Lost to the Night (The Brotherhood Series, Book 1)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Books by Adele Clee
Dedication
She Walks in Beauty - Lord Byron
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Thank You
Slave to the Night
Slave to the Night - Chapter 1
Slave to the Night - Chapter 2
Lost to the Night
The Brotherhood Series
Book 1
Adele Clee
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. All characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be copied or reproduced in any manner without the author’s permission.
http://wwwadeleclee.com
Copyright © 2015 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9932832-6-0
Slave to the Night (excerpt)
Copyright © 2015 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
Cover designed by Jay Aheer
Books by Adele Clee
To Save a Sinner
A Curse of the Heart
Anything for Love Series
What You Desire
The Brotherhood Series
Lost to the Night
Slave to the Night
To Karen,
There are no words to express my gratitude for all the help and support you’ve given.
Your encouragement and eagerness to read the next chapter has been invaluable.
Love you lots x
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow’d to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies
George Gordon, Lord Byron
(1788-1824)
Chapter 1
A tavern in Schiltach, Bavaria, 1818
Alexander Cole’s blood gushed through his veins like hot, molten lava. The sweet fire that consumed him had nothing to do with the buxom wench at his side, merrily massaging his cock.
“You like it?” she giggled playfully, shaking her fleshy wares as if they were easy to miss.
Alexander groaned as she tightened her grip and nuzzled his ear. Yet he continued to stare at the woman sitting on the opposite side of the tavern.
He had noticed her walk in minutes earlier. She’d not ordered a drink, but sat shrouded in a sapphire-blue cloak boldly watching him. Was she aware of the eager hand pleasuring him beneath the table? Was that the reason she stared?
Alexander.
Despite downing copious amounts of wine and ale, his mind suddenly stilled, the noise of the boisterous crowd drowned out by a soft sibilant whisper. He heard his name echoing through the silent chambers of his mind: a siren’s call — luring him, drawing him, forcing him to follow.
Alexander.
He glanced around the crude room, its stone walls and low beams relics of a bygone era, searching for Reeves and Lattimer. Reeves was asleep on the wooden bench, his fingers wrapped around the handle of a tankard as he cuddled it to his chest. Two weeks of drunken debauchery had definitely taken its toll. Through the cloudy mist of stale tobacco smoke, he spotted Lattimer climbing the stairs. The eager wench was pulling him up by his hand, his reluctance due to an unsteady gait as opposed to a lack of enthusiasm.
Alexander.
He heard his name again, the seductive tones of a woman’s sated whisper dragging him back to the mysterious creature across the room.
The wench at his side continued pumping, yet his focus moved to the enchantress, who had lowered the hood of her cloak to reveal a mane of silky golden tresses. He sucked in a breath, captivated by her full red lips and porcelain skin. Drinking in the sight, he groaned as she put the tip of her tongue to her lips and moistened the entrance to her mouth.
Compelled by a sudden wave of disgust, he slapped his hand over the wench’s sweaty fingers.
“Oh, you want to help.”
“No,” he growled pushing her hand away, his desire for a stranger the motivating factor.
He threw a few coins onto the table and hastily buttoned the fall of his breeches.
The golden-haired goddess smiled, raised her hood and moved gracefully to the door before escaping out into the night.
As though connected by an invisible thread, he followed her to the door and yanked it open, ignoring the wench’s cries of protest — jealousy being a trait he despised.
Rain lashed against the solid oak door, and he winced as it pelted his face, quick and sharp, almost knocking him back. He could just make out his quarry crossing the muddy road, heading towards a carriage. Pulling his coat more firmly across his chest, he snuggled into it and braved the weather — some strange force urging him to take the next step.
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 a 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: taking the vicar’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 thick material as the wind rocked the carriage. “At least 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 gentleman 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 to be, waves as tall as houses, they say. We’ve only a few miles to the inn. We’ll bed down for the night, have a late start 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, once 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.”
“Some say he’d been standing there all night.”
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 ground, 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 patted the folds of her aunt’s skirt, moving up to her arm and shoulder. Nothing appeared to be broken. Then she noticed that her head was 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 ground.
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, the team of four 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 area looking for the driver and spotted the burly figure lying sprawled out on the ground. 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 knew when something felt right. The further down the lane she ran, the more it felt like the right decision.