McAlistair's Fortune by Alissa Johnson Page A

muddled she was in the mornings.
    Good heavens, he’d kissed her. She’d kissed him back. Rich delight warred with a sudden wash of nerves. Should she say something—somehow acknowledge what had happened? Would he?
    He slapped a fish down on a large flat rock and pulled out his knife. “In London, what?”
    Apparently, he would not. “I—Nothing.”
    Disappointment neatly wedged out delight. Had it been so mundane to him, that he could so easily dismiss what had passed between them? Or was it simply that what she had felt—that wonderful, nearly overpowering thrill, had not touched him as well? It was a humiliating thought, and because she didn’t care for humiliation as a rule, she pushed it aside.
    He was being a gentleman, that was all. A man of breeding would never remind a lady of what some might consider a moral lapse. Never mind the fact that a gentleman would not have kissed her to begin with; he was being one now. She should be grateful, really. It would save her from a considerable amount of awkwardness, not to mention another round of fanciful daydreams.
    He’d told her she was meant for someone else, hadn’t he? To her mind, that excuse was tantamount to a “no, thank you.” That, along with his sudden forgetfulness, told her that a few stolen kisses were all he was interested in. She would be wise to remember it.
    Pasting on an indifferent expression, she wandered forward and eyed the fish on the rock. “Whit and Alex would be monstrously impressed—”
    She broke off again and made a face as he began the cleaning process.
    He glanced up. “Haven’t you seen a fish gutted before?”
    “Oh, yes. Many times.” She kept her eyes studiously away from him and his work. “Whit and Alex often fish. Have since they were young boys.” She made another face. “Boys have a tendency to play with the bits and pieces.”
    “Left them in your bed, did they?”
    “And face the housekeeper’s wrath?” She laughed and shook her head. “They preferred chasing us about the yard with the head and…whatnot, stuck to the end of a stick.”
    “Nasty lot, little boys.” He smiled and reached for a fish. “Did you enact retribution?”
    “Tied their lines into hopeless knots,” she confirmed. She tilted her head to study him. He was practically chatty all of a sudden—asking about her family, offering to teach her to fish, initiating conversation. He was bright-eyed, alert, almost cheerful, or as cheerful as she’d ever seen him.
    “You’re a morning person.” She hadn’t meant for it to come out sounding quite so much like an accusation, but well, she had a long-standing, deep-rooted suspicion of morning people. It was so unnatural.
    “I like the light,” he replied—cryptically, in her opinion.
    “I like it too,” she mumbled. “At noon.”
    “You sleep until noon?”
    “Not unless I want a lecture from Lady Thurston on the pitfalls of sloth. I’m just not fully awake until midday.” She rubbed a hand down her face. “What do you mean, you like the light?”
    “It’s softer.”
    “Is it?” She glanced to the east and winced. “Seems uncommonly bright to me.”
    “Depends on one’s viewpoint.”
    “I suppose.” Forgetting to be disgusted, she watched him set aside the first fish and reach for the second. “Something I can do to help?” she asked.
    “Build up the fire.”
    Evie questioned the wisdom of having her play with fire first thing in the morning, but did as he asked all the same. And in the end, she was able to produce a nice flame from last night’s coals with only a singed bit of sleeve for her trouble. She sighed at the damage to her gown. Her blue travel ensemble had gone from smart and stylish to hopelessly wrinkled, stained, and now burnt. She expected the rest of her looked nearly as frightful, but aside from twisting her hair into a braid she tossed over her shoulder, there was very little she could do about it until they reached someplace where she could make