Chapter Twenty
When Alan again went riding out on Chieftain, he did not harbor much hope of finding his brother.
He’d previously checked all Evan’s haunts, at least those of which he could think.
But he could not forget the look in his wife’s eyes when he’d come running in through the connecting door from his chamber.
He’d thought for an instant it had been she who’d been battered.
Not that it was any better, what Evan had done.
He reminded himself now as he guided Chieftain down forest paths and narrow lanes, this was a whole new search. Evan had run off and, aye, might be found in any of these old hidey holes. Alan needed to check them all again.
Which could well prove dangerous.
All his life he had known that seeking out his older brother—who should have been friend and guide to him, teacher and companion—might cost him dear.
In their youth, to be sure, Evan had not had recourse to fortifying himself with whisky.
But Alan had never known in what mood he might find his brother. And he had learned early.
Riding out now through the growing morning light, he acknowledged that it had early caused a schism between them. And as a smaller, weaker lad, Alan had opted for avoidance.
No more. Now he could hold his own with his brother. And he was angry.
Should he have become so earlier? If he had, would it have made a difference?
He frowned over that question. Then frowned more deeply when he spied a figure traipsing along ahead of him.
He was following a remote track that cut along the edge of the woodland—forest on one side and the moor stretching northward on the other. Naught but wild country here and no reason for anyone to go afoot.
But Alan recognized his brother’s cloak and the size of his frame, even though he walked stooping. They were traveling in the same direction, and he came up from behind Evan, easily overtaking the man afoot.
Evan swung around, when he heard the sound of Chieftain’s hooves, and glared.
Alan drew up his horse, not sure what Evan would do, how he would react to being located. Not sure either what he would do.
Evan was headed away from the estate. No bag of belongings, just the clothing on his back. What were his intentions? Did he have any intentions?
Alan swung down even as Evan turned to face him. “Everyone is looking for ye,” he called.
“Let them look.” Evan turned back and resumed walking.
“Hold up. Ye maun go back and face wha’ ye ha’ done.”
Evan kept walking. Alan quickened his pace and caught at his brother’s shoulder, to spin him.
Only then, when he got a look inside the raised hood, did he take in his brother’s face.
Bruises, aye, and a vicious cut where Alan had struck him.
Apart from that, Evan did not look a healthy man.
White and pasty where his complexion was usually florid, his features had gone slack, his eyes appeared empty.
“Leave me be,” he told Alan, “if ye wish to keep on drawing breath.”
Alan ignored the threat. “Where are ye bound?”
Evan shrugged. His dull gaze moved over Alan’s face as if searching for something. He gave a ghastly smile. “I thought ye were afraid o’ me.”
He had been. A part of him, the small boy who yet lurked inside, still was.
Evan went on, echoing Alan’s thoughts uncannily, “Ye used to be.”
“Ye enjoyed that, did ye no’? making me afraid.”
Evan shrugged, an utterly careless gesture and no true answer.
“Come back to the house wi’ me and answer for what ye’ve done—like a man.”
“Wha’ ha’ I done, then?”
Alan narrowed his eyes. Did Evan truly not remember? Or simply not care?
“Ye attacked my wife’s wee maid for no fit reason, left bruises on her and frightened her half out o’ her wits.”
“Your wife?” Evan mocked in a high voice. “She should ha’ been mine.”
“So ye could cow and neglect her, like her sister?”
“This one, I’m thinkin’, would no’ be so easy to cow. The other was no’ worthy o’ me.” Evan tossed his head, causing the hood to fall back on his shoulders. “I went looking for your wife in her chamber—to see how hard she might fight me. She was no’ there.”
Thank God, Alan thought.
With a sneer, Evan went on, “Tell me, brother, why should ye have the fiery wench? Why should ye ha’ anything?”
Alan ordered himself to remain calm and not rise to the bait his brother wielded. Evan wished only to misdirect from his own deeds.
He said, “Did ye expect them to gi’ ye another young woman to destroy?”
Evan said nothing in reply to that.
“Come awa’ home,” Alan repeated.
“Why? So they can chirp and scold and threaten me?” Evan tossed his head. “I am no’ afeared o’ their threats.”
No, he never had been.
It was Alan’s firm belief that if they could dry Evan out—keep him from the whisky—they might dampen the worst of his violence, at least. But nay, not all of it. Some sickness or rot lay deep inside the man.
Having considered that, he stepped back and waved a hand. “Go then. Tak’ yourself off into the world.” Let the unfortunates he met deal with him.
“Ah.” Evan rounded on Alan more fully. “Ye would like that, would ye no’?”
He would. It had always been one of his fondest desires, that his brother would just disappear.
“Then the estate would be all yours. But why should I leave it to ye?”
“Because ye will destroy it. Like aught else ye touch.”
“’Tis mine to destroy, is it no’? I—I am the first born.”
And therein lay Evan’s true thinking—all that was his, was his to destroy. Nay, poor Robena never had a chance.
“Tell me, Evan, d’ye tak’ pleasure in it? In terrifying your wee wife? In beating on your horse—a fine horse he is, and of which I thought ye were so proud.”
“He bit me.” Evan bared strong teeth. “’Twill be the last time he does that.”
“Aye, so. Or next time, he may kill ye.”
“He will no’ dare.” Evan eyed his brother. The effects of the drink seemed to be falling away from him while they stood talking. His eyes looked clear—and immensely cruel. “Just as ye will no’ dare to challenge me when it comes to it.”
“Will I no’?”
Evan shook his head. “Ye may ha’ struck out at me there to impress yer wee wife. But ye ken ye canna tak’ me on. Ye ha’ no’ the balls for it.”
Alan saw red. He’d never known in the past just what that adage meant, yet now crimson flashed distinctly in his vision as if blood poured in at the back of his eyes before fading into the morning.
“Aye,” he said softly. “Ye might well think that. For I never stood up for mysel’, did I?” No’ as I should have.”
“Ye were a craven jessie. And still are.”
“Maybe I’m more willin’ to stand up for others. For Tempest. And my wife.”
“Aye then.” Evan turned to face him fully and spread his arms. “Do yer worst.”
Alan knew all too well what taking Evan on in such a scrap could mean.
He’d seen his brother fight, had been on the receiving end more times that he could count.
Up in his chamber, when Alan had half thrashed him, he’d still been sotted with drink.
Out here, there was none to see if one of them killed the other.
If he killed his brother, what would he do after? Bury him out here and claim Evan had gone off for good?
Could he kill his brother, if need be? As Annista had invited?
To be perfectly honest, he did not know.
Evan grimaced and there was enjoyment in his eyes. Some of the color—or was that just the light of the dawning?—had returned to his face. He shrugged off his cloak, tossing it aside to free his arms and raised his fists.
“Do your worst, little brother,” he growled. “I will even allow ye to tak’ the first blow.”