Earl Alpha (Midnight Brides #2)
Prologue
In the shadowed groves of Blackfen, where the moon’s pallid eye pierces the veil of night, whispers speak of a beast that walks on two legs by day and four by the witching hour; yet none dare name it, lest the curse descend upon their hearth.
Lord Lucien Northwood, honorary baron and heir to the Earl of Blackfen, ran on the damp earth, each stride sinking slightly into the soft mulch of fallen leaves, pine needles, and the occasional snap of a twig that echoed like a distant musket shot in the still night.
This was to be his wood, his birthright, yet tonight it felt as though the forest itself pressed back against his chest. Every shadow stretched, threatening to swallow him whole, and suddenly he was a boy again, listening to his father’s stern warnings about avoiding the forest on nights exactly like this.
Lucien sensed the night with every breath.
Wet earth sucking at his heels, the sharp bite of resin that made his eyes water, and the deep chill that was starting to make his nose feel numb.
Cold mist curled around his calves like ghostly fingers that bit through his wool coat, yet it could not touch the fierce heat that blazed beneath his ribs and drove him onward.
Ahead of him, his massive Irish Wolfhound, Braccus, bounded with relentless energy, his frame a blur of wiry gray fur, long legs stretching out to cover ground in powerful leaps.
The hound’s ears were pricked forward, nose quivering as he scented the air, his tail a whip of excitement slicing through the fog.
Braccus was no ordinary dog. Bred from the estate’s finest lines, he possessed an instinct honed by generations of hunts. Tonight, that instinct pulled him onward, as if it was an invisible leash toward whatever shadow lurked in the depths of the woods.
Beside Lucien, Ephraim Cutter, the grizzled gamekeeper, kept pace with the steady, unyielding lope of a man who had spent his life patrolling these very paths.
The older man’s face was a map of weathered lines, scarred from years of brambles and protecting the beasts of these lands, his eyes sharp under the brim of his battered hat.
He gripped a lantern, its flame flickering behind soot-streaked glass, casting erratic pools of golden light that danced across twisted roots, moss-covered stones, and the occasional glint of dew on fern fronds.
They came to a stop, Lucien glancing upward to gain his bearings. The moon hung there, vast and merciless, pouring cold silver light, bathing the world in an ethereal pallor that transformed the Blackfen Woods into something almost otherworldly.
It felt as if the moon was staring down at him. A hunter’s moon, swollen and bright with foreboding, the sort of portent that old wives claimed could pry lunacy from both man and beast.
In the distance, a low baying echoed through the trees, rising and falling like a dirge carried on the wind. It sent a full shiver racing down Lucien’s spine, though he would never admit such weakness aloud, not to Ephraim, not even to himself.
Braccus’s massive head tilted, a low whine slipping from his throat, his body drawn tight as a spring. Lucien met the gamekeeper’s eyes. The air hung cold between them. Somewhere in the dark, something moved, and Lucien’s pulse thundered in his ears.
The baying came again. Deeper this time, a resonant howl that vibrated through the ground and into Lucien’s very bones, stirring something primal and unspoken.
His throat suddenly felt tighter than it had been. The sensation was so sudden and sharp that he almost reached up to loosen a cravat that was not even knotted tonight.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his mind racing through the tales he had heard since boyhood. Wolf stories whispered by servants, legends of ancient curses that haunted the Northwood lands. The notion was preposterous, a relic of medieval superstition.
Yet the sound gnawed at him, summoning his father’s stern warnings. Warnings he had once thought the anxious vigilance of a loving father. This night was proving otherwise.
“That cannot be a wolf,” Lucien declared, the words tasting false the instant they left his tongue. He needed them to be false.
He straightened his shoulders, his hunting coat brushing against his skin, the luxurious quality a subtle reminder of his station amid this wild pursuit.
As heir to the earl, he had been schooled in logic and reason at the finest institutions, where science triumphed over superstition.
“A wolf has not been sighted in England for centuries. It must be foxes, perhaps a pack roused by the moon’s pull, or feral dogs driven mad by hunger,” Lucien continued.
Ephraim grunted in response, shifting his heavy weight as he adjusted the strap of his rifle, the lantern’s light catching the glint of metal on the barrel.
The gamekeeper’s face remained impassive, a mask honed by years of solitary vigils in the woods, but his eyes flicked toward the moon with a pragmatic wariness.
He spat to the side, a crude gesture that spoke volumes of his grounded view of the world, his Northumbrian accent thick and unpolished like the rough bark of the oaks around them when he eventually spoke.
“A man’s got to call what he sees, m’lord.
And Blackfen ain’t exactly England, now is it?
Folk’ve whispered for generations that the bones of wolves still haunt these woods.
Buried deep, but restless under the moon like this. Rattlin’ their chains, so to speak.”
Lucien flicked his gloved hand as though he could brush the superstition away. Yet Ephraim’s words clung to him, damp and impossible to shake off, like the mist soaking through his coat.
Ephraim was a solid, reliable sort. Crude at times, with his unrefined manners and burr that could grate like gravel underfoot, but his knowledge of the land was unparalleled.
Still, superstition had no place in a rational mind. Such fancies were fit for peasants and poets, not for a future member of the House of Lords.
“Bones do not howl, Ephraim, nor do they rise to prowl the night. And we would not recognize the cry of a true wolf if it bit us on the leg. We have neither seen nor heard one in our lifetimes. No, mark my words, it is foxes or dogs. Nothing more.”
The gamekeeper shrugged, his broad shoulders rolling like a bear’s as he hefted the lantern higher.
“Mayhap, m’lord. But somethin’s killin’ the sheep, and it ain’t no fox.
I’ve found carcasses o’ deer in these woods.
Big stags, torn apart like they was nothin’ but parchment.
No wee vixen could bring down beasts o’ that size.
And the bites …” He trailed off, his gaze distant as if recalling the grisly scenes, his voice dropping to a rough whisper.
“They ain’t right. Too deep. Like somethin’ from the old tales. ”
Lucien felt a flicker of irritation at the man’s persistence, but beneath it lay a thread of uncertainty that he turned away like an unwelcome suitor at a ball. The animal killings had plagued the estate for months now.
His father, the earl, had dismissed the initial reports as the work of poachers or stray predators, but lately, he had grown distant, vanishing each month for several days with no explanation.
Where was he now, when they needed his steady hand and commanding presence? Lucien felt a pang of regret. As the heir, it fell to him to protect the family’s lands, but he longed for his father’s guidance in this strange night.
Braccus, growing impatient with their debate, let out a sharp bark, his body quivering with eagerness.
He turned and surged forward once more, his paws throwing up clods of damp earth as he veered toward the source of the howling, disappearing into the gloom with a determination that brooked no delay.
“Come on, then,” Lucien said, gripping his gun tighter, the wood smooth and cool under his fingers. “Braccus is right. We shall not stand here talking all night like a pair of gossips at Almack’s.”
Ephraim nodded, a faint grin cracking his stern features, revealing a flash of yellowed teeth in the lantern light. “Aye, m’lord. Let’s see why he drew us into these woods when the devil’s afoot.”
They plunged deeper into the forest, the path narrowing as the trees closed in, their branches whispering secrets in the wind. The ground grew more uneven, roots snaking across the trail like veins pulsing with the earth’s hidden life, forcing Lucien to watch his step lest he twist an ankle.
The air grew heavier, laced with the tang of impending rain, and again, the loud howling swelled, closer now, pulling them onward, as if it was an invisible thread woven by fate itself. Lucien’s breath came in steady gusts, his mind racing. Part thrill of the hunt, part unease at the unknown.
What if Ephraim’s tales held a kernel of truth? He shook the thought away. He was a Northwood, bred for command, not cowardice.
After what felt like an eternity of scrambling over fallen logs, pushing through brambles that tugged at their coats, and navigating streams that gurgled underfoot, they crested a rise. The trees thinned, revealing a jagged crag that jutted from the earth like a sentinel guarding ancient secrets.
Up there, on its edge, stood the silhouette that halted Lucien in his tracks. Framed against the enormous silver moon, the figure was unmistakable.
A wolf, its form etched in stark relief against the luminous backdrop. Its head was thrown back, muzzle pointed skyward as another howl tore from its throat, a sound that resonated across the landscape, vibrating through Lucien’s chest like a drumbeat of doom.
His mouth fell open. A wave of cold dread poured through his chest, so sudden he felt his knees threaten to betray him.
Lucien had expected, hoped for, something ragged. A lone wanderer ravaged by time and hardship, perhaps afflicted with mange that would mark it as a pitiful outcast.