A Night of Redemption (The Night Series Book 2)

by Lori Brighton

  Beth didn’t dare argue with Mrs. Turner’s statement, but she, more than anyone knew the wolf was not mythical. Even before she reached the main floor she could hear the excited murmur of servants chatting in the kitchen. They stepped into the homey room, the air smelling of baked ham and bread. Maids raced back and forth, calling out orders. No one wanted to keep the lord waiting.

  “Silly, this hunt,” Mrs. Turner muttered. “When tis most likely dogs.”

  Beth flushed, averting her gaze to the stone floor. Mad indeed. If only she’d kept her mouth shut about her sighting. Mrs. Turner not only didn’t believe she had spotted the wolf, but she was most likely annoyed that Beth so dared to speak her opinion, making her look the fool. Would she ever learn to keep her mouth shut and act the meek servant?

  “So much to do!” Mrs. Turner cried, racing around the table in the middle of the room and heading straight for the stove. “Sarah had already started dinner, but those plans were waylaid. Now this!”

  “How can I help?” Beth asked, feeling guilty for stirring up such trouble. But Lord Brimley had been so ready to agree with their proposal to hunt and kill the beast. And she’d known as well as Lord Brimley that the farmers would not relent without retribution.

  Mrs. Turner shoved a basket into Beth’s hands. “So much to do,” the older woman muttered.

  Beth smiled kindly. “No worries, we shall have everything packed and ready to go in no time.”

  Mrs. Turner didn’t respond to her optimistic comment, merely grabbed another basket and a folded blanket, and pushed open the back door. Beth followed the woman. The moment she stepped into the twilight, the chill of the evening air tip-toed across her skin. But the shiver that raked her body was more because of the picture before her than the cold air.

  Men on horseback. Their dark clothing blended into the encroaching night sky, making them difficult to see. The rifles at their sides only added to her unease. Silly men, with their silly vendettas. She had the terrible feeling that before this night was out, someone would be shot, and it wouldn’t be the wolf.

  “Mrs. Turner, I asked about Billy,” Beth said as they made their way across the lawn toward the footmen who would carry the supplies. A few men glanced their way, but most were too excited about the hunt to notice two inconsequential women.

  “Billy? Eh?” Her bushy gray brows drew together in confusion. “The stable lad?”

  Already the grass was damp with dew, soaking through her boots and numbing her toes. The air was so much colder this close to Scotland. Why would any man wish to race across the chill, damp countryside when they could warm themselves by a fire? “Yes, you know…”

  “What about him?”

  Beth weaved her way around horses. “Well, I… that is to say…” It had been Billy, hadn’t it? “His broken arm.”

  Her eyes cleared of confusion, her round face growing suspiciously red. “Oh, right. Not broken, just… injured.” She darted behind a wagon, her footsteps hurried as if to outrun Beth, or her questions.

  “But you said—”

  “I tend to think the worse.” She chuckled, a high-pitched, unnatural sound. “He’s well enough now.”

  “Wonderful,” Beth mumbled, unsure what to think of their odd behavior. First Mr. Hash and his ignorance of the supposed events. Now Mrs. Turner denying the very words she had said only the other night? Beth came around the corner of the wagon, pausing where Mrs. Turner was handing over a basket to a footman.

  She glanced at Beth. “Do you mind taking your basket to Lord Brimley’s footman?”

  Before she had time to find an excuse, the older woman scurried off toward the kitchen, mumbling something about servants to order about. How very odd everyone was here.

  In the middle of the garden, with male conversation flowing around her, she’d never felt more uneasy. It was a sad state of affairs, but she realized that since her marriage, men, in general, made her nervous.

  Beth searched for her employer, and found him easily. Even if he hadn’t stood apart from the others, she would have located Lord Brimley. There was a confidence that hovered about him, an arrogance that said he had grown up in a life of privilege. He radiated strength, security. But there was something else…an aloofness that said he didn’t belong. How she understood. Then again, maybe she was being silly. Men didn’t get lonely, did they?

  He was rubbing down his mount, speaking softly to his footman. She could have been content to stand there all night, watching the way his muscles flexed under his shirt, the way the wind rustled his dark locks. As if sensing her, he glanced over his shoulder. Their gazes clashed. She felt his attention like a punch to her senses. She’d been caught staring. Embarrassed, she swallowed hard and looked away. How she despised handsome men, at least she always had. Arrogant and entirely too pleased with themselves.

  But she had a job to do, and she would not disappoint. Taking in a deep breath, she made her way toward him. “My lord.”

  She curtsied, then held the basket out. The footman scurried forward, taking the dinner and going to his mount to secure the basket. Lord Brimley didn’t dismiss her. Didn’t say a word, merely watched her with those eerie, intense eyes. She should merely curtsey and leave. So why didn’t she?

  She broke the connection and glanced around at the other men. Perhaps fifteen in all. Men preparing for war against one lone wolf. “I see you are ready to battle.”

  She hadn’t meant for her voice to bite, but she couldn’t keep the sarcasm from entering her tone. She flushed, hoping he didn’t notice. Not surprisingly, he did. He noticed everything.

  “Of course, one never knows what one will encounter in the wilds of England.”

  Was he jesting? It was so bloody hard to tell. “Men with guns and an agenda never seem to work out well.” She hadn’t realized she’d said the words aloud until he’d replied.

  “You’re right.”

  She stiffened, startled. Just when she thought she could define him, she knew him, he surprised her. Christopher had never told her she was right about anything. He’d made her feel an idiot most of the time.

  He gazed out at the group. “Which is why I must go along.”

  The selfless lord, protecting his servants. Except this man, with his pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes, looked anything but ready to keep order. Was it the drink that made him ill? Her uncle Mathias had always been fond of drink, until the whiskey had killed him. “But, my lord, surely…”

  He turned toward her, that unwavering gaze sending a shiver over her body. “What is it?”

  She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. Who was she to question him? Unfortunately she couldn’t shake her unease. She was worried about him, as silly as it seemed.

  “Come now, Mrs. Church, you’ve never had a problem telling me what you think.”

  She flushed fully. “Tis nothing.”

  He stepped closer, his tall form blocking the others from view. “I insist.”

  Dare she? She stared at the buttons of his coat. Why not, she’d already overstepped so many time she’d lost count. “You don’t look well, I assumed you were ill.”

  There it was, she’d spoken her mind once again, but he had demanded it. When he didn’t respond, she dared to peek up at him through her lashes.

  The left corner of his lips hitched into a crooked grin that did odd things to her heartbeat. “Just what every man likes to hear.”

  “I only meant…”

  He held up his hand, silencing her. “I understand your worries. I have been feeling rather…not myself lately. But as lord here, it is up to me to keep peace. Which is why,” he leaned close, his breath warm on her ear. “I’m going along to make sure everyone is safe.”

  Yes, but who would make sure he was safe? He stepped back, bowed and left her shivering. She watched him walk away, utterly aware of the way her heart fluttered after him like a panting puppy. Blast and damn! Why must she always fall for men who were roguishly charming, yet so completely inapprop
riate? Men who were handsome as sin, yet obviously rakes.

  Determined to push Lord Brimley from her mind, she made her way back toward the kitchens. She would not make the same mistake she had with her husband. She would not trust a man again. If he wanted to rush into the night on a fool’s mission, so be it. She pushed open the kitchen door. Evading the busy servants rushing to get dinner ready for the saner household who had stayed behind, she managed to move up the servant’s steps without being asked to help. Or perhaps Mrs. Turner didn’t want her help and her many questions.

  Yes, she’d been hired to teach, and that’s what she would do. Determination renewed her steps, stiffened her spine. But as she reached the third floor a tingle of awareness whispered over her body, a sense of foreboding that made her stomach roil.

  The upstairs was quiet. Too quiet. Beth frowned, wondering what the little hellions were up to now. She pushed open the nursery door, expecting to see the clean room destroyed. Instead, the boys were seated around the fireplace, books in their laps. Perfect little angels. Her worry grew.

  “All right then.” Wary, she stepped into the room. Nothing was out of place, nothing broken, no child injured or crying. But something…something was wrong. “Shall we prepare for dinner?”

  As she reached the fireplace, and she studied those innocent features, the light playing over their faces, it hit her like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, she realized what was wrong. Beth froze, counting their heads. Three. Only three. They averted their gazes, focusing on the fire, their books, the floor, anywhere but her.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. “Where’s Oliver?”

  No one said a word.

  “Where is Oliver!” she demanded.

  After a long moment of silence, Tommy lowered his book and dared to look her in the eyes. “He’s gone after the wolf.”

  Chapter 7

  Her heart slammed madly against her chest, denying what she knew to be true. “Where?”

  They didn’t answer, merely stared stubbornly at the fire. Did they not understand the direness of the situation? She stomped toward them, the tremble of the floorboards mimicking the tremble of her body. “Your ridiculous loyalty will get your brother killed!”

  Their nervous gazes jumped to her. She’d scared them. Good. Oh God, she couldn’t breathe! Her chest had grown tight with anxiety. She pressed her hand to her bodice, forcing herself to take in a gulp of air. Fainting would sure as hell do no good.

  “Where has he gone?”

  “To look for the wolf,” Charlie admitted in a low, strained whisper.

  “I know that!” Beth cried, making them cringe. Panic clawed its way through her body, and she had to resist the urge to shake sense into them all. “Where exactly?”

  They blinked their eyes wide, gazes blank, shocked by her anger, or maybe they didn’t know…dear lord, if they didn’t know how would she find him? Oliver could be lost. Hurt. Mauled to death.

  “We don’t know exactly,” John whimpered, confirming her fears.

  Ignoring the tears of regret that swam in their eyes, she spun around and raced toward the door. “That stupid, stupid boy!”

  One of the maids in the hall froze, startled by her sudden appearance. “You!” Beth latched onto the woman’s arms, the sheets in her hands falling to the floor. “Watch the boys and make sure none of them leave this room, understand? If you have to tie them down, do it!”

  She nodded.

  Beth lifted her skirts and started down the hall. If he was harmed, only she would be to blame. Why had she left them alone? She never should have trusted them. Thoughts of Oliver’s horrible demise had her racing down the steps at a speed that would get her neck broken if she tripped.

  “Mrs. Turner! Mrs. Turner!”

  “What is it?” The woman peeked around the corner, as she swiped her hands on her apron. Flour covered her forehead and chin while the heady scent of baked bread followed her appearance. But the familiar scent offered no comfort.

  “Oliver! He’s left to search for the wolf.”

  The woman went as pale as the flour marking her face. “Oh that blasted boy!”

  Beth darted around the woman and weaved her way through the kitchen, ignoring the curious stares of the staff. She felt sick, a tightening of her gut that was almost unbearable. If he died it would be her fault, only her fault. Images of the shredded sheep jumped to mind, wouldn’t leave her memory. Poor Oliver. Stupid Oliver.

  Mrs. Turner scurried after her. “I’ll send the few footmen who have remained after him.”

  Beth paused on the back stoop, searching the darkening garden. She could hear Mrs. Turner shouting orders to the staff. But knowing so many would be searching for the boy didn’t make her feel any better. The icy panic of fear coated her skin, chilled her to the bone. She hadn’t remembered being this worried…ever. The sun had set, the sky gray. It would be night soon. Where was he?

  “If something happens….”

  Mrs. Turner rested a hand on her shoulder. “Now, now, don’t ye worry. He’ll be fine.”

  Bless the woman for lying. But they both knew how men could be when they were riled. If the wolf didn’t get him, one of the farmers might shoot him by accident. Beth snapped her gaze to the gate and the field and woods beyond. In the dark he could easily be mistaken for the wolf. She couldn’t wait for footmen, and she couldn’t bloody stand there and do nothing.

  Beth hiked up her skirts and raced down the stoop.

  “Mrs. Church, where are you going?” Mrs. Turner called out.

  Beth reached the fence and pulled open the iron gate, the hinges squeaking loudly in condemnation. “To look in the field.”

  “The footmen will—”

  “It may be too late by then.”

  “But Lord Brimley said no one is to leave…”

  Ignoring her, Beth raced out into the cool night, making sure to pull the gate closed behind her in order to protect the rest of the staff. Oliver was out there in the darkness. The boy hadn’t a clue what he had gotten himself into. The field wavered, tiny little dagger blades of silver grass shivering in the breeze. Above, the moon hung high, merrily mocking her plight. Where could he be? The chill dew soaked the hem of her skirts, dampened her boots, and begged her to return, but still she trudged on.

  “Oliver?”

  No response.

  Beth swallowed hard. He could be anywhere. The fields beyond…the woods…oh God, even much further toward the sea. She’d be fired. She knew without doubt Lord Brimley would fire her when he uncovered the truth, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was finding the boy before the wolf did.

  “Oliver?” Her voice echoed eerily through the trees that ran the length of the field. If she yelled would she attract the wolf? But if she didn’t, how would he hear her? “Oliver!”

  “Tis probably in the field,” Oliver’s voice whispered through her memory.

  “Don’t be stupid,” John replied. “Most likely it’s got a den in the woods. He’d want to be by fresh water.”

  The woods.

  Beth hiked up her skirts to her knees and rushed toward those dark trees. She would find him and they would be back before anyone was injured, before Lord Brimley could have time to worry. Nothing else mattered as long as Oliver was safe. She shoved aside a tree branch and dove into the dark forest. The limbs clawed her arms, clung to her skirts, attempting to waylay her actions. With a frustrated growl, she jerked free and stumbled into a clearing. She would find him. She had to. She must.

  “Oliver?”

  She leaped over a fallen log, only to catch her foot and tumble to the dirt. Beth hit the ground hard. Mud splashed, soaked through her skirts, coating the material and weighing her down. Blast it all, but she didn’t have time to stumble or make mistakes. Determined, she tucked her feet underneath her and managed to stand. Ahead, a thin trail of glistening silver told her the creek was nearby.

  “Oliver!”

  Nothing. No branches shifted, No one called back. But for
the soft murmur of the creek it was eerily silent. Perhaps he hadn’t gone into the woods after all, and she’d merely wasted precious time.

  “Hell and damnation!”

  She turned, attempting to see the house through the trees, hoping to hear the sound of thundering feet as the footmen helped with the search. They must have started on the north side. She heard only the soft rustle of leaves and the gurgle of the creek. There was no one. No one.

  She turned toward the forest, peering through the trees once more. “Oliver, please!”

  Nothing.

  With an anxious groan, she started to turn away, intending to head back to the fields when she heard the softest sigh, so soft that for a moment she thought she’d imagined it. Beth spun around, searching the dark woods. “Oliver?”

  Another sigh, and this time she recognized that stubborn breath of air. She’d heard it often enough when trying to teach lessons. Beth’s heart soared, hope bringing tears of relief to her eyes.

  “Oliver!” She raced down the hill toward the creek. Sure enough, a small form sat huddled upon a flat rock, his knees tucked tightly to his chest. She hit the creek, her feet sliding into the water and soaking her stockings, but she didn’t slow.

  “What do you want?” the golden haired boy grumbled, flicking a glance her way.

  “I told you to stay inside!” Beth trudged through the water, uncaring that the creek had toppled over the edges of her boots and was ruining her good shoes. “You frightened me!”

  “I didn’t want to stay inside.” He tossed a pebble into the water and stood. “You’re not my mother. You can’t tell me what to do.”

  She ignored his comment. He could curse at her as much as he liked indoors, she was merely grateful to have found the lad. She moved up the bank toward him. For once in her life something had gone her way. “Come along, the entire household is searching for you.”

  “Good!” He crossed his arms over his chest. She couldn’t see his face but could just imagine that lower lip sticking out into an all-too-familiar pout that she’d come to know. Although it had been only weeks since she’d arrived, Beth had come to know each lad, and Oliver, could be the most stubborn of the bunch.