Lost to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 1) (2 page)

Her aunt fell silent while she stared at a point beyond Evelyn’s shoulder.

Feeling somewhat impatient and having never ventured as far as the New Forest before, Evelyn asked, “Do you know anything about the area? Any exciting tales from ancient folklore?”

“Not really,” her aunt sighed, “though there are tales of the Earl of Hale. He lives a mile or two from here. Have you heard of him?”

Evelyn pondered the question. “The Earl of Hale. The name’s familiar. Do you mean the gentleman who’s said to be horribly disfigured?”

“Well, that’s what folk say.”

“But you’ve never seen him?”

“No, no,” her aunt said shaking her head vigorously as though the thought was abhorrent. “No one has.”

“Then how do they know he’s disfigured?”

Her aunt shrugged. “I’m sure someone must have seen him at some point. They say he had an accident abroad. When the old earl died, they say he wouldn’t set foot near the grave. He hung back in the shadows, his collar raised up to his cheekbones, the brim of his hat touching the tip of his nose.”

“To hide his terrible scars, I imagine.”

“Some say he’d been standing there all night.”

Evelyn was so intrigued she’d almost forgotten they were in danger of being blown away. She imagined all sorts of hideous marks: raised pink rivulets running down his cheek, an earlobe missing, an eye drooping and sagging. Had the earl been injured in a fight or fire?

“And he lives not far from here?” she said trying to distract her wayward thoughts.

“Yes. In an old Elizabethan house in a clearing.”

They fell silent for a moment.

Aunt Beatrice’s head shot up, and she gave a little gasp. “Have I told you about the
Pixey
mounds? Well, that’s what the locals call them. You’ll find them dotted all around the forest.”

“Someone must have seen him recently.”

Aunt Beatrice jerked her head back. “Who, the
Pixey
? The mounds are old burial sites. I don’t think they’ve got anything to do with real pixies.”

“Not the pixies — the earl. Someone must have seen him since the accident.”

Her aunt shrugged. “Well, I guess we’ll never —”

They heard the dull thud before they felt the tremor that shook the carriage. The horses’ high-pitched neighs were long and loud and interspersed with the coachman’s cries and curses. The carriage swayed left and right, throwing them from their seats as they scrambled to hold on. They felt an almighty bump, the wheels on the right lifting clean off the ground, the carriage tipping left as they hit a ditch.

They continued to fall, crashing down onto the forest floor, the sound of splintering wood lost amongst their shrieks and screams. Evelyn’s head rebounded off the inside wall, and suddenly everything went black.

Evelyn opened her eyes and blinked rapidly as she tried to focus. She had no notion how long she’d lay there in a crumpled heap, curled next to the body of her aunt. She felt no immediate pain, other than a pounding behind her eyes.

“Aunt Beatrice,” she whispered to the listless woman lying next to her. “Aunt Beatrice.”

She waited for a sign of life: a cough, a gasp, a sigh. But the world had fallen deathly silent. Flexing her fingers and lifting her arms to check her limbs were able, Evelyn grabbed the edge of the seat and tried to stand. The carriage lay on its side, the window above them framing a mass of purple and black clouds, so thick she imagined she could touch them.

Dragging herself up on her feet, she turned to examine her aunt’s body. Lying on her side with her head facing away, her aunt was too quiet, too still. She patte
d the folds of her aunt’s skirt, moving up to her arm and shoulder. Nothing appeared to be broken. Then she noticed that her head was squashed against the shattered window. Evelyn pushed her hand under the old lady’s cheek, and it felt slimy and sticky.

With a gasp she pulled her hand away, her pale pink glove now a deep shade of red.

There was blood, too much blood. She needed to get help, quick.

Pushing the carriage door open, she climbed out and lowered herself down to the ground.

An uprooted tree trunk blocked the road, the knobbly branches disappearing into the forest.
No doubt this was the reason for the startled horses.
Miraculously, the team of four were unharmed and stood quietly waiting for instruction, oblivious to the disaster that had just unfolded or the upturned wreckage behind them.

Evelyn scanned the area looking for the driver and spotted the burly figure lying sprawled out on the ground. She raced over to him and touched the back of his coat, rocking gently in the hope of rousing him.

Nothing.

Her aunt’s words drifted into her thoughts.

It’s just a few miles to the inn.

After giving each one of the horses a reassuring pat and a few calming words, she wrapped her cloak around her, climbed over the trunk and hurried down the road.

She tried to run, desperate to reach the inn before dusk, knowing how difficult it would be to rouse help come nightfall. But the biting wind made her task more arduous.

When she came to a fork in the road, she stopped and took a moment to catch her breath as she examined her options. Surely the road ahead led to the inn. It appeared to be wider, the well-worn grooves suggesting regular use. So why was she drawn to the narrower, overgrown lane? Why did she feel a strange tug in her stomach at the thought of taking any other route?

Dismissing the feeling, she carried on along the wider path, her thoughts focused on reaching the inn.

But then she stopped abruptly, glanced back over her shoulder and stared.

The earl lived near, her aunt had said.

For some strange reason unbeknown to her, she turned around, retraced her steps and hurried down the narrow lane. Evelyn had always believed, instinctively, one knew when something felt right. The further down the lane she ran, the more it felt like the right decision.

Doubt crept in when she came to the clearing, when she stumbled upon the huge, rusty iron gates. She could see the Elizabethan building at the end of the path — the home of the Earl of Hale, she presumed.

The gates were locked.

A thick chain had been threaded through the railings, making it impossible to open them. Judging by the amount of weeds sprouting out of the gravel, the entrance hadn’t been used for some time. The impression was one of neglect, of desolation, of utter hopelessness.

Evelyn was not foolish enough to attempt to climb the gates, and the stone wall running along the boundary seemed too high.

Surely there was another way in.

She followed the boundary to the left for a few minutes until she came to a tree; its lowest branch overhung the wall. Bunching her dress up to her knees she climbed the tree, receiving a few bumps and grazes in the process. If only she’d not discarded her blood-stained gloves, she thought, as she lay along the branch and pulled herself across before jumping down into the earl’s estate.

When she eventually reached the oak front door, it was dusk. With no sign of activity, she glanced at the twenty-or-so windows scattered across the facade. Not a single light shone from within. Each one looked dark and ominous, conjuring an image of its master’s disfigured face.

Evelyn wrapped her fingers around the iron knocker and let it fall, the dull echo resonating along the hallway beyond. She waited for the clip of footsteps, for the rustle of keys.

Nothing.

Determined to muster a response, she knocked again, twice.

Nothing.

Evelyn muttered a curse. Her aunt lay bleeding to death, the coachman a lifeless lump. She’d run until her chest burned, until fire scorched the back of her throat. She’d fought her way in, her hands battered and bruised, her cape in tatters.

The earl would welcome her in, even if she had to pound on the door until her fingers bled.

Racing to the lower level window, she cupped her hands to her face and peered inside, moving to the next and the next until she’d worked around to the west wing.

The first thing she noticed when she looked through the next window was that the fire had been lit. The bright orange flames roared within the stone surround.

She saw him then — the maimed earl.

He sat in a wingback chair, wearing a fine shirt and waistcoat, his head bowed as he stared into the flames. A mop of dark hair hung over his brow, his hunched shoulders reflecting his melancholic mood.

Evelyn rapped on the glass pane, but he simply sat there as cold and as solid as a block of stone.

An elderly woman entered the room, her stout frame and apron suggesting she was a housekeeper or cook.

Evelyn tapped again. “Please, I need your help. Please let me in.”

The woman caught her gaze and muttered to the gentleman in the chair, pointing to the window before throwing her hands up in the air.

Without raising his head, he waved her away, refusing to look at her let alone listen to her plea.

“Please,” she said banging the window with both fists.

The woman shrugged before turning her back and leaving the room.

Evelyn turned away in frustration, pacing back and forth while she decided what to do. She should have taken the other path. She would have been at the inn by now. She would have found help.

Why wouldn’t he open the door? Did he think she’d be appalled by his face?

Frustration turned to anger when she thought about her poor aunt, and she kicked the gravel along the walkway.

Then she saw the stone. Smooth and oval in shape, it was small enough to fit in her palm, large enough for what she needed.

Before rational thought found its way into her muddled mind, she picked it up and hurled it at the window.

The sound of shattering glass was accompanied by a deep masculine curse.

Chapter 3

Alexander shot out of the chair, his gaze fixed on the stone lying amidst the shards of broken glass. Thankfully, the windows were stripped with lead, and only the bottom pane had shattered.

Mrs. Shaw came scurrying in, wiping her hands on her apron. “I heard a noise, my lord. Is everything alright?” Her eyes widened when she looked to the window. “For all the saints, what on earth …”

The lady was still standing outside, her hand plastered across her mouth.

Alexander inhaled.

He could smell her blood, just a hint, fresh and sweet.

Swinging round, he turned his back to the window. “Get rid of her. Get rid of her now.”

Mrs. Shaw gasped. “But she might be hurt, my lord, she might need —”

“I don’t care what she needs.” And he didn’t. Other people’s petty trials were no concern of his. “Drag her away kicking and screaming if you have to. Just get rid of her … and find out how the hell she got in.”

Pacing back and forth to stop his traitorous mind from considering any other option, he clenched his teeth and hardened his jaw.

She was probably just another ogler come to see the hideous earl. He knew that’s what they called him. Perhaps she thought he needed saving. Perhaps she needed money and believed it was more preferable to lie with an ugly man than to suffer the pain of hunger writhing in her belly.

The thought of hunger roused the faintest flicker of sympathy.

Something forced him to turn back to the window: a tug in his chest, in his abdomen — but the lady was gone. A sense of relief coursed through him, accompanied by the familiar feeling of regret.

Ignoring the broken glass scattered about the floor, he threw himself down into the leather chair and resumed the state of thoughtful contemplation as he continued to gaze into the flames.

He heard the lady’s cries and protests resonate along the hall as Mrs. Shaw met her at the front door.

“Wait, wait, you can’t come in. His lordship doesn’t take kindly to visitors.”

“Do I look as though I’m here to take tea?”

Alexander straightened. The predator in him was alert and ready to pounce — the man curious and inquisitive.

“Come back here. Trust me. You won’t want to make him angry.”

“Do I look as though I care? I have far more important things to worry about.”

With those stony words, the lady burst in through the door, forcing him to jump up from his seat and face her while Mrs. Shaw waddled in behind.

“I tried to stop her, my lord. I told her you don’t want company.”

He raised a hand to calm his housekeeper.

The lady strode up to him, coming to a halt a mere foot away. She wore no bonnet, and her chestnut-brown hair looked dull and shabby. Her left cheek was grazed, the skin red and swollen, the rest of her face smudged with dirt. Her filthy cloak didn’t look fit for a pauper. Yet, in spite of it all, her countenance conveyed strength, good breeding, and an unshakable resolve.

“You must hurry,” she said not bothering with an introduction. “There’s been an accident … my aunt is … my aunt is …”