McAlistair's Fortune by Alissa Johnson

McAlistair stormed off into the woods, Evie had considered staying up simply because he had ordered her to go to sleep, but in the end, she’d decided that pretending to sleep was a sight less humiliating than standing about, waiting for him to return.
    Staring up now into the thin sliver of night sky afforded in the clearing, she might have taken some pleasure in the realization that her pile of leaves, branches, and a layer of thick blanket made for a surprisingly soft bed—might have, if she hadn’t been so damnably uncomfortable.
    Her body still hummed from McAlistair’s kiss, making her hot and restless, and her mind still reeled from his sudden withdrawal.
    Why had he turned away? Why had he tossed her the blanket, then run away? She wondered where he’d gone and when he would come back.
    Perhaps she should have gone after him. Perhaps she should go after him now.
    She wondered how mortifying it would be if she tried it, slipped and fell in the dark, and had to call out for his help.
    She was weighing the benefits of getting up and pacing off her agitation around the glowing remains of the fire, when she heard the rustle of branches. Slowly (she was attempting to feign sleep, after all) she turned her head to the side. Squinting into the dark, she was able to discern the outline of McAlistair’s form as he gathered branches at the edge of the clearing.
    She turned her head back, rolled over, and shut her eyes as he made his way toward her. She wanted to ask if he was quite done being snippy, but thought better of it—particularly after he settled down behind her. He was so close she could hear his every breath. If she were to roll over, she could reach out and touch him. The urge to do just that was nearly overpowering. But even stronger was the desire for it to be him who reached.
    “Evie?” he called softly, and nearly had her jumping off the blanket.
    “Yes?” She winced at the wealth of hope in that one word.
    “It’s James. My first name is James.”
    “Oh.” Heavens, the man really was odd. “Shall I…shall I call you James?”
    “No. My father was James, as well.”
    “McAlistair, it is, then.”
    He wouldn’t reach, she realized, but at least he wasn’t angry or cold. Willing to accept that for now, she closed her eyes and let exhaustion drag her into sleep.

Nine
    T he sun had yet to break over the tops of the trees when Evie next woke. It filtered through branches and leaves to shoot long beams onto the forest floor and softly light the clearing. She blinked blurry eyes at McAlistair’s blanket, only to find him gone.
    She sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness of her leg and…well, the stiffness of everything, really. “McAlistair?”
    She was answered by the soft crunch of leaves behind her. Turning, she saw McAlistair stride out from the trees into the clearing, two fish dangling lifelessly from one hand.
    She made a futile attempt to rub the sleep out of her eyes. “Where did you get those?”
    “Stream. Caught them.”
    She saw no sign of a fishing pole or net. “With what?”
    He held up his free hand, wiggled his fingers.
    “Oh, you did not.” She laughed. He couldn’t possibly have. She watched him set his catch down next to the fire and stir the embers. “Did you?”
    A corner of his mouth hooked up. “I could show you.”
    “What, now?”
    He shook his head. “At the cottage. There’s a stream.”
    “You’ve been there?”
    “No. I asked Mr. Hunter to draw a map at Haldon.”
    “Oh.” She yawned hugely. “Is it nice?”
    He glanced up. “Wasn’t a portrait. Just a sketch of surrounding towns, landmarks, buildings.”
    Of course it was. What else would it be—a rendition of every room, brick, and tree in watercolor? She grimaced. “I’m not at my best in the morning. I much prefer evenings and nights. In London—”
    She broke off, suddenly remembering last night in particular.
    That she could have forgotten, even for a moment, was a testament to just how