By any road, such thoughts had ever been confined to the back of his mind—firmly trapped there. He could not allow their escape.
Standing now in the courtyard, he glanced at the house where his wife had disappeared. Was she not in her way as much a caution as Evan?
She wanted revenge. That much seemed apparent. She’d adored her sister and would not mind letting Alan exact what she believed Evan deserved.
Alan could not let her influence him. Nay, he could not. Despite the fact that something within him responded to what so clearly existed within her—a part of him he’d never suspected might exist. It recognized her strength and her hatred.
She had good reason to hate Evan, aye. So did he.
He walked slowly across the courtyard, not in Annista’s wake but to the stable. He did not feel quite able to enter the house, to face his mother. To keep watch over his wife.
As soon as he set foot inside the stable, he knew something was very much wrong. An odd tension filled the air and he could hear voices, the grooms exclaiming. As he started down the lane that divided the boxes, his mount, Chieftain, thrust his head over the half door and rolled his eyes.
“What is it, lad? All right?”
Chieftain stamped his hooves a little and blew air. Alan ran a swift hand down his neck. He seemed well enough. But something was not.
Only a few stalls farther on was a commotion. Hurrying up, Alan saw three grooms in the box. Three grooms and—
Ah, what had happened to Tempest?
Even as Alan paused at the door, he knew. His heart did. And that dark instinct that lurked inside.
Still and all, he gasped. “What’s happened?”
All three grooms turned to look at him, Angus and Tommy on their feet, and Billy kneeling beside the stallion, who was down in the straw, thrashing.
It was Billy who answered him. “Found the horse like this, Master, when we come in this morning. He was taken out last night. Ridden hard. Then—”
Words failed the man. Words were not needed.
Evan.
He had beaten the horse before, they all knew of it. Christ in heaven, even Annista had recognized that. When charged with it, Evan claimed the horse was disobedient. In need of breaking.
He appeared broken now.
Tempest’s beautiful chestnut coat showed stripes of blood. More gathered in the foam that dotted his mouth. His eyes—usually defiant—had gone dull.
Alan swore long and low and edged into the already overcrowded stall, struggling to speak. “Why did ye no’ call me at once, when this was discovered?”
The gathered servants exchanged glances. Billy once more answered. “We did no’ wish to—well, draw attention to wha’ Master Evan has no doubt done. We thought we could tend the beast and did no’ realize how bad it was, at the outset.”
Alan tried to curb his annoyance. He could feel the men’s distress. Moreover, their fury. They were, the four of them united in their love of horses. Their anger and horror rivaled Alan’s own.
“Evan left him like this,” Alan said flatly, sickness crawling up through his belly.
“Aye,” Billy agreed bitterly. “Must have had him out most the night. Reduced the beast to this condition—for wha’, we can only guess.”
“He does no’ need much of a reason. Where is he now, does anyone ken?” Alan’s hands involuntarily closed into fists.
“Dunno,” muttered Angus. “Didn’t see him when I came in. Only—Tempest down like this.”
Alan met Billy’s gaze. “Will the horse recover? Can ye save him?”
“I canna say, Master Alan. I ha’ never seen this beast down and do no’ like to imagine wha’ could mak’ him so.”
But they did not have to imagine, did they? The evidence lay before their eyes.
