The Iron Earl

by K. J. Jackson

  “You’ve never had someone keep a promise to you?”

  “My stepfather was cruel with his promises, though not nearly as cruel as my mother was.”

  The barmaid arrived at the table, juggling two plates on one arm and the fresh tankard full of ale in her fingers along with the glass of port for Evalyn in her other. She set the drinks to the table and then unloaded her left arm quickly.

  Evalyn stared at the thick crust of her pie, her stomach no longer rumbling, no longer the slightest bit hungry.

  Lachlan waited until the barmaid took several steps away from the table before his hazel eyes pinned Evalyn. “What did your mother promise you?”

  She looked up from her plate of food. “That she wouldn’t die. She promised she wouldn’t until her last breath.”

  He nodded, his hand moving to the fresh tankard. He tilted it back, taking a healthy swallow. It clunked as he set it back onto the table and his look didn’t veer off of her. “How old were you?”

  “Five.”

  “And you’ve been under your stepfather’s care since then? Did she have no other family?”

  Evalyn shook her head, her fingers going to her fork. She lifted it, jabbing the tines mindlessly into the crust of the pie.

  Lachlan followed her lead, picking up his fork. He ate in silence, studying her with each bite he took, his gaze boring into her.

  She didn’t care for it. Didn’t care for telling him anything of herself. The pity she was sure to see if she lifted her eyes to meet his.

  But the silence of the table overshadowed the boisterous cacophony bouncing off the fieldstone walls of the dining room. So much silence it was hard to bear.

  Evalyn forced what she hoped was a smile on her face and looked up as she lifted a bite of food to her mouth. Her gaze drifted to the window past Lachlan’s head. Sheets of the angry rain that had started an hour ago assaulted the glass.

  “How far are we from your estate?”

  Lachlan took the second to last bite of his mutton pie, chewing slowly before answering. “Another three days if this rain doesn’t muck up the roads too drastically. I had hoped to be home sooner.”

  “The horses looked like they needed a break.” She took a bite of the pie, not able to taste it, though she forced the dry lump down her throat. “Why do you need to get to Vinehill so quickly?”

  “There’s a trial in Stirling I need to attend in five days.” He set his fork down on his plate, leaving the last bite of pie. “I had hoped to be home well before it.”

  “A trial? Is it someone you know?” She looked down, attempting to cut a fatty piece of mutton with the side of her dull fork.

  “It is someone I need to see swinging from the end of a rope.” Lachlan pushed back from the table, standing as he grabbed his tankard of ale and moved away from the table.

  Evalyn had barely blinked and he was gone.

  Looking up from the mangled piece of stringy meat on her plate, she searched the room. He’d gone straight to the back of the large room, standing and leaning against the bar as he drank from the tankard in his hand, talking to the barmaid that had brought their food. The woman dipped forward, presumably to get something from behind the bar, but more likely to plump up the top swell of her chest. An offering to Lachlan if there ever was one.

  She stared at his profile and she realized how handsome he was to not just her—to all members of the opposite sex. Until that moment, he was a key—the key to escaping her stepfather and Mr. Molson. A handsome key, yes, but most importantly, her deliverance.

  But watching the barmaid offer herself up so willingly made Evalyn realize just how virile Lachlan was—his face, his body, the whole of him. How he held himself and talked to people, his hazel eyes intent on listening. Intent on understanding. Intent on learning every secret that people held dear.

  He’d already pried from her more than enough secrets she held close to her heart.

  Evalyn couldn’t look away, waiting with held breath to see Lachlan’s reaction to the creamy bared mounds angled enticingly toward him.

  A shadow appeared in front of her.

  Without asking, Domnall sat heavy into the chair Lachlan had vacated. “What did ye say to him, lass? Lachlan doesna storm away from women—they usually storm away from him.”

  Evalyn pulled her gaze away from the bar to eye Domnall. “Women walk away from him? I doubt that. I doubt women do anything but exactly what he asks of them.”

  Domnall chuckled, taking a swig of his ale. “’Tis usually the case, lass. But he doesna possess the charm like some of the men. Gets directly to the point with his propositions, that one.” He pointed with a forefinger flicked out from his tankard toward Lachlan. “And it’s earned him his fair share of goblets of fine sherry tossed in his face.” His eyes twinkled as his look pinned her. “So did ye reverse the roles, lass? Did ye proposition him? Is that why he stormed away?”

  She laughed. “No. Nothing of the sort, Domnall. I merely asked him why he has to get back to Vinehill so quickly.”

  “Ahh, the trial.” Domnall nodded, leaning forward and setting his thick arms along the edge of the table as his voice lowered. “Aye. That would make him flee. The boy holds that one close to his chest.”

  “Boy? He’s not more than ten years younger than you.”

  “And that makes him a boy.” Domnall’s mouth stretched wide in a grin. “I do it to rankle the lad. He hates that I’m older and wiser.”

  Evalyn chuckled and her look drifted to Lachlan. It looked like he had yet to take the bait of the breasts. Her gaze went back to Domnall. “Lachlan said the trial was for someone he wanted to see hung—what did the man do?”

  She jabbed the piece of meat she’d cut away from the fat and plopped it into her mouth as she studied Domnall with hooded eyes. That he’d even come over to her table, offered up what appeared to be normal conversation was welcome, but suspicious.

  Anything normal was suspicious. She knew that well.

  Domnall picked up the fork on Lachlan’s plate and ate the last bite of his pie. “He’s one of the men that caused the fire that killed his older brother.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Lachlan has a brother—had a brother?”

  “He did,” Domnall said. “Jacob—he was a fine man, rest his soul.”

  “Was the fire at Vinehill?”

  “No, not near it. Lachlan’s sister, Sloane—ye met her at Wolfbridge Castle, I presume?”

  Evalyn nodded.

  “Her companion, Torrie—also a third cousin—had learned her family’s home on Swallowford lands—a wee bit north of Vinehill lands—was being cleared. Sloane and Jacob went with her to stop it.”

  “Cleared? What does that mean?”

  “It means atrocities in the wrong hands.” Domnall’s grip tightened around the fork and he jabbed it into the wood of the table. “It means all the farmers’ cottages and lands are razed—the people forced out of their homes, their houses destroyed—so that some English bastards can set the land to pasture for their blasted sheep.”

  “The people are forced out? But why does no one stop them?”

  “They can’t. Not by any rights of the common man. Much of the land in Scotland was bought up after the glorious rebellion in forty-five. Clans were broken apart. Estates were sold. The tenant farmers had always rented the lands in a fair system. But now…” Domnall pushed back from the table and stretched against the back rung of his chair. His mouth had pulled back in a terse line, a growl in his words. “Now the English bastards that come to scavenge like vultures piss upon the fine, hardworking families. They find the sheep more valuable than the people.”

  Her brow furrowed, she nodded. “So Jacob, Sloane, and Torrie went to stop it?”

  “Yes. Torrie’s father was resisting, the family barred inside their cottage when Jacob, Sloane and Torrie arrived. Four brutes were outside of the cottage, some with torches already in hand. They’d already set flame to the rest of the buildings. Jacob convinced them to hal
t, at least until Torrie could go inside and convince her father to leave.”

  Evalyn’s stomach dropped. “She got inside?”

  “Torrie did. But then she took too long and one of the bastards tossed his torch on the roof. Sloane said he laughed when he did it. The other brutes were about to follow suit—but Jacob sent his sword through two of them.” Domnall paused, his head shaking. “And Sloane ran into the cottage to get them out.”

  “What happened?”

  Domnall shifted in his chair, looking across the room to Lachlan’s back, then took a long swig of his ale before his gaze traveled back to Evalyn. “Part of the roof collapsed almost immediately, trapping the family and Sloane inside. Jacob went in after his sister. He and Sloane dragged Torrie out—her skirts were aflame and Sloane burned her arm putting out the fire. Jacob went back in for Torrie’s mother, father and brother.”

  Evalyn drew a sharp intake of breath.

  “Exactly.” Domnall inclined his head back toward Lachlan. “Lachlan got to the cottage just as the rest of the roof caved in. He’d seen Jacob go into the building. He flew off his horse and killed one of the remaining brutes that was about to attack Sloane. The other blackguard there escaped, ran for a few days, but made the mistake of trying to travel through Vinehill lands. He was captured a few days after the fire. The magistrate captured him. If Lach had caught him, he’d have been dead three months ago.”

  “So he’s the man on trial?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis an outrage. Torrie’s kin were good folk.” He shook his head. “And Jacob, he was heir. A leader from the day he was born. A loss that still stings.” Domnall pointed to her plate. “Ye going to finish it, lass?”

  “What?” Her head shook, and she followed the line of Domnall’s outstretched finger to the half-eaten mutton pie on her plate. She pushed the platter across the table toward him. “No. It’s yours, Domnall. I seem to have lost what little appetite I had.”

  { Chapter 10 }

  His horse’s hooves sucking from the muck of the road with every step, Lachlan glanced over his shoulder to the wagon that trailed the line of men. If the infernal thing got stuck one more time today, he’d be of sound mind to ditch it and all the goods here on the roadside and stay at coaching inns the rest of the journey.

  The wheels of the wagon were rolling fine, if slowly, and his gaze lifted up. Something was missing.

  Someone was missing.

  Evalyn had been a constant figure moving along behind the wagon since this journey north had started. But she was suddenly absent.

  He’d asked her this morning if she’d prefer to ride on his horse with him, but she’d eyed him suspiciously and declined, clutching her mother’s dress to her chest.

  He looked to Domnall on his horse next to him in the front of the line. “Keep moving.”

  Domnall nodded and Lachlan tugged on his reins, turning his horse around and trotting back past his men to the wagon.

  He stopped by Rupe walking and tugging on the reins of the draft horse that pulled the wagon. His eyes flickered to the back to the empty road. “Where is she?”

  Rupe thumbed over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. He couldn’t if he was going to keep the wheels from getting stuck in the mud. “Back over the crest of the last hill. She tripped and fell against the wagon—been doing that all morning.”

  A frown set upon Lachlan’s face as he looked to the top of the last hill they’d just passed. He’d seen her do that hours ago, but thought she’d just slipped in the mud.

  His gaze fell to Rupe. “It was more than once?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you didn’t stop to see what troubled her?”

  “On the last tumble she called out that she was fine, she just needed to remove some rocks from her boots. Said she didn’t want the wagon to get stuck again and that she’d catch up.”

  Lachlan nodded. “Keep moving.”

  “Don’t plan on stopping,” Rupe said, the sound of his boots sucking from the mud overriding the grumble in his voice.

  Lachlan sent his horse back along the road. It was actually two rolling hills back before he found Evalyn.

  She sat beneath an oak tree, her form crumpled forward, her attention on her feet. Her bare feet. Her boots were off, lying askew ten paces from her as though she had thrown them. To her left sat the damn dress in a crumpled mess on the ground.

  Stubborn, stubborn woman.

  She looked up to see him just before he pulled his horse to a halt.

  As Lachlan dismounted, she ducked her head down and swiped at her cheeks with her left hand while her right set her skirts to hide her legs as she drew her feet inward, hiding them.

  He tossed the reins of his horse over a low branch and walked to her, stopping in front of her with the toes of his boots touching her grey skirts.

  She looked up at him.

  Damn. Tears.

  For as much as she managed to wipe away, tears shone bright in her eyes, drops on the verge of falling.

  She forced a strained smile that barely lifted the corners of her mouth. “I told Rupe I would catch up. I was just about to start forth again. You didn’t need to come back for me.”

  He bent over, lifting her skirt and grabbing her ankle.

  “Stop.” She kicked at him, trying to shove the edge of her skirt over her foot. “Lachlan, stop.”

  He didn’t release her ankle, pulling it toward him.

  She shoved his arm with both hands. Weak, at best.

  “Stop, Lachlan, please stop.”

  He looked up, his iron gaze skewering her. She stilled.

  Silently, he looked down and dragged her left foot free from the folds of the skirt.

  She still put up resistance, her leg pulling against him, but not enough to stop him.

  Her foot cleared the fabric.

  Bloody hell.

  He dropped to his knees. His right hand holding her left leg in place, he searched with his free hand under her skirt until he found her right ankle and pulled that foot into daylight as well.

  “Dammit, Evalyn.”

  Her feet were chewed up. Bloody from festering blisters that surrounded the tender skin of her heels. Bloody from blisters that ran along the sides of her feet and gnarled the tips of her toes. So red and pus filled, he could barely make out where her skin had remained solid under the swelling.

  “The devil take it. Why didn’t you tell me this had happened? Why didn’t you tell me they were too small?”

  She tried to swat his hands away from her feet, still trying to pull them back into the confines of her skirts. “I didn’t know this was happening except for the pain. You had been so kind in procuring the boots and it need not be your concern.”

  “Not my concern? How can you bloody well walk on these things?”

  “I thought it would be fine today. I soaked them last night at the inn, but to no avail. It seems to have only made the sores worse. It was hard to get my feet into the boots this morning.”

  He stared at the bloody mess, twisting her feet back and forth, trying to convince himself it wasn’t as bad as it looked. He’d had blisters like this once, riding along his heel, and he knew full well that it hurt like the devil scratching pins into one’s skin.

  He twisted her left foot and his finger slipped across her heel.

  “Ouch.” She yanked her foot away, his fingers tearing at the skin on the way.

  Her face crumpled, her breath coming fast and hard and she fought the pain.

  “Evalyn—”

  Her hand flew up, pushing at him as she tried to yank her right foot away, a scream at her lips. “Stop. Don’t touch me. Please just stop, Lachlan. Please stop.”

  His jaw dropping, he released her foot. The force with which she didn’t want him to touch her was palpable.

  He rocked back on his heels, staring at the auburn sweep of her hair atop of her downturned head. He steeled his voice to calm. “What do you propose to do, Evalyn?”

  Her head tilted s
lightly up, her gold-green eyes shooting venom at him. “I propose you let me be, Lachlan.”

  “Let you be? Leave you in a quivering mess on the side of the road?”

  “Yes.” Her look shifted to her boots on the ground. “I will force my feet back into those torturous leather prisons and I will catch up with the party. I swear it.” Her look centered on him. “Just leave me be.”

  Stubborn woman.

  He met her gaze, his own look immovable for a long moment. She wasn’t going to let him help. Not without some incentive.

  Lachlan stood and went to her dress, picking it up and refolding it into a tight bundle that he tucked into his arm. He veered to pick up her boots, setting them atop the dress.

  “Lachlan, what are you doing?”

  Ignoring her, he went to his horse, setting the gown and boots behind the saddle and securing them with a leather strap.

  “Lachlan, no.” Her hands supporting her, walking up the trunk of the tree, she tried to get to her feet. “No, I said—” She gasped, wincing hard as her feet took the full weight of her body when she tried to step away from the tree.

  She fell back against the trunk, starting to slip down the bark.

  Three long steps and he was back to her, catching her along her waist before she sank to the ground.

  “Is that enough for you?”

  She looked up at him, squirming in his arms even as pain sent her brow into wretched folds. “Enough what?”

  “Enough pain so you will accept my help?”

  He loosened his hold, setting her back on her feet.

  She winced, her eyes squeezing tight. She nodded.

  He wanted more from her, more acknowledgment, but he didn’t want to make her admit to it again—he didn’t want to have to set her on her feet and cause her even more pain. Bending, he slipped an arm under the back of her legs and picked her up, carrying her to his horse.

  He set her sideways atop the back of his horse in front of his saddle, then grabbed the reins and mounted it. “You can sit there, but it will be uncomfortable, or you can spread your legs and sit in front of me on the saddle. It’ll be more comfortable and you’ve done it once with me, but that was out of necessity. This may be an affront to your sensibilities.”