The Iron Earl

by K. J. Jackson

  His eyebrow arched. “You planned it?”

  “I am sorry.” She shook her head slightly, sloughing off his odd reaction to her confession. “I have been meaning to tell you since the first day, but there has not been an opportunity. I have quite despised my actions in how I had to trap you into taking me with you.”

  “You trapped me?”

  “I did—splitting my dress, threatening a forced marriage. But there was no other way for it.”

  “Because of Falsted selling you?” His tongue curled around her stepfather’s name, almost vicious.

  “Yes. Again, I apologize, yet I must admit to the fact that I would have done the exact same thing given another chance.” The edges of her eyes crinkled in a cringe. “I understand the brunt of the ill-will you must hold against me. I will happily work in another household once we get to your estate, if you would be so kind as to refer me to a suitable post.”

  His right cheek lifted in a half smile, but he said nothing.

  “What?”

  “If anything, my respect for you just increased tenfold, Evalyn.”

  She blinked hard at him. Then blinked again.

  His hazel eyes almost twinkled in the light of the lantern hanging by the front of the tent. Hazel eyes that, for the first time ever, seemed to look on her without scorn lacing the edges.

  She looked around the tent.

  Was this a joke? A cruel joke set up by the men who were now surrounding the tent and hiding their laughter?

  Her look centered on Lachlan. “I lied to you, and that purchases me respect?”

  He shrugged. “In this instance, yes. You were desperate and you were willing to do whatever it took to change your circumstances. That is admirable. Far too many martyr themselves to their circumstances without attempting to change them.”

  “Even though I entangled you in my dire predicament?”

  “Why did you entangle me?” He ran his fingers through his ruffled brown hair. “From the moment I stepped foot into Wolfbridge, you said.”

  “I was in the drawing room when you arrived with your men. I watched the lot of you trail down the main corridor. You were at the front, raging, searching for your sister.”

  “That should have evoked fear, not pinned me as a savior.”

  She chuckled. “I think it did—for most of the women in the drawing room. They shrieked and gasped at the clanging.”

  “But you are not most women?”

  “No. I saw you pass by first and I slipped out into the corridor, hiding along the shadows of an alcove to watch. Then I went up to the gallery to observe you and your men once you entered the great hall.” Her fingers twisted together. “That was where I heard you say you were there for your sister. You wanted to stop the wedding.”

  He stiffened. “I did.”

  “I thought you were to drag her out of there. But then you cleared the room and it was just the two of you.”

  “You eavesdropped?”

  “I did. I knew I should not, but I was already hidden in place above in the gallery and I didn’t want to draw any attention by moving away. But what I saw there—you, with your sister. You softened.”

  “I was yelling at her.”

  “Yes. But you were yelling with kindness. I could see that, even if she could not. You were trying to stop her from making the worst mistake in her life.”

  “Yet she still did it.”

  “And you supported her—or at least didn’t stop the wedding.” Evalyn drew a deep breath, a soft smile coming to her face. “That moment in the great hall, I expected you to strike her for all the anger palpitating from you. But you did not. You held. That was when I knew you could possibly be the key to my last chance.”

  “You made the determination of my worth from that moment? I’m surprised you didn’t run as far and as fast as you could away from me.”

  “I did determine your worth—or at least what I hoped it was—in those minutes. But I would have chanced anything to escape out of there—including the puffed up ravings of a man that was only trying to protect his sister.”

  Lachlan ran his palm against the dark stubble of hair along his chin that had filled in during the past days. “So that night in the gardens was not happenstance.”

  “Not at all. I heard you talking to your men—you had gathered them in the billiards room during the festivities. I was against that wall—you didn’t notice me—no one noticed me—and I heard you make plans to leave with your men. So I followed you when you moved out to the gardens.”

  He slowly nodded for a long moment, then his head stilled. His hazel eyes pinned her. “I noticed you, Evalyn.”

  He said the words with a rough rumble that almost turned to silk by the time it reached her ears. Heated, raw even.

  She’d never had a man speak to her like that. Her stepfather only spoke to her with disdain. And Mr. Molson’s words were always sneering, laced with lechery, threats—what he would do to her, do to her body.

  But Lachlan’s voice, the way he looked at her, was the exact opposite—as though he wanted her just the same, but only so he could worship her body.

  She could feel herself slipping, getting caught in a current she had no way to control. Slipping away just as quickly as she had hours earlier in the stream.

  She had no right to look at him like that. She was to work in his kitchens. Or as a maid. Whatever it took. She had to remember that.

  Heat flushing her cheeks and threatening to tie her tongue, she blurted out the first thing she could think of. “This turned out nicely for you.”

  “How?” His left eyebrow lifted.

  “You managed to get me into this blasted dress.”

  He chuckled, clearing his throat and taking a step back. A rush of air separated them. “That I did. And it only took an icy dunk in the river to do so.” He pointed to her feet. “You’ll also need to take off your boots and let them dry by the fire or your feet will blister raw tomorrow.”

  He reached down to grab the simple plaid woolen blanket from the ground. “Take this, wrap yourself in it and sleep next to the fire. The men will make room.” He bundled the blanket in his arms, then held it out to her.

  She nodded, silent, and took the blanket from him. Turning, she lifted the flap of the tent and shuffled to the fire.

  The spot she had sat in remained vacant and the rumble of the voices of the men didn’t stop this time when she approached.

  She sat, loosening the laces of her boots, then kicked them off and set them close to the edge of the fire. Peeling off the torn silk stockings that still managed to hold to her calves, she draped them over the top of the boots. Not that they would be worth even putting back on in the morning—the silk so shredded, they had done nothing to stop the painful blisters that had started to swell on the back of her heels and on her toes.

  Ignoring the pain of the throbbing blisters hitting air, she wrapped herself in the blanket, and the scent of Lachlan enveloped her. She curled into a ball on her side and tucked her bare toes deep into the folds of the blanket.

  Warmth. Finally.

  Her head hit the ground and she was asleep before she could even focus on the fire.

  ~~~

  Lachlan twisted on his horse, looking back to the wagon that trailed the band of men.

  Stubborn chit.

  Evalyn had trudged along the entire day, the bundle of her dress—twice as heavy as normal for it was still wet—locked in her arms.

  Stubborn.

  No one had asked her to carry it. They could have wedged it into the wagon.

  But upon waking, that was the first thing she’d done as the men were breaking camp. Go to her dress and fold it up with the utmost care.

  Lachlan hadn’t seen her farther than a foot away from it the whole day. Even with his word, she didn’t trust him—trust the men—not to destroy it.

  Not that she should. They’d done a fine job these last seven days in making sure she knew that every step she took—everything she
did in the camp—was wrong.

  All because he’d had the asinine idea she was a shallow chit running from her life of plenty because she had a bothersome hangnail. But even more grievous, that revenge upon her odious stepfather would be best served by ruining Evalyn.

  He hadn’t imagined she’d had anything to escape. But if the story she’d told at the campsite was any indication, she had everything to escape.

  He hadn’t given her that margin of possibility.

  His horse cleared the crest of the hill they traveled upward on and Lachlan scanned the landscape. They’d journeyed from lands of green rolling hills to steeper, craggy outcroppings interspersed with moors and forests that harbored haunting shadows of ancient civilizations. They’d moved into countryside he knew. The land that was born in his bones.

  He glanced back at Evalyn. She trudged up the hillside, her lips gritting into a tight line as her boots slipped on the loose rocks on the road.

  The boots he’d procured for her were painful, that much was obvious. She hadn’t complained once, but now he wished he’d taken better care in sizing them correctly. He’d just grabbed the first pair Baron Rogerton’s housemaid had offered, not noting the size.

  Domnall nudged his horse next to Lachlan’s and coughed.

  Lachlan looked at his old friend.

  “We’re more than halfway home, Lach.” Domnall pointed straight ahead at the dark rolling clouds stretched long across the sky before them. “And while that rain ahead may not bother ye, these old bones would like a bed under them for a night.”

  Lachlan looked to him. “You going soft upon me, old man?”

  “Possibly.” Domnall shrugged with a smirk that lifted the grey grizzle on his cheeks. “But I can still scrape ye onto yer back, lad, and don’t ye forget it.”

  Lachlan chuckled. Domnall hadn’t flipped him onto his back since he was fourteen and they both knew it. “So you’re thinking of Bellingham?” Lachlan’s look scanned along the edge of the ominous clouds.

  “It would favor us all.” Domnall’s thumb jabbed over his shoulder. “Plus it’s the only coaching inn along the way that has space for the lot of us. Not to mention we’re all tired of Rupe’s stew.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you say you’d rather grace a bed than a rock under your head.” Lachlan nodded. “We veer to Bellingham, then.”

  { Chapter 9 }

  Evalyn stood on the bottom step of the staircase, her fingers tapping the worn wood banister as she flattened herself into the shadows. She leaned forward slightly and peeked around the wall into the wide dining room of the coaching inn.

  Dozens of round tables filled the room—mostly men surrounding each of them. The boisterous ale-fueled din filled her ears, making her question coming down the stairs. She was starving, but she hadn’t any inclination as to how to order food at a coaching inn. Much less how she would pay for it.

  When they had arrived, Lachlan set the landlady to showing her directly to her chamber above. A finely appointed room greeted her—truthfully, more luxurious than her stepfather would ever allow in his home—with sheets that didn’t scratch her skin and splendid dark blue velvet curtains that weren’t faded with years of use. She’d sat in the room for an hour before the insistent rumble of her stomach brought her to her aching feet.

  Her eyes swept the dining room once more until she found him. Lachlan. She could only see his profile as he sat at the largest of the round tables with half of his men jabbering on around him. Whereas his men were laughing, gorging on fresh grouse, Lachlan leaned back in his chair, observing but not partaking in the eating and merriment surrounding him.

  The men were all relaxed—as relaxed and jolly as she’d ever seen them.

  But not Lachlan.

  He stayed perched at the table with the same cool countenance she’d grown accustomed to seeing on the strong lines of his face.

  Her eyes moved from him, searching amongst the serving women delivering ale and food for the landlady that had showed her to her room. If she could find the woman, she could inquire as to how she might procure some food.

  No luck finding her in the dining room.

  Evalyn leaned out further from her spot on the step, looking toward the back of the main room where a long, tall wooden counter denoted a bar. No landlady.

  Shoes clunked on the treads of the stairs behind her until the sound ceased and a man cleared his throat. She glanced over her shoulder. A man and his female companion had stopped on the step above Evalyn. She rocked back onto her heels, pushing herself against the wall so they could pass.

  The couple moved by her, not giving her a second glance. It was jarring—and oddly refreshing. She was accustomed to the stares of the staff at her stepfather’s castle. The pitying glances. To have that couple pay her no more heed than a speck of dust was proof of how far she’d already traveled.

  “Were you to just hover about the stairs all evening, Evalyn?”

  Her chest jumped and her look whipped to Lachlan. He’d made it halfway across the room to her in the blink of an eye.

  With a silver tankard of ale in his left hand, he stopped in front of her, his short brown hair mussed like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times, his jacket wrinkled and disheveled from the days on the road. Yet he stood with such inherent confidence that it was hard not to acknowledge him for the force he was.

  She pushed herself from the wall. “I was not sure what to do in this situation. I have never been to a coaching inn before.”

  His brow furrowed. “Was your room not satisfactory?”

  “Oh, yes—it’s splendid. Very comfortable.”

  “So then?”

  “I’m hungry.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound like the pathetic begging street urchin that she felt.

  His lip pulled back on the right side, his cheek lifting. “Shall I have food sent up to your room?”

  The landlady walked behind Lachlan in that instant, balancing a large tray of heaping dishes atop. Evalyn watched her over Lachlan’s shoulder. The harried woman ran about the tables, juggling five plates on one arm. “I—I don’t want to make a fuss. Can I not eat here in the dining room?”

  “Women in establishments such as these are either married and they can eat in the main dining hall with their husbands; servants and they eat in the kitchens; or unmarried respectable travelers of the gentry or noble birth and they eat in their rooms unless they are looking to be ruined.” Lachlan shrugged. “I placed you in the last category when I secured your room. Unmarried. Of noble family. So the correct answer is no.”

  Her fingers slipped along the railing, her palm gripping tight to the smooth wood. “But do those labels even apply to me any longer?”

  He gave a slight nod. “The unmarried one still does. And just because you have plans to be a servant in my household, it does not negate the fact that you’re still of noble birth.”

  “Yes, but does it matter?” Her lips drew inward for a moment and then she exhaled a long breath as she found his hazel eyes. “I know I’m ruined as far as society looks upon it, Lachlan. But that was the purpose of this. Escaping what I was. What I was going to be forced to be.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, his head twisting as he surveyed the room. He looked back to her. “Then join me at a table.”

  Lachlan walked across the dining room and Evalyn followed, weaving through the chairs until they reached a small table situated next to the wide fieldstone hearth that swallowed one wall of the large room. He pulled the chair closest to the roaring fire for her, she sat, and then he followed suit across from her, setting his tankard on the worn wood of the table.

  A young barmaid was quick to their table, her pretty blue eyes hungry on Lachlan. “What ye be havin’, sir?”

  “The grouse is gone?”

  She nodded.

  “We’ll both take the mutton pie and I’ll need another fill.” He lifted his near-to-empty silver tankard to the woman, then tilted his head toward Evalyn. “And the lady
will have port.”

  The barmaid nodded, an indecent smile curling onto her lips as she looked Lachlan up and down. “Straight ‘way, luv.” She didn’t bother with the slightest look toward Evalyn.

  An exhale of relief escaped her. Not noticed again. She was actually starting to enjoy the anonymity. She watched the barmaid move away from the table, stopping, stooping over to flirt with men along the way, her fingers on their shoulders, a willing smile on her face as she angled her bare ample bosom to them. A brutal pang of jealousy sliced through Evalyn’s chest.

  That woman was free. Free to be a flirt. Free to eat wherever she chose to. Free to insinuate exactly what she wanted from her customers.

  “You didn’t need to carry the dress all day, Evalyn.” Lachlan’s deep voice snatched her attention forward.

  Her brow furrowed. The backs of her upper arms still twinged with the weight of carrying the heavy wet dress all day. “But I did.”

  “There was room in the wagon for it.”

  She exhaled a quick sigh. “You said there was no room and I said I would carry it. So carry it I shall. It’s no one’s burden but my own.”

  Lachlan lifted his tankard and swallowed the last drops of his ale, his hazel eyes fixed on her. “You’re a stubborn one. And you don’t trust us—trust me not to leave it behind.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “I…I…I didn’t say that.”

  He inclined his head to her, leaning back in his chair as he studied her. “But you thought it. It’s a funny thing, that you trust us—me—enough to escape your stepfather. But you don’t trust me enough to not destroy the dress. I promised I would leave it be.”

  She met his scrutinizing gaze. “I’ve been promised things before, Lachlan.”

  “And?”

  “And promises are made to be broken.”

  “I think you mistake the definition of a promise, Evalyn.”

  “I know exactly what a promise is, Lachlan. But I also know in practice a promise usually ends up as the exact opposite of the definition. Promises are cruelty. Promises are snares tossed to collect hope. To collect trust.” Her fingernails curled into the rough wood of the table. “What I know is that it is one of the cruelest punishments to make one believe in a promise when it’s never intended to be kept.”