The Iron Earl

by K. J. Jackson

  “Hell and damnation that demon beast near to had me, lass. The torch kept it away until it knocked me back and I fell with me bum leg and it was going for the kill just before ye appeared.” Rupe’s words flew fast, tumbling over one another. “Ye bloody well saved me life, lass. What was that demon cat?”

  She couldn’t turn back to Rupe. Couldn’t breathe. She just needed a moment. A breath.

  Rupe walked around her, his eyes wide as he looked to her face. “Are ye a witch, then, lass? That why ye can talk to the animals?”

  She almost snorted a laugh and the back of her hand went in front of her mouth. Air sank into her lungs enough to breathe again. “No, nothing of the sort, Rupe.”

  She looked to him in the flickering light of the torch on the ground to her right. The jaguar’s claws had made three deep gouges along his cheek. They would need to be tended.

  “What of ye, then? If yer not a witch, what be ye? A druid gone to live with the English folk? A fairy?”

  This time the snort of laughter did escape. “Again, nothing of the sort, Rupe. That was a jaguar, from the Americas, maybe. Though what a black jaguar would be doing in an English forest is beyond me.”

  “A jaguar? How do ye know that? How did ye know what to do with the blasted beast?”

  Her lips drew inward for a moment and she couldn’t stop her head from shaking. “My stepfather oftentimes had odd animals—predators—shipped from the far corners of the world. Lions. Wolves. Alligators. He once had two jaguar brought to his estate—one spotted and one black. I thought they were beautiful, especially the black one. It was just the same as that one tonight, with its black fur reflecting the light. I would visit them in their cage every day, and I learned if I meowed like a kitten, they would pay attention to me. Let me pet their snouts. I would feed them, of course. Fresh meat from the kitchens. They were majestic—proud—but with my mewling I could get them to come to me.”

  “Blasted me, I never heard of such a thing, lass.” Rupe scuffed the wiry hairs on his chin. “Why’d he do that—bring the scourge of that beast upon this land?”

  Her shoulders lifted as she drew a deep breath. “My stepfather liked to kill them. He liked me to watch. Would force me to do so.” She said the words fast, factually, to avoid Rupe’s pity.

  “Hell, lass, a demon of his own kind, then?” Rupe’s weathered face scrunched into disgust.

  Her right cheek lifted in a forced smile. “Yes, one of his own kind.”

  “But a jaguar, lass—I never heard of such a thing as a jaguar.” Rupe shifted, agitated, hopping from one foot to another. “Ye sure that be what that was?”

  Her head swiveled around and she searched the shadows of the trees around them. “Yes, or some animal very similar. And we best not dawdle here in the middle of the forest. I don’t imagine the rabbit will keep it occupied for long.”

  “Best idea I’ve thus heard from yer lips, lass.” Rupe bent to pick up the torch and they started in the direction of the camp.

  Three steps and both of them jumped.

  Lachlan stood with two men flanking him, all three had swords drawn and at the ready. They had appeared out of nowhere, silently lurking in the shadows.

  “Curse me bally, Lach, ye going to send a man to his grave popping out like that,” Rupe grumbled. “Where were ye when that beast was ready to nibble on me arm?”

  Lachlan kept a wary eye to the darkness past their heads. “We arrived here just after Evalyn jumped in front of you, old man.”

  “And ye didn’t kill the beast?”

  “You both were too close to shoot it and Evalyn appeared to have it well in hand—so to speak. There was no need.”

  “And if it had swatted her out of the way and come to eat me?” Rupe’s arm swung back toward the tree he’d been pinned against.

  Lachlan shrugged. “I would have killed it if it had raised a paw to Evalyn.” He sheathed his sword and took the torch from Rupe’s fist, walking toward camp with everyone following. One of his men trailed them, sword still at the ready. “It didn’t. Beast that it is, it didn’t need to die. Viscount Larring warned me earlier today when I stopped by his manor house that the jaguar had escaped from the menagerie he keeps on his lands. He has hopes of capturing the cat alive. So I deferred to his wishes.” Lachlan looked back over his shoulder to Evalyn. “And to Evalyn’s mewling.”

  Evalyn blinked, her eyes squinting in the darkness. Was that a smirk lifting the left side of Lachlan’s mouth? It was hard to tell as the torch was on the other side of his face. His voice had maintained the same low, even rumble as always, so she couldn’t be positive.

  Rupe snorted. “Ye could have warned me what be in these woods before I went off searching for berries for yer supper, Lach.”

  Lachlan sighed. “I didn’t know a warning was necessary, Rupe, as I had no idea you’d be straying from camp.”

  “Aye—I wouldn’t have ‘cept for the lass grabbing the wrong berries from the path.” He shook his head. “Red berries, I said, not pink.” His hands flew up, his grumble reaching a higher pitch. “And now we have one less rabbit fer the stew.”

  Evalyn’s chest deflated.

  She’d saved Rupe’s life with that rabbit, but that wasn’t what the cook would see. What the men in Lachlan’s camp would see. One less rabbit for them to eat. A stew lean on meat because of her actions.

  And it was her fault. She was the one that had mistaken the pink berries for red in the waning light of the day.

  Another failure to add to the tally.

  Her head bowed.

  The rest of the walk to the camp was in silence.

  ~~~

  He could feel it around him.

  The shift in the air. The air around Evalyn.

  It hadn’t taken but minutes back in the camp for word of Rupe’s altercation with the jaguar and what Evalyn had done to reach every ear of his men.

  With the story spreading, curious glances were rampant to the back of the wagon where Rupe had Evalyn gutting the other three rabbits.

  Lachlan didn’t care for it.

  His men had done what they could in the last three days to break her—save for another hand across her cheek. Did what they could to send her running back to Wolfbridge. They despised her, just the same as they despised her stepfather.

  Or at least, they had.

  She hadn’t broken, the chit. The sneers and jeers. The laughter at her expense. The constant demands for her to serve them. Gutting rabbits. Crawling through the brush for berries. None of it sent her feet to halting. None of it sent her running.

  If anything, the tilt of her chin, the raw determination in her gold-green eyes had intensified.

  He didn’t care for that, either.

  He’d ignored her the best he could for days, but that was waning.

  Lachlan took a sip of ale from the tankard slung along his hand as his look dipped to the main fire in front of him. This journey would be immensely easier if his men continued to hold dismissive contempt for her. With that, he didn’t have to worry about one of them drowning too far into their whisky that they thought it was a good idea to approach her.

  To proposition her.

  She was a beautiful woman.

  He’d seen that the first night in the gardens when she’d cornered him. Even through her facade of angry demands, he could see how her gold-green eyes sparkled under the torches of the gardens. How her smooth skin and fine features lent an ancient world elegance to her body. How her carefully styled hair swept low along her right temple, highlighting the silky smoothness of the auburn locks.

  The last thing he needed on this journey north was the headache of keeping his men’s hands off her person.

  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

  Even with her silly gown on, now stained and wrinkled to hell, and her hands deep in the blood of the rabbits, she held herself with an odd modicum of grace. Maybe it was how she held her bare arms up and out, attempting to distance her dress from
the blood of the rabbits.

  Why would she bother? The gold and white concoction was now so dirty, there would be no saving it.

  Her elbow lifted and she tried to force back a thick lock of her auburn hair that had fallen in front of her right eye. Unsuccessful.

  He stifled a sigh.

  No. He didn’t need his men shifting their focus to her. Didn’t need their curiosity. She was no longer extra baggage they had to haul across the land. She was now interesting and brave—not a despised silent tail to their traveling party. He’d hoped that’s what she would remain when he ordered Rupe to take her on as his helper.

  Lachlan’s gaze dropped back to the fire as he inhaled a long breath of the crisp air. The days were getting chilly, the nights brisk. Cold he loved.

  He couldn’t help his eyes from lifting up to her once more.

  He was dressed for the weather. She was not.

  Procuring the boots for her at Baron Rogerton’s estate had been easy enough, so he’d have to remember to ask the steward at Lord Jameson’s estate for an extra wool dress and a heavy cape when they arrived there in a few days.

  Maybe with dull clothes and the slope of her bare chest hidden away from sight, she could fade into the trail of the party once more.

  { Chapter 6 }

  She’d harbored the smallest hope the derogatory comments would stop after the incident with Rupe and the jaguar. Saving a life had to be worth something, she’d presumed—it should temper in some fashion the general disdain Lachlan’s men had for her.

  It did not.

  In the days since the Rupe incident, it was as though a dam had been opened. Leering looks from every direction. Propositions for tumbles behind the bushes. Hand motions that she didn’t quite comprehend but understood the intent of them perfectly well.

  Through all of it, she’d set her head down and moved through every task with as much grace as she could muster.

  Not that it did much good.

  She helped Rupe with whatever job he put in front of her. Cooked their meals. Brought them their food. Washed their bowls. Gathered firewood. With every task, she took their insults on her person. Insults on her body parts. She’d done nothing but serve their needs as best she could and all she got were leers.

  But they had removed the word “wretched” from the “wench.” A small favor.

  With heavy feet, Evalyn picked her way over the legs that were always sprawled in front of her as she moved through the camp. A shiver ran across her back. Near to dusk, the evening air was decidedly cold now.

  “Blast it, ye wench, watch yer bloody hands.”

  Evalyn jumped, looking down to see Finley wiping off remnants of stew from his shin. Stew dripping from the mostly empty wooden bowls she had stacked in her arms.

  She tilted the stack of bowls to the left, careful not to let them slop onto her dress. “Apologies.” She stepped over Finley’s legs.

  “Bumbling wench.”

  She avoided Finley’s glare, moving to the far end of the camp past the supply wagon. If she washed the bowls quickly tonight, maybe she would have time to warm her blanket with hot rocks from the fire before she crawled under the wagon. Lachlan and one of his men, Domnall, both had tents, the rest of the men slept by the fire, Rupe included. While they were all within a realm of warmth by the main fire, her designated spot under the wagon kept the mist off of her, but offered little warmth as the cooking fire usually died out by the middle of the night. The last three nights had been particularly chilly, and she was determined to wake up tomorrow without her muscles aching from shivering throughout the night.

  “Rupe, I’m going to the river to wash the bowls.”

  Rupe grunted in her general direction, not looking up from the cooking fire.

  Evalyn made her way through the edge of the forest to the river that ran near where they had set camp that night. On her knees at the edge of the water, she was rinsing the third bowl, scraping at a hardened chunk of meat with the edge of her thumbnail when she heard twigs crunching behind her.

  The hairs on her neck pricking, she scrambled to her feet and spun around.

  Lachlan.

  The held breath in her chest exhaled. Of all the men, it was Lachlan she trusted the most. Not that he’d bothered to curb his men’s tongues during the past days.

  He looked to the stack of bowls on the flat rock beside her and then lifted a bundle of cloth tied with twine in his arms. “I’ve brought you a more suitable dress and a woolen cape courtesy of Lord Jameson. They should keep you warm as we travel further north.”

  “Oh.” Her wet hands went to the front of her gown, smoothing the gold embroidery along her belly. A small smile breached her lips. “That is most kind of you, Lachlan. I will change into it posthaste and bundle my dress to put in the wagon.”

  His eyes ran down along her body and back up again, then he lifted the clothing for her to take. “No, lass, you misunderstand. We’ll be leaving that bundle of rags you have on now behind. There’s no room for extra weight in the wagon, as it’s stocked full of goods we’re bringing back to Vinehill. The roads get much steeper and rockier from here on.”

  Her fingertips brushing against the dress and cloak he held up, her hands froze in midair. She took a step back, her palms drawing to her torso and splaying wide in front of her dress. “I’ll do no such thing.”

  “You won’t change?”

  “I won’t leave my dress behind.”

  He exhaled a long sigh. “Evalyn, I don’t think you understand. If it doesn’t have value, we don’t bring it with us on these roads. There is no margin for extra weight.” He lifted the bundle of clothing to her again.

  Her hands waved in front of her. “Thank you, but no. I am perfectly content in my dress.” Her bottom lip slipped under her teeth. “Might I take the cloak, though?”

  Lachlan took a step toward her, thrusting the bundle toward her. “You’ll take them both and change into the wool dress.”

  “No.” She hopped another step backward, the heels of her boots teetering on the edge of the wide, flat rock she’d been washing bowls from.

  “No?” His head cocked to the side and a lock of his brown hair fell across his brow as his eyes narrowed. Almost as though he’d never heard the word no before and was trying to place its meaning.

  Her brow furrowed and she clamped her arms across her ribcage. “No.”

  “No? Stubborn wench.” He shoved the bundle of the clothing into her body, leaning over her, his teeth bared. “You’ll put this dress on or I’ll do it for you.”

  Her head snapped back. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll do whatever I damn well please, Evalyn.” His words were slow, darkened with threat.

  Fear snaked down her spine and her limbs started to tingle. She darted to her right.

  Lachlan took a wide step to his left, cutting off her path.

  She withdrew a step, lurching to her left. He jumped in front of her, his body a dark shadow smothering her.

  “There’s nowhere to escape, Evalyn. You’ll put the damn dress on.”

  She backed up a step. Then another. And another.

  Her heel dropped off the edge of the rock, slipping to shallow pebbles under the water that lined the edge of the river. She glanced over her shoulder. Several large boulders that were too far away. Water running fast. Cold.

  He stalked a step toward her. “There’s no escape, Evalyn. You’ll change into the dress or I will tear that gown off of you with no regard to propriety.”

  Her head shaking, she looked at him as all feeling left her limbs and her throat started to constrict her air. “No. You can’t.”

  “I can and I will.” Another step to her and he shoved the bundle of clothes into her chest. “There’s no escaping this.”

  No escape.

  Hell. No escape.

  Her mind went blank to all thoughts except for the terror slithering from her spine to her belly, to her neck, across her chest—all of it strangling her.


  No escape.

  She glanced over her shoulder again. The nearest boulder wasn’t that far away. Maybe…

  Lachlan was too close, his breath seething, his body raging.

  The icy panic choking her cinched across her throat.

  Her boot in the water slipped backward and she spun, running.

  She made it three steps.

  Three steps, and the shallow rocks in the water dropped out, plunging her into the current.

  Freezing water blasted onto her face, swallowing her whole.

  She gulped in water, her legs kicking. Kicking. Kicking.

  Her toes searched, not touching anything.

  It hadn’t looked this deep. This torrential a current.

  Her arms flailed, reaching up.

  The tips of her fingers breached the surface to touch air. Just a fleeting touch.

  The current yanked her down, pulling her deeper. Deeper.

  More water down her throat. Filling her lungs. Sinking her.

  With the last of her strength, she pushed her right hand up through the water, grasping, grasping at air, at anything.

  A brutal clamp locked onto her wrist and she was yanked upward. Upward to the air. To the land of the breathing.

  Her head crested the surface and in a blur of water stinging her eyes and Lachlan’s body banging into her, he dragged her to the river’s edge and flung her onto the rocks.

  The impact of a large rock into her belly sent her rolling onto her side, the gulps of water that filled her lungs expelling as she gasped for breath. Water out. Air in. Water out. Air in.

  Heaving, she collapsed on the bankside, her body spent, her mind spinning, pulling her to darkness. The rocks that had been chilly to kneel upon five minutes ago were now warm stones against her frozen cheek.

  “Dammit all to hell, Evalyn.”

  Her body lifted, flying through the air and her stomach landed hard on Lachlan’s shoulder. It sent another wave of water spewing from her lungs, and she fell into a fit of coughing exasperated by her chest banging against the back of Lachlan with every step he took.

  She couldn’t speak, couldn’t yell, so she slammed her fist into his back, trying to get him to stop, to set her down.