Lost to the Night (The Brotherhood 1)

But the words brought with it fresh tears aplenty. She understood it all now. His need to hide away. His reluctance to commit. If only he were debt-ridden. She would have lived with him in poverty. She would have done anything.

I can’t be the man you want me to be.

The words shot straight to her heart like a barbed arrow, ripping into the weak, flimsy flesh.

Love was unconditional — she’d told herself that many times. Love was not blind to one’s faults and imperfections. Love accepted them as part of the complicated whole. She’d said as much to Mr. Sutherby. But this … this was …

What was this strange affliction that would see a man become a monster?

I don’t want to hurt you?

Those words made sense now. He would never hurt her; she knew that. Perhaps the essence of the man still existed deep inside the abhorrent form. Despite his monstrous countenance, she recalled catching a hint of sorrow in his dark eyes; she recalled a hint of self-loathing.

Guilt tore at her heart.

He had tried to tell her, tried to explain; but she’d refused to listen.

All the promises she’d made, all the love she’d professed — now she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had let him down. She had turned her back on him when he had needed her most. But she’d been so scared.

“Miss Bromwell.”

The gentle voice penetrated the madness. She looked up to see the

dark figure of Lord Markham standing over her.

“Come,” he said softly, offering his hand. “Let me see you safely to the inn. Let me help you. Let me help you forget your pain.”

Chapter 24

Lord Markham hired the private parlour at the inn, the room being small with a low ceiling and thick timber beams supporting its five-hundred-year-old history. Evelyn settled into the chair by the fire, the heat doing nothing to ease her trembling limbs as she cupped her hands around the goblet and sipped the wine.

“Don’t worry,” Lord Markham said, nodding to the pewter vessel. “I watched him wipe it clean with a napkin. Would you like me to call for a blanket?”

“No. I’ll be fine. I’ll soon warm up.”

A knock on the door brought a serving wench who plonked an earthenware flagon and mug on the table, giving the lord a cheeky grin to suggest she had more to offer than refreshments.

“You don’t need to stay,” Evelyn said, aware of his wandering gaze following the sway of the woman’s hips as she left.

“I can’t leave you here alone. Apparently, I’m to try a mug of cider. Mr. Harlow was adamant. It’s the best I’ll find for miles around.”

Evelyn forced a weak smile before turning to stare at the golden flames dancing in the hearth.

She had lost everything tonight.

All her hopes and dreams had been ripped from her fingers. Now, a feeling of utter hopelessness consumed her, shrouded her in grief and misery. She glanced at Lord Markham, who still appeared unperturbed by the horrifying events of the evening.

“When … when you saw him, when you saw Alexander’s strange countenance, you were not shocked or afraid,” she said trying to find the courage to talk about the devastating moment when her whole world changed.

“No,” Markham replied, his expression turning solemn. “It is nothing new to me.”

“You have witnessed it before?”

Markham shuffled in his seat and gazed into the fire. “In a manner of speaking.”

The terrifying image came flooding back: the blood-soaked fangs, the devilish eyes. “No matter how hard I try, I cannot make sense of it. It defies all reason and logic.”

“There are many things in this world that cannot be explained,” he replied cryptically.