She nodded, her cheek brushing against his chest. “It’s over then.”
No, not over, he thought, pulling away. Not quite yet.
*Evie started a little at McAlistair’s sudden withdrawal.
“Is something the matter?” she asked hesitantly, pulling the blanket closer around her.
His answer was to give her a hard, penetrating glare, then turning to pace the length of the room.
“Are…Are you angry with me?”