Chapter 18
The air around Alan was so cold he could see his breath, yet his body felt warm.
Someone laughed, a deep, low, chilling laugh filled with a menacing promise.
A tree snagged his leg as he ran through the forest, tripping him and sending him sprawling to the ground.
He landed on something soft. Slowly, he met Harvey’s lifeless gaze.
Alan screamed, but nothing came out. The face morphed into his father’s; disappointment evident in his expression.
He’d let him down, not living up to all he could be. Now he’d never be able to return home and carry on the family legacy.
The haunting laughter came closer and Sancerre’s beady eyes and bulbous nose hovered above him. The French spy raised his hand, a knife in his grip.
He was going to die.
A scream echoed through the trees. It sounded like Grace. Alan turned his head, but all he could see was Lord Ratford with another form at his feet.
GRACE!
Alan bolted upright, fully awake. He took in his bedchamber. Everything was just as it had been when he’d fallen asleep, but the horror of the dream clung to him like the sweat rolling down his back.
He tried to move, but his feet were tangled in the bed linens. It took several tries before he released them. When he stood, however, his legs wobbled as he moved to the pitcher for water. Fire burned in his throat, but the cool water soothed it.
Someone knocked at his door and he fairly flew to his bureau drawer for his knife.
“Alan?” Emma’s voice filtered in above the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. “Alan, are you well?”
“Fine,” he said, his voice screeching out like a lad in the throes of puberty.
“You are not fine. You screamed. Please let me in.”
The last thing he wanted was for his expectant sister to be in the same room with him. He cleared his throat. “No, Emma. You need to sleep. I am well.”
Silence met his words, but Emma had not left. He would have heard her retreating footsteps if she had. He released his achingly tight grip on the knife, dropping it back into the drawer and shutting it.
Grabbing a rag from a different drawer, he dipped it in the basin of water and washed the sweat from his face, neck, and torso. There was no use trying to sleep anymore tonight. The grey sky out his window was a sure sign that morning had already approached.
Not wanting to wake his valet, he dressed himself, pulling on his riding boots and slipping in his ever-present knife without bothering to tame his wild blond curls. A good bruising ride would go a long way toward calming his jitters.
When he opened the door, however, he discovered Emma seated on the floor, eyes closed, and her head propped against the frame.
Guilt pricked at him. How often had he worried her?
She’d never once mentioned it. Knowing her independent nature, she’d probably suffered in silence while his nighttime screams terrorized her.
One more proof that he was not meant to marry.
His gaze rose to Grace’s door across the open court. If Emma had heard him, had she?
What sort of misery had he caused everyone in the house?
Stooping down, he gently shook Emma’s shoulder. “Come, Emma. Let’s get you back to bed.”
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Are you ready to talk?”
“When did you become so stubborn?”
She rose to her feet and brushed off her dressing gown. “I’ve always been stubborn, just like my brother.”
A small smile pulled at his lips. “Very well. I will speak to you after you have had several more hours of sleep and a good breakfast.”
“Is that a promise?”
He took her arm and directed her toward the room she shared with Lord Hamdon. In truth, he hoped she’d forget all about this whole discussion, but he doubted he’d have such good luck. Why did talking about his weaknesses feel like being stabbed with red-hot pokers?
She stopped and took in his attire. “You are going out.”
“I thought to take a ride.”
“At this hour?”
“It is later than you think.” He released her arm at her door. “I need a few hours to myself to clear my head. I promise we will speak later.”
Emma searched his face. “Be careful, Alan.”
He stepped back, uncomfortable with the emotion he saw in her features. “I will.”
The crisp morning air did wonders for his mind, each breath clearing away the panic the dream had left in its wake. He was safe. Sancerre and Ratford were dead. Grace slept securely in her bed.
Light spilled out of the crack between the stable’s large double doors. Alan slowed his steps. Who would be up at this hour?
Carefully, he removed his knife and crept up to peek through the doors. A soft humming filtered through, the song distinctly Scottish. While he could not see the person beyond, his fears eased as he recognized the youthful voice of his stable hand.
Owen’s head popped up from one of the stalls as Alan stepped in. “Good mornin’, my lord. I’d not thought to see ye this early. Are ye needin’ a horse?”
He stepped out and wiped his hands on his trousers. How could the lad be this cheerful at such an early hour?
Owen came to a stop, his eyes wide as he glanced between Alan’s face and his hand.
Blast. He’d forgotten to put his knife away. “I didn’t expect to see anyone up this early, either.” He re-sheathed his knife, and Owen visibly relaxed.
“Sorry, I gave ye a fright.” The lad grinned a wide toothy smile that always put Alan at ease.
“Could you saddle Apollo?”
“That I can.” In no time, he had Apollo hooked to a lead and standing at the post, ready for a saddle and pad.
The high-spirited stallion danced about, not making it easy for the young man, but Owen was not deterred.
When he finally finished with all the animal’s tack in place, he led Apollo out of the stable and held him while Alan mounted.
Apollo had been the right choice. Once they were far enough from the house to not cause a stir, he allowed the stallion to have his head. Apollo leaped into a run, keeping the pace for at least fifteen minutes before he tired.
Alan felt terrible for allowing the horse to lather such a sweat in the cold morning air, but he’d needed the run as much as Apollo had wanted it. He relished the burn on his cheeks as the wind had whipped at his face. It distracted him from the ache in his heart.
“It was just a dream,” he whispered to the wind.
Apollo flicked his ears back to listen.
“Am I going mad?” he asked the dapple grey.
The horse blew out a noisy breath and shook his head.
“Well that would make one of us who doesn’t think so.” After ten minutes at a moderate walk, he turned his mount around to head back.
The sun peeked over the horizon, illuminating the frost on the fields. A few birds chirped in the trees and somewhere in the distance a cow lowed. Alan relaxed. Perhaps he would not be a complete madman today. He had every hope of regaining some semblance of normalcy.
The stable was empty when he returned. Owen must have gone back home for a cup of tea or breakfast. It was no matter; he was not a stranger to caring for his own horse.
After removing the saddle and setting Apollo up with a nice bucket of grain, he set to brushing out his sweaty coat.
The rhythmic strokes should have calmed him, but the smell of hay and horses reminded him of the day Sancerre had nearly made off with Emma.
He’d caught her alone in this very stable.
His eyes moved to the back door that led out onto the grassy meadow behind the building. Owen had been twelve then. Poor lad had been pistol-whipped before Emma and Mr. Lenning had found him in the hay. It had all been a scheme. A plan to lure him out. What if Sancerre and Ratford had succeeded?
Hair rose on the back of his neck with the memories. He shook his head. They hadn’t succeeded. He and his French associate had stopped them, but it still haunted him with how close he’d come to losing his sister.
Stepping out of the stall, he set the brush back in the wood crate kept near Apollo’s stall.
A beam in the ceiling creaked, and Alan’s gaze shot up to the rafters.
There was nothing there, even though he felt like he was being watched.
It was the memories, he reminded himself.
Dreams and memories were never a good combination for his nerves.
He still needed to move the saddle back to its place in the tack room near the back door. He eyed the offending exit, knowing his thoughts were irrational. Sancerre and Ratford were dead.
A racket erupted behind him, several thuds reverberating off the wall like shots.
He dropped the saddle. Then in one swift movement, he dipped to a crouch, grabbed his knife, and spun.
Hand already in throwing motion, he took in the face of the person entering.
He tried to pull the knife back, his mind screaming its dismay, but it was already too late.
The knife left his grip and flew directly at Miss Prudence.