Dark Side of the Sun Read online

  Dark Side of the Sun

  By

  Addison Cain

  ©2017 Addison Cain

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by ErisAderly.com

  Cain, Addison

  Dark Side of the Sun

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9986767-3-9

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9986767-4-6

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue:

  Born to be Bound: Alpha’s Claim Book One

  Addison Cain

  This is a special story. Though it is far from my first published book, it is the first novel I ever tried to write. Some of my readers, those who have been with me from the beginning, have waited years to read Arabella and Gregory’s completed tale. I dedicate this book to them. My gratitude for your support over all this time is beyond anything I can express.

  Thank you, and I love you!

  Chapter 1

  D igging sharp heels against his mount's flank, Mr. Harrow ground his teeth. That damnable sooty streak still outdistanced him, the shrieking interloper marring his land like a blight. Such shouts would cost so low a trespasser... for had the intruder been silent, they might have gone unnoticed in thick mist.

  He knew why they raced with such vigor to cross the marshes—they had need to fear the man who might pursue. And based on their mangled path, it was clear he knew the terrain far better than they.

  Another kick to urge on his steed’s vigorous pace, and he cut through marshy wetlands, the thicker east fog hiding his approach.

  No local would have dared encroach so deep into his land. No farmer, no merchant, no soul familiar with the name Gregory Harrow. None were welcome here. None endured his unhappy attention—none who wanted to thrive, at least.

  Should he not like what he found, that bandit would lie with the others—a forgotten mass sunk to the bottom of a bog.

  Harrow checked his beast, slowing so no clop of hooves betrayed their approach. In the fog, all that waited between him and the rocks was a fine stallion. The black giant stood without tack—no doubt stolen—the horse’s ears pinned back, nostrils flared.

  Wary his true prey hid out of sight, Mr. Harrow chose to work quickly. Abandoning a fool in the marshes with no steed to see them out was simpler than overtaking one. If all went well, the vagrant would be less a horse, while he one the richer.

  Gathering a length of rope from his saddle, the gentleman dismounted. His target grew hostile, chuffed loudly, and stomped to the point Mr. Harrow’s own gelding shied.

  Despite the horse’s agitated neigh, there were no sounds of its missing rider. There was nothing. No footfalls, no slick scratch of a blade pulled from sheath. Even the wind was oddly still.

  Eager to take the horse while the opportunity stood, Harrow clicked his tongue and prepared to throw the lead.

  The Arabian was having none of it. The monster reared, hooves tearing at the air.

  When braced forelegs landed and the stallion stood ready to charge, a voice came from above. “He is a killer. You would be wise to step away while you still can.”

  Snapping his head upward, Mr. Harrow saw nothing... at least at first. It was the wind that betrayed her—one solitary breeze flapped worn edges of a cloak the same drab grey of her surroundings.

  Perched like a gargoyle above him, the intruder stared down with narrowed eyes.

  “You.” He caught the full measure of the vagrant, the sneer to his lip far more threatening than her stamping horse. “Imp...”

  Before Mr. Harrow could continue, the woman slid down the rocks, graceless in her landing. Feet bare and muddy, a mess of wind-tangled blood-red hair spilled from her hood, but it was the eyes, the way they turned up, that gave her away.

  She was no English lass, yet she stared at him as if he were the one out of place.

  Mr. Harrow had been wrong. The girl had not been running from him. She had not even known he’d pursued.

  Circling, he didn’t make it within three paces before her stallion reared and forced him back.

  She warned a second time, “If you continue your approach, I cannot be responsible for his actions. He is an outright demon of a horse. Lower your rope and go.”

  “I will not.”

  It was not only the harshness of his tone, or the mean look of him... it was the half-hidden female’s hesitation. Hubris or not, he frightened her. Had she been alone without her great beast, the woman’s command would never have been so steady. “You will.”

  He offered a crass leer. “Whose household do you belong to? Or, are you some vagabond?”

  The accusation brought a shadow to her lips. “I am not the one trying to steal a horse, Mr. Harrow.”

  Chin lifted, Harrow sneered. “How do you know me?”

  Before the horse might trample the intruder into an early grave, the woman reached out dirty fingertips, cooing even when her stallion snorted. The beast gave an agitated whinny, stamped, and stilled to the point it was uncanny.

  In a blur of grey wool, she mounted his back, as haughty as any queen on her throne.

  No matter her cold looks, Mr. Harrow knew why she’d scaled the creature. It was fear. And how easy it had been to terrify her so; all it had taken was one dark, promising look.

  His black eyes glittered, the meanest of grins offered. “Your name, red-haired wench?”

  Curving her lips in false delight, she mocked him in reply. “Imp was quite astute. You may call me that.”

  A simple twitch of her thigh, and her stallion launched itself into the wilds.

  * * *

  Nothing had been gained in Harrow's hunt of horse and rider. The Imp was still running free, an occasional distant streak across the horizon he could not ensnare. He’d pursued the brazen harridan, only to turn his head and find her miles off—as if she were some specter capable of being in two places at once.

  It was that devil horse—the beast too swift, the girl’s careless riding preserving her from him.

  Unwilling to be reckless over such dangerous ground, Harrow was not about to risk his gelding or his neck giving further chase. Like all fools who bounded through unknown lands, the woman with her dirty feet would find soon enough the savagery of the landscape would not tolerate her games. He need not even bother. The bogs would claim her... or she would lose the road and wander without food or water. Either way, she would learn. And if she didn't, if he found her again, she would learn another way.

  Hours lost and nothing gained, Mr. Harrow turned towards the direction of his initial goal. He was overdue to receive a new tenant—the complication another slight against the miscreant Imp.

 
Ambling up the pathway of the long vacant Crescent Barrows, Mr. Harrow peered past neglected foliage to find a cart had already arrived, as had a lanky figure, the gentleman ancient and ramrod straight.

  The weathered fossil seemed a good match for a crumbling manor tainted by rumors of ghosts.

  The old tales the landlord had found both baseless and bland. The only thing one needed to fear within Crescent Barrows was what living men could do.

  Clearing the overgrown hedgerows, Mr. Harrow dismounted with little preamble. “Good afternoon, Mr. Griggs.”

  Hollowed cheeks were sucked deep as Solicitor Griggs observed his tardy host. “I am here to take governance of the property.”

  “Then by all means.” Pulling a tangle of iron keys from his pocket, Mr. Harrow brushed past the man to unlock the main entry. The heavy door whined under the demands of a heavy shoulder. “Let us enter.”

  Before following, the old man looked to the solitary manservant. “Payne.”

  A burly grey-haired African came from the cart, stoic as he followed the party inside.

  The portal shut, little light filtering in to break up the gloom. Crescent Barrows was no country manor of extravagant rooms and fine gardens. It was a crumbling stone structure lacking more modern comforts, antiquated in its layout.

  Beyond the narrow vestibule, a great hall waited, the room's massive hearth infested with the nests of its eight legged residents. Ignoring the squalor, Harrow threw several logs into the jaw and lit a quick blaze, singeing webs and forcing spiders to flee as the shadows retreated and heat worked to thaw the room.

  Watching the old man survey shabby covered furniture and the threadbare rug, Mr. Harrow cleared his throat. “You have only the one servant? I shall send more to help unload your wagon.”

  Unsmiling, Mr. Griggs answered. “That is unnecessary.”

  “As you wish.” They were almost eye to eye, Mr. Griggs exceptionally tall and so slender it seemed sickly. Harrow needed his tenant alive if he wanted to continue receiving payment. “Yet a room must be prepared for you at this late hour.”

  A top hat was placed upon the scant hair clinging to Mr. Griggs's skull. “I am merely acting as solicitor and cannot linger. The Baroness Iliffe is your tenant, sir...”

  Dark brows drew tight, Mr. Harrow's response terse. “Yet the house is rented in your name, sir.”

  “Her ladyship is an extremely private woman.” The skeletal man offered a warning. “Your reputation as a discreet gentleman of business and the fact this house is... difficult to let... are a good fit to her needs. She does not come to the country for socializing and has no interest in a reception from her neighbors. It is her desire her title remain unknown and she be left alone.”

  “And, what of the Baron Iliffe?”

  A toneless answer was offered. “Dead, three years past.”

  A grieving widow confining herself to the countryside, the very idea was repugnant... though not as infuriating as the fact nobility thought to dupe him. “And when will this grand lady arrive to take possession of the house?”

  After a condescending glance over the squalor of the room, it was apparent in Solicitor Griggs's estimation that the house stood ill-suited for imminent arrival. “Her ladyship does things in her own time.”

  As Harrow made to argue, the solicitor left, offering little more than a stiff bow. Atop a sorrel mare the old man rode out over darkening moors, his stretching shadow moving like a boney finger towards the township of Harding.

  Chapter 2

  I t was not unusual for Gregory Harrow to drop into the Red Griffin. At the sight of his approaching horse, the innkeeper's lad rushed out to grab the bridle, the boy taking pains to keep his eyes downcast in the presence of the dismounting gentleman.

  When he haunted the inn’s doorstep, Harrow came to gamble, to demand the payment of debts, and on occasion, to take one of the girls in the barn for a copper's worth of fun. Such behavior was standard fare, but that was not why the innkeeper's son remained skittish in the brute's presence—it was the memory of watching Mr. Harrow coldly maim a challenger beyond recognition.

  He'd beaten his own cousin. His cousin had died. All over one damning word no soul dared to speak in Harrow's presence since.

  Pulling the gloves from his hands, Harrow scanned the torch lit yard. There was one he was looking for, a sack of bones that might actually prove useful. When Gregory found the crouched village scamp gnawing something under the shelter of the gate, he shouted, “Boy!”

  Calf-eyes in a too thin face snapped up from a heel of burned bread. The beggar froze, visibly swallowing, clutching hard to his meal as he shrank back.

  Chin to his chest, Harrow grinned at the ragged castoff. “Have you seen a woman with red hair? A stranger on a black horse?”

  “N-n-nooo, sir,” the youth tripped over the words.

  “And when you pilfered that bread—?”

  Standing, the boy defended himself, emboldened enough that he didn't stutter. “I bought this bread. Ask the innkeeper if you donna believe me.”

  “With stolen coin...” A snort and Harrow pressed, “Did you hear what the kitchen flits gossiped about when you purchased your bread?”

  Defiance snuffed out, Hugh muttered, “No. They t-to-took three coin for the loaf. Made me eat out here.”

  “Three coin for one loaf of burnt bread?” A snide sneer came to Harrow's lips, dark eyes darting towards the open door of the inn. “For that price you should have your feet up next to the fire.” Wicked, he ordered, “Get your bones inside then.”

  Shaking his head, Hugh pulled his lower lip into his mouth, recalling the split lip the innkeeper had given him last time he'd come too close in search of warmth.

  False amusement drained from the towering gentleman. “Do as I say, boy.”

  It was not an act of kindness. Harrow had no interest in the boy's welfare, and the youth well-knew it. He only wanted to use him to bait the innkeeper for sport, or laugh while one of the others thumped him.

  Quick as a flash, the beggar turned, the precious heel of bread held tightly to his chest as he scrambled off.

  Goading fools had always been good for a chuckle. Grinning, Harrow pushed through the door of the Red Griffin and waited to be noticed.

  Laborers sat with their kind and the gentlemen with theirs. Between them was the buffer of landowners and the more prosperous farmers. Society knew their place, but as drink flowed the boundaries would blur, especially once the hour grew late and serious gambling began. There would be talk of the inn’s guests, rumors Harrow might glean about Solicitor Griggs—who must be snoring upstairs, as he was not at the gaming tables or drinking by the fire. If Harrow was lucky, there might even be a scarlet-haired Imp moving through the crowd trying to pocket coins the scrawny orphan outside lacked the stones to take.

  The inn’s best seat was given up once the man warming it saw who approached. Harrow lowered himself into the worn leather chair near the fire. Soon enough a tankard was put in his hand. As he scanned the sorry crowd, several neighbors nodded a polite hello, a few scampering away before a debt might be called upon. Time ticked on, but no flash of shabby grey or twist of blood-red hair caught the light.

  The Imp was not there.

  But something almost as entertaining was. Indolent, Harrow watched one of the few men foolish enough to still speak ill of him brag mightily over the sum he'd made off his crop that very morning.

  Held by eyes as black as Harrow's intentions, his distant neighbor grew bold with drink. The confidence of a bellyful of ale, and the farmer swaggered, certain he was invincible as his pile of coin grew with every throw of the dice. With such large winnings, he wagered aggressively with his funds, much to the excitement of his friends, and the cheering of the room.

  Another win bolstered the farmer's faith that he was the master of chance, drawing him into a bet that even his companions warned against. It had always astounded Harrow how quickly a simpleton could lose a fortune, and how speedily thos
e willing to do what had to be done could earn one. So he watched as the diceman handed over the cup, the farmer shaking it, risking a massive sum on a single bet. The clatter of the cubed wood fell and a cold sweat broke out upon a face that had been so full of delight only a moment ago.

  The farmer had lost.

  Desperation led to another reckless bet, the farmer gathering up the dice in the cup. One last throw and everything was forfeit, all his profits from his crop squandered.

  “That's ten pound, Keith.” The diceman grinned, his mouth a curl of perfect satisfaction. “Due me now, if you please.”

  Working to hide his horror, Keith patted his pockets. He pulled all he had from his coat, slid it to the diceman, hoping the foreigner might not notice he stood two pounds short.

  The wiry limbed diceman snatched at the notes, clicking his tongue. “Betting money you ain't got is not a sign of a gentleman.”

  Panting, Keith looked for the friends who egged him on, who'd drank and cheered. But they stood distant and averted their eyes. “I'm sure we could work something out...”

  The quick handed Irishman smirked. “Either you find me coin or you be payin’ another way.”

  Sweating, hands pressed to a protruding belly, Keith grew desperate. Those he asked for a loan outright denied him; the few gentlemen in the room ignored him, save one. Mr. Harrow met his frantic eyes and held them.

  Keith's paunch expanded in a steadying breath. He wiped a hand over a fleshy face, and stood. “Sir.”

  “Sir?” Harrow answered back in parrot of Keith's thick accent. “I don't recall you ever calling me that before.”

  No. He had not. There was another name Keith far preferred. A title that had earned the last man who’d spoken it to Harrow's face a grave.

  Everyone knew the dark haired bastard had no true right to the name Harrow or the lands he'd taken. Standing there needy before the softly smiling object of his antagonism ate through Keith’s drunken bravado. Eyeballing the largeness of the lounging man, still seeing the scrawny boy he'd hated, the farmer couldn't understand how Gregory Harrow had grown in size and wealth while pureblood men like him had only sunk lower. “I have little ones to feed...”