by Clee, Adele
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.
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.
Still 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, creating a melancholy mood.
Evelyn rapped on the glass pane, but he simply sat there like a solid 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 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’d have been at the inn by now, she’d 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 with her boot.
The she saw the stone. 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.
