Page 21 of The Iron Earl

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?”

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