The Iron Earl

by K. J. Jackson

  His hold across the back of her thighs and her sopping skirts only tightened.

  Five more weak hits and she realized he wasn’t going to set her down.

  Her coughs ceased and the true state of her humiliation washed over her.

  She was being hauled back into the encampment like a felled deer. Backside high in the air. Her head pounding for all the blood pooling in it. Her body so frozen she could barely move.

  All noise, all conversation stopped the moment Lachlan broke through the woods and walked into camp.

  Lachlan didn’t slow, didn’t say a word.

  Evalyn curled her face into his back, eyes shut tight. She didn’t want to see their faces. Didn’t want to hear the jeers.

  He stomped through the camp, bent, and in the next moment she was flipped off his shoulder, tossed to the ground in his tent. She landed on her backside, her fingers setting into the wool of the blanket covering the ground.

  She leaned to the side, flipping away a long strand of wet hair that had fallen across her face, blocking her view. Her glare instantly found him.

  He stared down at her, his breathing heavy—or seething. Yes. Definitely seething.

  With her body no longer draped over the heat of his, the cold attacked and she tried to battle away the frozen shards taking a hold of her limbs.

  It didn’t work. The shaking started almost instantly, her muscles trying to warm themselves against the freezing wet cloth of her dress.

  “Now will you get out of your damn dress?”

  Her arms pulled inward, clamping against her torso as her legs drew under her. “I…I…”

  His eyes narrowed at her. “If you say no again, I might just throw you back into that river.”

  The muscles along her back tightened into a thousand vicious knots and she shook her head, words sputtering out through chattering teeth. “I—I don’t—th—think—I—c—can.”

  Lachlan exhaled a long breath through gritted teeth, his eyebrows drawing together. He stepped forward, moving to the side of her. His thick hands came down, landing on her shoulders.

  Warm. They were warm, almost hot on the spots where his thumbs met skin.

  In that moment she wanted nothing more than those hands to stay on her, to expand and warm every inch of her body.

  He twisted her, spinning her in place so she faced the rear of the tent, and then he dropped to his knees behind her. Her hair had long since lost its pins in the water and he twisted the sopping strands into one long lock before setting it over her shoulder. Cool air hit the base of her neck.

  Clearing his throat, his fingers started to untangle the knots in the ribbons that laced up her spine and secured her dress.

  His rough, but warm knuckles brushed against her spine, his deep voice tempered with his next words. “Why did you jump in, Evalyn?”

  “I did—didn’t jump—I was running—I thought I could make it to that boulder.”

  “Running across water?” He jerked on the laces, yanking her torso backward.

  She nodded.

  “You felt the need to escape from me so desperately you were willing to drown yourself?” The exact opposite of the current of ire running through his words, she could feel his fingers soften to pick delicately at the knot at the top of the laces. “That’s a better alternative?”

  “N—no.”

  “It’s a damn dress, Evalyn.”

  “I—I know.”

  “Did you think I was about to beat you?” The knot free, he started loosening the laces, working down her spine.

  Her head dipped forward for a long breath as she tried to control her clattering teeth. She lifted her head slightly, looking to the back corner of the canvas tent as she tried to draw warmer air into her lungs.

  “Esc—escape. When I cannot escape—” Her words cut off as her teeth went into a spastic flurry of clanging. She grinded her molars together in an effort to control them. With another deep breath, a sense of normalcy came over her tongue, enough at least to talk. “When I’m trapped and cannot escape—I cannot think—my mind goes blank—and I do whatever it takes, Lachlan. I just—I just react—escape in my mind or in my body. And at the river my body could still flee you, so that’s what I did. I turned and ran.”

  He grunted. “That’s going to get you in trouble someday.”

  She smiled, a half chuckle breaching her lips as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “It just did. Again.”

  He didn’t chuckle, but the smallest smile curved the hard lines of his lips.

  Her gaze went forward. “I know I am on tenuous footing with you, Lachlan, and I fear my confidence is not bolstered by being regarded as the designated wench in the camp—and the adjectives that accompany it being constantly hurled at me.”

  He was quiet for a long breath, his fingers working the ribbon. “They call you names, lass, because they don’t know what to do with you.”

  “They don’t know what to do with me?”

  “You’re not what they thought and they are still trying to figure you out.”

  He pulled free the last loops of the ribbon along her spine. Silently, he moved away from her for a moment, returning to drape a wide fur-lined blanket across her shoulders. Heaven. Soft and dry against her skin, it coddled her in instant warmth.

  “Are your hands thawed enough to move down your dress?”

  She lifted her right hand, going to the strap of her dress. Her fingers still could not bend, not find a way through their shaking to grip the cloth from her damp skin.

  More humiliation.

  Not able to look back at him, she shook her head.

  A sigh, and he bent forward, snaking his hands up under the blanket from behind her. His fingers found the top straps of her gown and he wedged the sopping cloth down her body, past her trembling arms, and then he settled it around her waist.

  Without asking, his hands moved back up under the blanket, making quick work of loosening her short stays and then stripping down her stays and chemise.

  “You—you are quick with that.”

  “I’ve had some practice.” He was close now. So close his warm breath caressed the bare skin on her neck as he spoke.

  He said the words with enough hint of pride that she couldn’t help but wonder how many women he’d stripped like this. Probably too many to count. The man was so handsome Lucifer himself must have smirked when he set Lachlan onto this world. Women were entranced by him—she’d recognized that in the ballroom at Wolfbridge.

  Hell, she’d probably be as delighted as the next woman at his touch if her circumstances weren’t so dire. At the moment, she could only afford to concentrate on her last chance for escape.

  Escape from her stepfather. From Mr. Molson. And for that she had to disappear far, far away.

  She nodded, jerking slightly at his touch as he wedged the cloth from where it was clamped tight between her ribcage and arms.

  The fabric peeled down her skin and she was naked from the waist up. Naked, but shielded by the heavy weight of the blanket. How he’d managed to keep it in place about her as he stripped the wet cloth from her torso she didn’t know.

  He was taking care not to strip her bare in front of his eyes. A kindness he didn’t need to extend to her after her utterly foolish actions.

  His hands left her hips where the mass of her dress, chemise and stays sat rumpled and he shifted away from her.

  She tightened her hold on the edges of the blanket against her bare chest and glanced back at him.

  He started to stand behind her, but then stopped on one knee, looking at her. “What would have happened if you would have had to escape in your mind?”

  “What?” Her forehead crinkled.

  “If you couldn’t have escaped me with your body? You said you would have escaped with your body or in your mind.”

  He had understood her fully, her mad words, her weak explanation. Her lips drew inward, her breath quivering in her throat as her look dropped. “Then I would have gone
limp and closed my eyes and imagined I was elsewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “With my mother. We’re walking together outside in the sun. She’s picking flowers. I’m helping her. Lavender sprigs. It’s simple and so long ago. But I was safe, so that is where I go.”

  She dared a glance at him.

  The blue streaks in his hazel eyes flickered in the light of the lantern by the tent’s entrance. She couldn’t read anything in them. Stoic. Stoic as always when he looked at her. He offered a slight nod. “That is a good place to go. Lost memories.”

  For a second, he looked to say more, but then he stood abruptly, moving to the flap of the tent. He stopped at the entrance and picked up the dress he’d brought to the river for her. She hadn’t even seen him carrying it back with them.

  He turned and brought it to her, dropping it to her side. “Stand.” He held his hand down to her.

  She managed to unwedge her left arm from her ribcage enough to squeeze her wrist out past the fold of the blanket. His big hand enveloped hers and he pulled her to her frozen feet—so numb, she thought her toes would splinter under the pressure of her weight. It took her a long breath to catch her balance.

  The wet mess of clothing surrounding her waist slipped, slapping to the ground in a wet thwack.

  Lachlan bent, gathering up the clothing on the ground as she lifted her feet so he could slide them away to the side. He moved toward the flap of the tent, then stopped to point at the bundle by her toes. “Put that dress on.” He stepped out of the tent.

  Evalyn sank to her knees, then sat back, huddling the blanket close about her as she threaded her hands out to loosen the twine around the bundle and pull the grey dress onto her lap. The wool of it would itch against her skin without her chemise, but it would be warm. And all she could concentrate on at the moment was how to get warm.

  Her fingers still shaking uncontrollably with every movement, she unfolded the dress only to find an impossibly long row of tiny black buttons lining the back of the dress. Buttons already secured in their matching loops.

  Damn.

  She started at the top button, fingers trembling uncontrollably with the cold. Tensing the muscles in her arms, she tried to still the tremors in her hands long enough to unbutton the top one.

  The fabric slipped out of her fingers.

  Damn.

  She picked it up, another attempt.

  Failure.

  She picked it up again, setting her forefinger in place just before she lost control and it slipped out of her hands, the button popping free.

  Success.

  And only twenty-four more to go.

  Her teeth gritting, she picked up the dress again and started on the second button.

  A waft of cool air hit her cheeks.

  “You’re not dressed yet?”

  She looked up. Lachlan had popped his head into the tent. His gaze dropped down to the dress in her lap, a frown setting on his face when he saw her trembling fingers.

  “Your hands are out of control, Evalyn.” He stepped into the tent and pulled the dress from her lap, then dropped it to the blanket that covered the ground. He grabbed her shaking hands and pulled her up and the pain of her weight on her toes sent scorching needles through her freezing feet.

  She lost her balance, falling into him.

  “Hell, Evalyn.” His arm wrapped around her shoulder to catch her weight. “I’ll deal with the wretched buttons. You need to warm by the fire.”

  Stepping slightly behind her, his arms wrapped around her to tighten the long blanket about her body so none of her skin was bared to the air. He set an arm along the back of her shoulders and his fingers clasped onto her upper arm as he steered her out past the front flap of his tent and to the main fire. Close to the blazes, he gently pushed down on her shoulders until she was sitting, able to warm herself by the fire.

  The heat of the healthy flames stung, almost too much against her frozen skin.

  “Sit, Evalyn, and warm yourself.”

  Exhausted by the short steps it took to get to the fire, she nodded, her lips too tired to move. Her fingers tightened along the edges of the blanket, securing it in front of her. A waft from the blanket lifted to her nose. It smelled of Lachlan. Campfire and spice and rosewood. She focused on the fire, not wanting to look around at the men’s gaping stares she knew were pointed in her direction.

  Lachlan deserted her, moving away from her for a moment. A quiver of panic fluttered in her stomach. Instinctively, she knew she was safer with him directly beside her and she didn’t care for her nude body being one blanket away from baring her to all.

  Her gaze refused to move from the fire. The silence in the air pounded, palpable, and she wasn’t about to look up and open herself to the men jeering her.

  Lachlan returned, dipping to sit on his heels in front of her. He held a metal cup to her lips and tilted it back. Whisky warmed her tongue and sent fire along her throat as it chased down to her stomach.

  “Good.” He lifted the cup in his hand and filled it, then handed the bottle to Domnall on his right. Finding her left hand gripping the front edge of the fur-lined blanket at her chest, he slid his fingers under hers, popping free her fingertips one by one until he could wedge the cup into her hand. “Drink. This will warm you.”

  He stood and Evalyn looked up, her eyes finding enough steadiness to focus on Lachlan’s face. The glow of the fire behind him made him look like a Greek god straight from an Ares’s blaze-soaked battle.

  She nodded, her eyes dipping back down to the fire as he walked back to his tent.

  The first long swallow of the whisky settled deep into her belly, creating fire where there was none and encouraging her to take another sip from the cup. And another. And another.

  Four more sips and the fifth time she lifted the cup to her lips, it was empty.

  Movement next to her, grunting, and she watched with wariness out of the corner of her eye as Domnall moved closer to her. He was the oldest of the men aside from Rupe, or at least she thought as such from the graying of his dark hair along his temples. Good natured, he was also the nicest of the men, never once calling her a wench and his thick face usually held a jovial grin.

  He sat with a whoosh of air as his thick form settled into place next to her. “Another spot, lass?” He lifted the bottle Lachlan had handed to him.

  She nodded, lifting her cup.

  With a mischievous tilt of his head, Domnall filled the metal cup in her hand. She took another sip and it was only moments before her head started to weave in a slow circle.

  She just wanted to sleep. Lie down by the warmth of the fire and sleep. As long as she kept the blanket tucked together, covering her bare skin, this was the perfect spot to sleep. Much better than her cold hole under the wagon.

  Her hair. Dammit. If she didn’t get her fingers through it now while it was wet, it would be impossible to untangle once it was dry in the morning.

  She took another sip of the whisky and then wiggled her hand out of the folds of the blanket to set the cup onto the ground by her covered knees. Extending her left arm up further, she began pulling free small strands of hair at her brow from the rat’s nest that was now her hair.

  Plucking methodically, she smoothed strand after strand with her one hand, her eyes glazing over as she stared at the fire. The chatter amongst the men had started again, a constant low buzz in her ears. She could only pick up rare snippets of the conversations for how slow her mind was processing the words.

  She’d had too much whisky. Far too much. It was already muddling her thoughts.

  Pluck, smooth. Pluck, smooth. Pluck, smooth.

  “Lass, yer temple.” Domnall blurted out from her right side. He sat up straight, his look intent on her face.

  Her fingertips flew to her right temple. Hell. She’d thought it was still hidden.

  She quickly shuffled her smoothed hair forward, draping it along her right temple.

  “That be wicked, lass.How’d i
t happen?” Domnall asked.

  Her face grew hot, near to steaming with the added warmth of the fire. “It is of no matter.”

  Domnall let loose a low whistle. “A wretched scar like that and it’d be a matter, lass. What happened?”

  She glanced at Domnall and then drew a deep breath. Nothing but honest curiosity shone in his eyes. And where she always drew into herself when people asked her questions, the kindness Domnall had showed her demanded an answer.

  Her look strayed to the sparks of the flames sizzling onto the dirt in front of her feet. The whisky loosening her tongue when she knew to keep her mouth shut. “I brought him the wrong slippers.”

  “Wrong slippers?”

  She nodded. “My stepfather. I brought him the wrong slippers. And I thought I could escape his wrath. But escaping never worked—it was always worse that way. I relearned that lesson that night.”

  Domnall clucked his tongue, leaning back on his elbow as he downed a swig of ale from his tankard. “How old were ye?”

  “Thirteen. I tried to run from the room before his anger could find me. I didn’t make it but five steps into the main corridor that ran the length of the abbey.”

  “And he caught ye, lass?”

  She glanced at him, her look quickly scurrying back down to the dirt. She’d never told this story before. She’d never needed to. Everyone in her stepfather’s home knew what happened to her. And there were never any visitors that she was allowed to talk to.

  Except for Mr. Molson. She had been presented to him like a roasted pig on a platter. He knew the story. Her stepfather had boasted about it to him.

  She cleared her throat. “My stepfather caught me and slammed my head into the stone wall. I don’t remember anything after that.”

  “The wall was where the scar came from?” Domnall asked.

  “I don’t know—the cut started there, I imagine. I went to blackness and when I woke up, the open wound on my temple had bled and the blood had dried to the stones of the floor. My skin was stuck to the stone. I cried out for help. Cried for hours. Begged. No one came.”

  Domnall’s face cringed with a sharp intake of breath.