What You Desire (Anything for Love, Book 1) (34 page)

The lady glanced over her shoulder and beckoned him to follow. Whether it was intrigue, lust or a powerful primal hunger that drew him to her carriage, he did not know. She climbed into the conveyance and closed the door, yet the driver made no move to depart and sat staring off into the distance waiting for a command.

Alexander stumbled up to the window and peered inside to find his beauty sitting back in the seat, her cape open, exposing the upper curve of her breasts. Shaping his mouth in an attempt to form a word, he seemed to have lost the ability of speech.

The temptress smiled and opened the door. “Are you coming in?”

He climbed inside, the carriage lurching forward before he’d had chance to take his seat.

They raced through the cobbled streets at breakneck speed, up along the path curving through the forest. He thought to seduce his vixen with salacious banter, but his tongue felt thick, his lips swollen and numb.

She watched him, her hands resting in her lap, never moving, yet his body reacted to the touch of her wandering gaze. It felt as though her fingers clawed away at him, scrabbling over his chest, tugging at his clothes, freeing him from the confines of his breeches. As the imaginary assault tormented him, he could smell the heady scent of his arousal and he struggled to draw breath.

“You respond to me well, Alexi,” she whispered. “But now you must sleep — sleep.”

Sleep was the last thing on his mind, but his lids grew heavy, his surroundings hazy, black.

Alexander had experienced many vivid dreams in his life. The best ones always involved forbidden carnal pleasures: screwing the rector’s wife, his daughter, both together.

But this dream was like no other.

He recalled climbing a narrow stone staircase curling up to a tower. The sound of teasing feminine laughter pulled him up. As did the potent smell of exotic incense drifting out from the doorway. The seductive mist creeping towards him felt like invisible fingers massaging his shoulders, determined to relax him, to seduce him.

Time skipped forward.

He lay stretched out on the canopy bed: a monstrous structure of wooden pillars and grotesque carvings. Two naked women fondled with his breeches, stripping him bare. Their eager hands and mouths bringing him close to climax. But when his enchantress entered the room they scurried away, the sound of their whimpering dampening his desire.

“I read your thoughts, Alexi,” she said, her cape billowing behind her as she walked towards the bed. “You like power, you like to control. You have had many women, no.”

Alexander nodded.

“After tonight, you will no longer be able to hide behind your chivalrous mask, behind your polished words and fancy clothes.” She crawled onto the bed to straddle him while he watched, helplessly. “Your depravity will be your constant companion now.”

As she bent down to kiss him, he felt a coldness sweep through him followed by a raging fire as her tongue and teeth licked and nipped his neck. Something sharp punctured his skin — then he felt lost, alone.

Then he felt nothing.

Chapter 2

New Forest, England, 1820

Evelyn Bromwell pulled the thick tartan blanket over her legs and sighed. “I’ve never known it be so cold,” she said thrusting her gloved hands under the blanket as the wind rocked the carriage. “Not in April.”

“Well, you know what they say about the weather,” Aunt Beatrice replied, her hands nestled inside a mink muff. “In like a lion, out like a lamb.”

Evelyn frowned. “How can it be in like a lion when the month’s almost over? Besides, I thought the saying referred to March.”

“It applies the other way around, too, and the Welsh often use it for April. If you recall, it was rather mild early on.”

The wind rattled the window just to prove a point, the drawn-out howl like an ominous warning.

“More like in with a whistle, out with a whirlwind,” Evelyn chuckled.

A dull thud on the carriage roof caused them both to gasp and they froze in anticipation, as though a lion really was about to burst in through the door.

“Either the coachman’s been blown off his perch or the forest is tumbling down around us,” Evelyn whispered, not wishing to tempt fate. “I’d pop my head out and take a look. But knowing my luck I’d be slapped in the face by a stray branch. Somehow, I don’t expect Mr. Sutherby will want to propose to a lady when she’s sporting a blackened eye.”

Aunt Beatrice smiled. “I think you could sprout a potato from your nose and still Mr. Sutherby would be smitten.”

Mr. Sutherby might be smitten, but Evelyn wasn’t.

Oh, she was hardly in a position to complain. A handsome man with an affable character and a sizable fortune wanted to marry her. It sounded perfect. For a gentleman to embody all three traits was a rare find indeed. It’s what her parents dreamed of. It’s what they would have wanted.

The only thing that could possibly make Mr. Sutherby more desirable was a title. But such far-fetched aspirations were only to be found in fairy tales, not dreams.

The wind gave a mournful cry and the carriage rocked from side-to-side.

“Do you think we’ll even make it to the inn?” Evelyn asked feeling a little wary. “I think the forest is the worst place to be in a storm.”

“I’ve heard the sea is the worst place, waves as tall as houses, they say. We’ve only a few miles to the inn. We’ll bed down for the night and be at Mytton Grange by luncheon.” Aunt Beatrice removed her hand from her muff and patted Evelyn’s knee. “Let’s not think about it. We’ll soon be tucked up nice and snug. Perhaps if we talk, we’ll distract our minds.”

Evelyn groaned inwardly. She didn’t want to talk about Mr. Sutherby but it seemed the only thing her aunt was interested in.

“Of course, your Mr. Sutherby —”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Her aunt narrowed her gaze but then gave a knowing smile. “I understand. You’re nervous. It’s to be expected. Very well, I shall think of a different topic to occupy our thoughts.”

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.”

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 floor, 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 her aunt’s head 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 floor.

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, they 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 ground, looking for the driver and spotted the burly figure lying sprawled out on the floor. 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 always knew what 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. 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 whose 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.