“Tak’ care o’ him,” Alan bade the men. “I am going to find Evan.”
The grooms exchanged swift glances. Billy, at least, was aged enough to remember how things had been between Alan and his brother while the two were growing up. The younger grooms had no doubt heard stories.
Billy got to his feet. “Ye will ha’ a care, Master Alan?”
Alan nodded. At the moment he did not feel as if he would need to take care. Anger filled him and, as he started across the courtyard to the house, he realized he was trembling.
Not with fear, not this time.
He entered through the rear and was not quiet about it. The maids in the kitchen followed him with their eyes, as did the footmen. He found his father, mother, and Annista in the great hall, apparently talking. They all turned when he crashed in.
“Alan? Wha’ is it, son?”
“Where is Evan? Ha’ ye seen him?”
Father shook his head. “Nay this morning.” Father’s eyes narrowed abruptly. “Why?”
Alan did not waste breath in answering. He marched back out and up the stairs to the galley.
They followed.
“Alan,” Mother called. “What—”
“I need a word wi’ Evan.”
He needed more than a word. In truth, this should have come a long time ago. Everyone knew Evan had been abusing that horse—just as they’d known he’d been cruel to his wife. They’d found reasons to turn a blind eye to it. The horse was wild and needed discipline. And no one interfered between a man and his wife.
Suddenly that seemed a craven sentiment. An indefensible one. Evan may not have abused his wife physically. At least, she’d never claimed so. But was not covert cruelty the equivalent of what he’d just seen?
Evan’s room lay at the end of the upper gallery, well past Annista’s chamber and his own. Alan did not bother knocking at the door. He crashed in.
Dark the place was, even though the sun now stood proud in the sky, the heavy drapes being drawn. Alan did not need to see much. He could tell by the reek that Evan was there.
By God, he could hear the lout snoring even over the sound of the blood pounding in his own ears.
A lump in the bed proved to be his brother. A trail of shed clothing led thence. Alan stumbled over some of the garments as he marched up and glared down at the sodden hump in the blankets.
“Get up.”
No response. The reek of whisky was enough to make Alan’s eyes water. So Evan had got drunk and gone riding. Lost his temper with the stallion. It was no excuse.
“Alan,” Father spoke behind him, for all three of them had followed him into the chamber. “What has happened?”
Alan did not bother to answer. He reached down among the blankets, seized Evan’s shoulder, and hauled him up, surprised at the strength his rage lent him.
Evan came up with his head dangling to one side. Senseless. And naked. Not till Alan had hauled him up did he realize his brother had shedallhis clothes. And with Mother and Annista present!
At that moment, he barely cared. He shook Evan like a rat and watched his brother’s eyes slit open. He barked, “Ye bugger! Ye bastard! Ye’ll pay for wha’ ye’ve done. This time ye’ll pay!”
“Wha—” Evan began and got no farther before Alan’s fist slammed into his face. The impact—which included a collision with Evan’s teeth since his mouth dangled half open—should have hurt. It likely did, but Alan disregarded that also and drew back his arm to deliver another blow. And another.
Even in half unconsciousness, Evan’s instincts came to the fore. They were ugly instincts and he emerged from his drunken stupor ready to fight. He struck back hard, not to Alan’s face but his gut. It might have progressed to an all-out brawl then had Evan not lost his balance—or Alan his grasp—and fallen not back to the bed but onto the floor, where he thrashed and grunted, and then disgustingly vomited.
It gave time for Father to rush forward. He stared into Alan’s face.
“What has happened?” he repeated. “Wha’ did he do?”
“Ask him,” Alan retorted and pushed past his father to the door. If he lingered, he might well kill his brother.
