More Than a Stranger: A Sealed With a Kiss Novel (31 page)

He would do everything he could to do things right by her from afar. He didn’t deserve her, and God knew she probably hated him, but that didn’t mean he would stop fighting for her.

Chapter Twenty-four

How can you be so cruel? I have half a mind not to come to see you at all. At the very least, I shall deny you my smile during the ceremony. No one shall be smiling for you, but at least one shall certainly be frowning.

—From Evie to Hastings

T
he next morning, the day dawned as dark and glum as Evie’s mood. The wind had kicked up and the clouds had closed in, eradicating any traces of the beautiful days they had enjoyed that week—before the chaos, of course. Evie itched to pace her room as she usually did when she was at odds, but of course she was still stuck in her blasted bed, as effective a prison as Newgate.

The only glimmer of good news was that the pain in her shoulder and ribs had slackened more than expected. It still ached when she moved, but for the most part the absence of constant physical pain left her mind free to explore all the emotional hurt enfolding her like London fog. Her thoughts were centered squarely on the despicable liar who had left them yesterday. How could he have so carelessly brought danger to their doorstep? How could he have thought it at all acceptable to lie to the family? To her?

She squeezed her eyes shut. That was the crux of the issue. She had somehow allowed him to weasel his way into her affections. One eye popped open. She supposed that was not exactly a
completely
accurate statement. If she were honest with herself, she knew he had tried to avoid her attentions, at least at first, and she had been the persistent one.

Like a little fool, she had thought there was some sort of exciting mystery behind the handsome stranger’s cool facade—a grand romance gone tragically wrong, perhaps. She covered her face with her hand and rubbed her eyes.

What a silly, silly little idiot.

Sighing, she dropped her hand and drummed her fingers on the mattress, brooding. Though she tried not to, she wondered what the traitor was doing now. He was surely off to confront his enemy and try to bring the man to justice. A flutter of fear rippled through her as she imagined the encounter. How did his brother fit into the situation? What if there were more people after him, more people willing to shoot him where he stood? What if he was already
dead
?

She broke off from that particular line of thinking and took a few calming breaths. For heaven’s sake, she had seen him only last night. And really, for someone she was so angry with, she was awfully worried for him. She could not get over the queasy feeling that something dreadful was about to happen, or had already happened, to Benedict. Did he not go off in pursuit of an attempted murderer?

She gave her head a little shake. It was not for her to fret over—he had made his bed; now he could lie in it. She had other things to think about.

There was a light scratch on the door, and she called out, “Enter,” expecting to see Morgan this early in the morning.

Instead, her mother eased open the door and offered a tentative smile. “Oh good, you are awake. I didn’t wish to disturb you, but I wanted to see how you were feeling this morning.” She turned to close the door before walking to Evie’s bedside. Her champagne-colored gown whispered prettily as she approached and gracefully lowered herself to the bed.

“Good morning, Mama,” Evie offered with a halfhearted smile. “Not
completely
dreadful. When I move it, my shoulder hurts quite a bit, but the rest of the pain feels much more dull this morning, thank goodness.” The sling holding her arm in place was already driving her mad, but at least the knot on her head had diminished. The bruises along her arms, however, were blooming into all sorts of impressive colors. She grimaced—it was not an attractive look.

“Well, I am relieved to hear you are feeling a little improved.” Mama smoothed a hand over Evie’s forehead. “No matter how . . . colorful you are looking this morning.”

Evie made a face. She was not looking forward to the sickly yellow stage that would follow the vivid purples and blues.

Her mother hesitated a moment, then cleared her throat. “Your father and I have been talking, and we decided it was for the best to stay at Hertford until you are healed.” Mama paused and leveled unyielding gray eyes on Evie. “Once you are better, we shall all head to London for the Season. As a family.”

And just like that, her dreams were snatched away from her. Evie blinked rapidly, struggling to maintain composure. Another hole opened up in her heart, right next to the place Benedict had once occupied. Was she to lose everything at once? “But, Mama—”

Her mother held up a firm hand. Her eyes glinted like steel in the dim light of the overcast morning. “No buts. It is time to move past this foolishness. A life in the stables and atop a horse is not the life for a lady. And I saw you this week. I saw the way you looked at Mr. Benedict. You are not so disinterested in the prospect of marriage as you would have us believe.”

Alarm welled within her, and she struggled to sit up straight. “You can’t—”

“Yes, I can,” Mama interrupted. “And I have. Your father and I agree, Evie. We want the very best for you, and you will not find that hidden away here at the Hall.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and Evie was in no condition to fight. Her mother stood and pressed cool lips to Evie’s forehead. “You may be angry with us now, but someday you will thank us.”

As her mother straightened, the door swung open.

“Oh, begging your pardon, my lady, I didn’t know you were here,” Morgan exclaimed, dipping a quick curtsy. She balanced a tray between her hip and left hand, her right hand still resting on the doorknob. Her eyes flitting back and forth between Evie and her mother, she clearly sensed the tension.

“It is quite all right; I was just leaving,” Mama replied. She turned back to Evie. “Rest up, darling. I’ll be back to check on you later, after I have tended to a few things.”

As Evie’s mother retreated, Morgan went about setting up her tray and opening the curtains. Evie watched her in silence. As battered as her emotions felt, she couldn’t imagine putting on a cheery front.

It was all for naught. All of her hard work, all of her careful arguments and well-laid plans—it was all snatched away in one fell swoop. Fury built within her, and she knew there was only one person to blame: Benedict Hastings.

* * *

Benedict awoke in a rush. One moment he was unconscious; the next he was sitting up in bed, panting with sweat dripping off his brow. He slowly became aware of where he was—an unfamiliar, nondescript room at an inn on the way to confronting his brother. He lay back down, taking slow, deep breaths, and wiped the moisture from his forehead with the back of his hand.

He reached for his watch fob on the tiny table beside the bed and squinted at the dial in the dimness. It was seven o’clock. If he saddled up and left in the next quarter hour, he could be on the Dennington estate by noon. Despite his exhaustion, he wanted to arrive as soon as he could manage.

Bloody hell, how had it come to this? A heavy, leaden weight settled on his shoulders. There was nothing about the coming day—hell, the foreseeable future—he looked forward to. He pushed the covers aside and sat up, bringing his bare feet to the cold wood floor. He sat there for a moment, running his hands through his damp hair before kneading the tight muscles in his neck.

This was it.

He still had not decided what he would actually do once he was face-to-face with Henry. He supposed it would depend on Henry’s reaction to him. Best-case scenario? He shook his head. There was no best-case scenario. That option had gone out the window when Henry decided to attack him. So, what was the most palatable alternative? That was the new question.

He stood, lit a candle, and splashed some of the cold water in the basin on the bureau onto his face. The drops trickled down his bare chest in rivulets. He braced his arms on the bureau, dropping his chin to his chest, staring at the trails of water but not really seeing them. There was really only one choice.

One way or another, he would bring his brother to justice. And that justice would avenge the hurt Evie had suffered.

He pushed away from the bureau and dragged on his shirt before retrieving his saddlebag from the lone chair in the room. He sat back on the bed and opened the outside compartment, which held the items he kept with him at all times, just in case. He carefully withdrew his dagger. As always, the weapon was meticulously clean and well polished. It glinted menacingly in the candlelight as he examined the blade. Satisfied, he pushed it into the specially fitted holder in his right boot.

Next, he extracted his pistol. He very much preferred swords to pistols, but he was prudent enough to be prepared for both forms of combat. The weapon was loaded and ready when he was. He tucked it into his waistband at his back and pulled on his coat to conceal it.

He set aside his bag and lifted his sheathed rapier from its resting place beside the bed. This was his forte. The sword was where he felt most confident, where he knew his opponent would face defeat without fail. If he was forced to fight his brother, the sword would be his choice. All those years he had imagined he was fighting his brother or father, he had never actually faced either one of them. If it came to it today, this would be the weapon he would reach for.

And he would win.

After attaching the sword to his waist, he efficiently gathered his belongings, blew out the candle, and set out to the stables.

The ride was a blur—Benedict could not have said what a single feature along the journey looked like. With every step taken in his brother’s direction, his resolve strengthened. He relived almost every minute he had spent alone with Evie. He heard her laughter clearly, felt her soft skin, experienced every emotion. He couldn’t let her down now. He might never be able to see her, touch her, feel her, taste her again, to tell her he loved her, but by God he would do right by her.

As he drew closer to the estate, he resolutely pushed her from his thoughts to focus on the task ahead. In his mind, he played out the possible scenarios and never found a satisfactory ending. Betrayal, belligerence, boorishness—all were what he expected to find when confronted with his brother.

And blood—there was always the chance for blood.

At last, he reached the ill-used turnoff that would lead him to the old hunting lodge. His pace slowed, and he cautiously urged Brutus forward, careful to watch his back, front, and everything in between. Brutus seemed to sense his mood and tossed his head a few times restlessly. Benedict patted the horse’s neck but kept his attention on his surroundings.

The tree branches, overgrown from years of neglect, reached down to sweep at his shoulders and neck, and effectively kept his view of the lodge obscured. The rocky drive angled up, following the curve along the hill, and he remembered then that the lodge had a spectacular view of the countryside behind it. If memory served, the front of the structure was fairly obscured by the vegetation around it.

He was close now—the acrid scent of wood smoke invaded his nostrils. He slowed to a halt, while the lodge was still out of view, and dismounted. He took his time double-checking each of his weapons. Satisfied, he secured Brutus to a nearby tree branch with enough rope for the horse to graze comfortably while he waited. The rope itself was tied in an easy slipknot that could be quickly undone in case he needed to make a rapid retreat.

He decided to duck into the woods and approach the house from the side where he was reasonably sure he would not be observed. He cringed at the sound his footsteps made on the dead leaves and fallen twigs, but continued to creep along as quietly as possible. After a few minutes, he was able to catch fleeting glimpses of the brick walls, but they were hard to distinguish thanks to a thick carpet of ivy obscuring most of the building, with the exception of the small windows and a few areas close to the roof.

When the property had been in use some twenty years earlier, the grounds near the lodge had been beautifully maintained. As he stepped toward the tree line that delineated the yard, he paused and surveyed his surroundings. Thank goodness for the neglect of the property. The overgrown brambles and shrubs offered adequate cover in order for him to safely approach the lodge.

He focused on the windows of the house, scanning each portal for some sign of movement. The chimney adjoining the kitchen was spewing a steady stream of white smoke into the dim, overcast skies. Shadows moved occasionally past the glass, and he had no way of knowing how many servants were housed within. Benedict shook his head in disgust; his brother might be hiding out, but he apparently had brought an entourage along with him to see to his every need.

He slipped around to the front of the house, crouching beneath each window he came across. When he was farthest from the bustle of the kitchen, he cautiously lifted his head and peered into the small library he vaguely remembered from his youth. The room appeared to be unused, with white sheets still covering the smattering of furniture left behind.

He eyed the weatherworn window, the once-white paint peeling away from the gray wood. Grasping the mullions, he gave it a good tug in case, by some miracle, the window was unlatched; it was not.

So much for luck.

He quickly shed his jacket and wrapped it around his left hand, twisting the fabric as he wound it up his arm. He took aim, averted his face, and smashed his fist through the glass. The tinkling crash of the glass shattering and raining down to the floor below seemed as loud as an explosion in the still morning.