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 —”