A furrow worked into her brow. She knew Christian, a very old friend of Mirabelle and Mr. Fletcher’s, was driving the carriage, and she’d noticed before climbing in that he sat alone up top. A middle-aged man with a soft brogue, dancing green eyes, and a weak arm and leg, Christian had sparked an immediate, if not yet deep, feeling of kinship in Evie.
But kinship or not, she wasn’t about to marry a man twenty years her senior. Surely there was someone else about. She checked both windows again, craning her neck to look to the front and back of the carriage. There was no one else.
She sat back, feeling a bit stunned. These were her guards? Christian the driver, Mr. Hunter the businessman, and McAlistair the hermit? They were fine men, all, and quite probably capable of protecting a lady from harm. But surely none of them had been chosen as her intended rescuer?
“Are we to meet anyone else along the way?”
Mrs. Summers took her own turn peeking out the window. “We are all here.”
“At the cottage, then?” Evie tried. “Are there others waiting for us there?”
“No, this is the entire party. Christian shall drive, and Mr. McAlistair and Mr. Hunter shall ride alongside the carriage.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Summers retrieved a small traveling pillow from her valise. “Are you worried, dear? Because I assure you, these gentlemen—”
“No, I’m not worried.” What she was, was puzzled. Who among the three men was meant to be her knight-errant?
It must be Mr. Hunter, she decided, pulling back the curtain again to take another look at him. Not a bad choice, really, though it was surprising. She could have sworn Lady Thurston knew his interests lay elsewhere.
Still, the man was devilishly handsome. Not in the traditional sense—he was too large, as tall as Alex and even wider across the chest and arms. And his features were too dark to appeal to the current taste for pale hair and eyes. But he had very nice deep-set brown eyes, a strong, wide jaw, and a wickedly charming smile.
Rumor had it, he also had one of the largest fortunes in the country. On the marriage mart, he would be considered by some to be a fine catch. True, his parentage was suspect, but many among the ton were willing to forgive—or at least conveniently overlook—such matters when there was vast wealth and the recommendation of an earl involved.
Pity they would never suit, Evie mused. He needed someone…softer. Someone a bit more like Kate.
“Mrs. Summers, do you think—”
She broke off when she noticed Mrs. Summers was fast asleep and therefore in no position to offer an opinion.
A short nap turned out to be more of a second night’s sleep for Mrs. Summers. Evie passed the time reading until the fine print and jostling of the carriage threatened to give her a headache. She put her book aside and occupied herself by making a mental list of the work she intended to see to at the cottage, taking in the occasional glimpse of passing landscape, and trying her utmost not to dwell on the fact that, for her, McAlistair comprised the most interesting part of that scenery.
Her success was limited. Enough so that she was more than a little relieved when Mrs. Summers woke and dug out a late lunch for them to share. She desperately needed the distraction of conversation. If only Mrs. Summers would cooperate, but the woman still seemed half asleep, and clearly unenthusiastic about carrying on an extended chat. Under other circumstances, Evie would have been sympathetic to her plight. After hours of only her own thoughts for company, however, sympathy was in short supply.
“Will we be stopping to change the horses soon?” Evie bit into a thick slice of bread.
“Soon enough, I imagine.”
She swallowed and tried again. “Have you been to this cottage before? It belongs to Mr. Hunter, doesn’t it?”
“It does, and I haven’t. I am not particularly familiar with Mr. Hunter.”
The familiarity comment reminded Evie of the sweet scene she’d witnessed that morning.
“I don’t mean to pry.” She thought about that. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. I can’t help myself. Have you and Mr. Fletcher formed an attachment?”
The slightest hint of rose tinted the older woman’s sharp cheekbones. “It is possible we have.”
“Oh, that’s lovely, Mrs. Summers.” Evie grinned, genuinely happy for her friend. “Absolutely lovely. When did this happen?”
“I’m not entirely—”
The remainder of that sentence came out in a gasp as the carriage jerked and tilted sharply to the side. Evie felt herself being thrown across the interior.
A crash. They were crashing.
An image flashed across her mind, a memory of screams and pain, and the sharp smell of burning wood.
Panic swelled in an instant, wiping out all thought, all sense of her surroundings.
The next thing she knew for certain, she was on the floor of the carriage, her head against the wood frame of the front bench and something round and hard digging uncomfortably into her back.