Read Online McAlistair's Fortune by Alissa Johnson - Free Book Online Page A

removed was short-lived. The tingle traveled up to her ankle, her knee, her thigh. She knew what it meant. She’d woken in the small hours of the morning with a numb arm or foot often enough to know the innocuous pins and needles would soon be replaced by knives and daggers.
    That too started in her toes, the horrible burning and cramping that made even the thought of being touched nearly unbearable. It worked its way through her foot to her ankle. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyelids tighter, determined not to cry out.
    She could feel McAlistair’s hands now, but she was no longer fascinated by the idea of his touch. His fingers felt like hot coals pressing into her skin. In an effort to keep her hands from slapping his away, she grasped at the dirt and grass beneath her. Please stop, was all she could think. Please stop.
    His voice floated over the pain. “Move your leg.”
    She knew he was right. Knew that movement would help the pain pass more quickly.
    The very idea of moving made her want to weep.
    She managed a very muffled “no” through compressed lips.
    The burn spread past her calf
    “Move your leg, Evie.”
    She shook her head and bit the inside of her cheek. The cramping reached her knee, her thigh, her hip. She was in agony.
    “Evie—” “Oh, sod off!”
    She bolted upright, gripped her leg at her thigh, and began to swear.

Seven
    F or a time, Evie had been in the habit of collecting swear words. It had begun as a sort of academic study—an attempt to understand the colorful language that was sometimes tossed about in the less respectable neighborhoods she visited. But it had quickly grown into a hobby. One she’d enjoyed immensely. She’d badgered anyone who had been willing to aid her in her quest and, over time, had managed to amass a truly impressive arsenal of curses.
    She used each and every one of them now.
    The most vulgar came first, spat out between gritted teeth and a jaw locked tight with pain. A small part of her cringed at what she was saying and hoped desperately that it was unintelligible. But as that small part of her was also insisting she stop talking, it went largely ignored.
    As the burn began to ease, so did the intensity of her curses. The merely moderately offensive were brought out as the daggers retracted, and when the last cramped muscle relaxed, she ended her symphony of profanity with the phrase, “Oh, bloody, bloody, bloody hell,” and fell back onto the grass with a long exhale.
    Utterly exhausted, she remained there with her eyes closed and her breath coming in pants. She was aware of McAlistair moving around her, even going off into the trees for a bit, and wondered what he was doing. But it was several more minutes before she mustered the energy to open her eyes and assuage her curiosity.
    She found him standing over her with what looked to be a damp cloth in his hand. Kneeling, he pressed the cloth to her forehead. “Better?”
    She nearly whimpered with pleasure at the feel of the cool water against her brow. Another layer of misery slid away. “Much, thank you.”
    He turned the cloth over. “You swear.”
    There was no censure in his voice, no shock or disappointment, just a hint of surprise. It was such a mild response to the horrid words she’d spoken. If the air was actually capable of turning blue, Evie imagined the space between them would be darker than the deepest part of the ocean, at night.
    She felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I beg your pardon.”
    “No need.”
    She remembered suddenly that at least one of those swears had been specifically addressed to him. She grimaced. “There is. I told you to…that is, I said—”
    “You were in pain. It’s understandable.”
    “Thank you.” She waited for him to say more, then realized that waiting for McAlistair to elaborate on something was rather like waiting for ice to thaw in January. A singularly pointless pursuit. She searched for something else to say, instead. “Aren’t you