“I learned later that I was like that for two days. Dead to the world. Stuck to the floor. My stepfather had forbidden any of the servants to touch me. Said I would live or die by my own sorry will. He beat the chambermaid that had tried to press water to my lips to rouse me. She didn’t deserve that.” Her head shook and then she shrugged. “After that no one dared to come to me. Not even when I awoke.”
Her eyes slipped shut. “I had to rip my head from that stone floor. That moment…” A shudder ripped through her body. “It tore my skin. Left me this.” Her fingers pointed to her temple which she had already smoothed her hair over.
She cracked her eyes open, her downcast gaze shifting to Domnall and then settling on the flames of the fire. “I’m sorry you had to witness the scar. I know it is grotesque and I am careful to keep it covered. I will take better care in the future.”
Domnall nodded, his face solemn. Nodded for a long moment.
It took her several unsteady breaths to realize the entire camp had gone quiet. The constant buzz of the male voices, the Scottish burrs steadily streaming about the campfire had died.
She looked up.
Every man around the fire was looking at her.
Looking at her with the same solemn countenance of Domnall’s face.
Hell. Why had she swallowed the whisky? So much of it.
Her cheeks flaming, she bowed her head, unable to take the pitying stares of the men about her.
Disdain she could take. Pity she could not.
What she wouldn’t give in that moment for a graphic hand gesture aimed in her general direction.
Domnall cleared his throat. Her head stayed tilted downward, but her eyes lifted to him.
He was grinning, his eyes sparkling in the light of the fire. “Lass, ye dinnae ken grotesque until ye’ve seen Finley’s back. Fire got the bastard after he ran from a widow’s bed—a widow that wasn’t a widow—and he tripped over a fire as he ran from her husband.”
The men laughed, jeers and caterwauls flying at Finley.
“Go on, show her, Finley,” Rory called out from the left.
Chuckling with a wild grin on his face, Finley stood up opposite the fire from Evalyn and yanked his shirt up, turning his back to her. Mottled flesh, bumpy and stretched tight to a fine white, cut a swath across the expanse of his skin. Smirking, he dropped his shirt, looking about his brethren. “Best lay ever from a widow, though, lads.”
Bawdy chortles filled the night air.
“And, Rory, show the lass where that boar ripped yer leg through.”
With a maniacal laugh, Rory jumped to his feet, dropping his trousers and turning his bare ass to her. Her hand flew to cover her eyes, her head turning away, but not before she saw the ragged scar that ran from the back of his knee up past his buttocks.
“And, Colin, the lass needs to see where ye ran at my sword when ye were a pup and I sliced yer side,” Domnall said. “Festered for weeks.”
“Ran at your sword, my ass.” Colin hauled himself to his knees and unbuttoned his waistcoat, yanking up on his shirt.
She held her hand up, laughing. “Enough, enough, enough. You all are marred more grotesquely than me, I understand.”
“But ye should really see what that ole bugger Domnall did to an innocent lad like me.” Colin freed his shirt, spinning to the side so she could see the thick, ragged band of flesh that had been stitched closed. He tilted his skin to the light. “Miss Mable was soused when she stitched me up.” His fingers pointed along the length of the scar. “Ye can still see the spots where she missed the wound completely, stitching closed skin that was already together.”
Evalyn groaned. “Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I was soused too.”
She laughed.
In that moment, in the middle of laughter flying freely from her throat, it struck her. She had never felt this before.
Warmth.
Whether it was from the whisky, from the fire, from the moment of laughter where she didn’t feel like a burden.
It was warm.
And it was wonderful.
Wonderful and fleeting.
{ Chapter 7 }
“Evalyn. I need you in the tent.”
Lachlan’s voice cut into the air from where he stood behind her. Hard. Clipped.
It cut the laughter still bubbling from her throat.
Cut the easy laughter from all corners of the camp.
He didn’t mean it to sound so harsh, but he did mean to extract her from the men. In the span of twenty minutes she had just turned his men from adversaries to allies.
She jumped at his command, glancing downward and seeing how far down her bare shoulder the blanket had slipped.
She yanked it up, clasping the fur-lined wool tightly about her neck as she got to her feet.
Better.
Once upright, the blanket about her swayed—no, she swayed, near to stumbling.
Worse.
How many times had Domnall refilled her cup with whisky?
Holding her balance, she spun to Lachlan. Her cheeks had gone rosy, the liquor or the laughter sending warmth to her head. The back half of her auburn hair was still askew and knotted with snarls, the front was smoothed perfectly over her right temple. He’d watched as her fingers had threaded through the locks again and again as she spoke. He doubted she even knew she did it.
The remnant of the smile that was still on her lips faded when she found his face. For an instant, he wanted it back. Wanted to see her eyes glow with the merriment of the moment that the waning vestiges of the grin only hinted at.
He’d stood behind her for the last ten minutes. Silent, listening, but not moving into her sightline.
Now he wished he had.
He hadn’t seen laughter breach her face, ever.
Fear, he’d seen. Her chin jutting out in stubbornness. Outrage. Sorrow. She’d even rolled her eyes once at Rupe.
But never a laughing smile.
Her mouth pulled to a tight, wary line as her eyes met his. “The tent?”
He nodded, his voice gruff. “The tent.”
He turned and pulled aside the front flap of his tent and she shuffled past him into the confines.
Stepping in after her, his neck curved forward as he hunched to fit inside. He picked up the woolen dress he’d procured for her at Lord Jameson’s estate, holding it out to her, the row of buttons now freed. “Your shift is still sopping so I’ll set it by the fire while you pull the dress on. I’ll be back in to button it.”
Her look dipped down from the bland grey dress to the ground next to the front flap of the tent.
“Evalyn?”
She didn’t respond. Had she managed to fall asleep standing up with her eyes open?
Her look crawled up to his face, the gold flecks in her green eyes sparking in the glow of the lantern. “Where’s my gown, Lachlan?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? What—where? No.”
“Yes.”
Jerking the blanket around her, she pushed past him and stalked out of the tent, searching the cold ground. Finding nothing, she walked around to the back of the tent, searching the shadows.
Lachlan followed her.
“You don’t need the damned dress, Evalyn. It’ll do you no good in Scotland.”
She whipped to him, her palpable fury cutting through the dark. “You have no right—no right to dispose of it, Lachlan. No right to it at all.”
He bristled, his arms clamping over his chest. “I do because you’ll do as I say, Evalyn. You asked for this. You. You wanted to join our party—well, this is our party. And there isn’t margin for the additional weight of that monstrosity.”
“Monstrosity?” Her voice screeched into the night. “That is my mother’s dress, Lachlan. The last—the only thing I have of her.” Her voice cracked and it took her a long moment to steel her breath enough to continue. “Please—it’s the only thing. I know it’s not practical. I know it is of no use to anyone but m
e, but I couldn’t leave it behind at Wolfbridge. That’s why I wore it. And I cannot leave it now. I need it. Please, just tell me where it is. I will carry it. It won’t be a burden. I swear.”
She flung an arm out from the blanket wrapping her and ripped the wool dress from his hands, then spun away from him. “Here—see—I’ll wear your damn dress and I will carry the gown.” She bent, the blanket hanging over her back as she stepped into the serviceable wool dress. She straightened and the blanket slid off her bare back as she yanked the dress upward.
For half a second, her backside was bared to him. Even with his tent between them and the fire, he could see her clearly. Her creamy skin, the gentle slope that dipped in along her lower back then led to her smooth backside—curves that begged for his fingers to cup.
She tugged the dress upward, covering her bottom, but the fabric still gaped wide from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back.
Spinning around to him, her hand flattened on her chest to clasp the bodice of the dress to her breasts. Desperation laced her words. “See—I have it on. Just as you wanted. Now please, just tell me where my mother’s dress is, Lachlan. Please.”
Curse it all to bloody hell.
Had he known what it was, what it meant to her, he never would have been so casual in disposing of it. He knew about keepsakes. Knew about mothers that passed well before their time. He’d carried about his mother’s favorite mother-of-pearl hair comb—the one she would always let his tiny fingers set into place in her fine russet hair—somewhere on his person every day for years after her death.
He exhaled an exasperated sigh. “The dress is at the wagon with Rupe. He was to rip it into strips and use it as kindling.”
Her jaw dropped, air escaping, though words didn’t leave her mouth.
She shoved by him.
“Evalyn—”
She didn’t stop, charging away from the tent and running to the wagon.
He followed her, watching as she found the sopping wet pile of the white and gold gown on the ground next to the rear left wheel. Rupe was still busy at the cooking fire making bannocks for tomorrow’s journey. It didn’t look as though he’d gotten to it yet.
Small favor.
She gathered up her dress, clutching it to her chest and sending water dripping from the fabric.
“Damn…Evalyn, no.” He reached out to snatch it from her, his fingers quick to grasp onto a piece of the dress. “Give me that.”
“No, damn you, Lachlan.” She yanked it backward with a step and the fabric tore. “Damn you.”
His fingers flew wide, releasing the silk. Both of his hands lifted, palms open to her to calm. “No, I’m not going to ruin it. It’s wet and you’re going to be soaked again in another minute if you keep pressing it to your dress.”
“What?” The word screeched through her teeth, clear disbelief in his statement.
He couldn’t blame her.
Lachlan leveled his voice to what he hoped was a non-threatening timbre. “I don’t have another dress for you, Evalyn. The one you wear is all we have and we can’t afford to get it wet as well.” He took a cautious step forward. “I’m not going to take your mother’s gown from you. I didn’t know what it meant. I’m just going to drape it along the wagon so it can dry. That is all.”
The glare in her gold-green eyes waned, confusion setting in. “You’re going to what?”
“Dry it.”
“You’re not going to have Rupe wreck it?”
“No.”
She glanced back over her shoulder to look at Rupe. He’d stood as straight as the stoop in his back would allow and was now intently watching the scene by the wagon.
“You swear it, Lachlan?”
“Yes.” His look stayed on her as he half turned his head to his cook. “You hear me, Rupe?”
“Yes, Lach,” Rupe said as he sauntered over from the cooking fire, large wooden spoon in his hand as he watched the proceedings.
Lachlan motioned with his fingers for Evalyn to hand the dress to him. He wasn’t about to try and wedge it from her grasp again and risk tearing more of the fabric.
It took her a long moment before she slowly lifted it away from her body, offering it to him.
Gently, so as to not startle her, Lachlan took the gown and moved to the front side of the wagon. He unrumpled the silk fabric, stretching it out and draping it along the front boards—acutely aware the entire time of Evalyn’s disbelieving gaze pinning him.
The fabric was beyond dirty, probably beyond salvageable for ever being worn again. But he smoothed it out with as much care as he possibly could.
He worked along the edge of the skirt hanging off the end of the wagon, snapping the fabric tight to take out the deep-set wrinkles.
Rupe pointed at Evalyn with his spoon. “Ye need help with the buttons on yer back, lass?”
Lachlan dropped the skirt, moving back to Evalyn and stepping between her and Rupe. “I’ll take care of the damn buttons, Rupe.”
He grabbed Evalyn’s shoulders, spinning her and guiding her back to the entrance of his tent. He ushered her in and then stood behind her, his head cocked to the side so it didn’t hit the top of the tent. She had no problem with the tent height as the top of her head barely reached his mid-chest.
Standing with her bare back to him, she didn’t turn, choosing to stay still and silent until he stepped forward and his fingers started on the first buttons.
Working upward, his knuckles brushed the back of her bare skin. It was enough to drive a man to madness, buttoning up the dress instead of dragging it down her sleek body.
But she was foxed and he was in no mood to make her his mistress yet. That would need to wait until they got to Vinehill. Wait until she was no longer shooting arrows at him with her gold-green eyes.
“Thank you.”
“For?” Lachlan looked to the back of her head.
She lifted one hand from holding the front of her dress to her chest and twisted her long auburn hair around her hand. She pulled the mass of it forward over her shoulder so he would have clear access to the buttons moving up her spine. “For not destroying the dress.”
“I made an assumption about it that I was mistaken on.”
“What assumption?” Her head shifted slightly to the side and he could see her delicate profile, though she didn’t look at him.
“That you were too harebrained to know enough to put on a sturdy dress for the journey.”
“And you no longer think me harebrained?”
“I find that you are determined, not necessarily harebrained.”
“I fear I must take that as a compliment.”
Lachlan chuckled.
As he worked the buttons up her back, he realized that under the light of the lantern spots of her creamy skin were yellowed, some darker than the others. One that was almost black. Bruises that were in various states of healing.
“Evalyn—no one in camp has touched you since Colin slapped you? Have they?”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyebrow lifted in curiosity. “No. Not a one. I thank you for that. I haven’t mistakenly insinuated so, have I?”
He shook his head. Her face shifted forward, her hands tightening along her chest where she held the dress to her breasts.
Three more buttons up and he paused, his forefinger flicking out to trace the mottled edge of a blackened bruise just below her shoulder blade. “Yet this is recent.” He looked up at the back of her neck and leaned forward, his voice low. “What exactly are you running from, Evalyn?”
She spun around, jumping away from him. “I shouldn’t take your time such as this.” She dodged to the right to move around him. “I’m sure Rupe will help with the rest of the buttons.”
He grabbed her upper arm, stopping her motion. “I will finish them.”
Panic instantly set into her eyes. Panic Lachlan recognized. She was trapped.
He released her arm, stepping behind her so she was the one closest to th
e entrance of the tent. “It is no trouble. Only a few more.” He started fastening the remaining buttons before she could escape him.
To her credit, her feet stayed in place. Just being close to escape was enough to halt her instinct to flee.
Interesting.
“You heard what I said by the fire, didn’t you?” Her words came out small, tired.
His fingers stilled, his pinky set on a bump of her spine. “I did.”
“Then you already know the answer to the question.”
“Your stepfather?”
She looked back to him. “Yes. Life was…difficult. And it was about to become more so.”
“Why?”
“He had bartered me away to a man he partners with.”
“Falsted sold you?” The words whispered from his mouth.
“Whereas I never knew what would set my stepfather to anger or when, the man he sold me to has had no quandary in telling me exactly what he plans to do to me. How he will rip me to shreds.” She visibly shuddered. “This was my last chance to escape before I was forced to marry him.”
Hell. That bloody blackguard. Of course Falsted would set a monster onto his stepdaughter. “You’ve tried to escape before?”
She nodded, a dark cloud shadowing her eyes before she turned forward, her look evading him. “Twice. Both times I was by myself, and I was quickly found.”
Lachlan cleared his throat, his fingers quick on the last three buttons up the back of the dress. “Then I daresay it was with luck that we met in the Wolfbridge gardens.”
Her shoulders lifted in a heavy sigh and she smoothed down the front of the dark wool dress against her stomach.
For a long moment she was silent, and then her lips pulled inward as she turned her face slightly toward him.
Yet her eyes avoided him.
“It wasn’t luck, Lachlan. I must confess I planned my approach of you from the moment you stepped foot into the duke’s castle.”
{ Chapter 8 }
Several heartbeats passed before Evalyn found the nerve to fully turn to Lachlan and risk a glance at his face. She wholly expected to see wrath like she’d never known in his eyes.
Instead, she was met with curious hazel eyes. Almost a grin along the edges of his mouth.
The Iron Earl Page 7