Page 42 of The Iron Earl

“Those dinnae look fine, lass.”

“Bearable, then. It was bearable,” she said.

“Those dinnae look bearable, lass.”

Lachlan cleared his throat. “You have a better saddle for two, Domnall. Would you mind taking her on your horse? She could ride behind you.” He looked down at her head. “I think that is what she would prefer—yes, Evalyn?”

She glanced up at him, her eyes slightly squinting as she nodded.

Domnall’s look lifted to Lachlan, his left eyebrow lifting and curiosity ablaze in his clear blue eyes. “Aye. There be ample room on my saddle.” He moved forward and patted the leather behind him, a grin on his face. “Just as ye dinnae mind being downwind of the stench this travel has put on me ole bones.”

Evalyn chuckled. “I fear it is nothing compared to the stench of my own body.”

“Then hop over, lass.”

They stopped their horses and Lachlan grabbed her about the waist, lifting her as she threaded her right leg behind Domnall.

Safely in place, her skirts arranged to hang over her legs the best they could and her fingers lightly clutching the sides of Domnall’s overcoat, and Lachlan set his horse forth once more.

Not even four strides of his horse and he could breathe freely again. He hadn’t been prepared for his body to react to her like it did.

Loss of control. Loss of his center.

For those few minutes that she was trapped against his body, he had been unmoored, the sensation of her muscles alongside his stirring not only his loins, but also something in his gut.

Something he’d been ignoring for days.

Mistress. He had to remember his original plan for her. She would work in his kitchens. Become his mistress, if she was amicable to the thought.

That would flush the feel of her from his blood. He could have her and then be done with her. And though he wished her no harm personally, taking her as his mistress would still carry the weight of revenge against her stepfather.

His tongue curled against the roof of his mouth. The thought didn’t sit as well with him as it had days ago when it was the sole purpose for allowing her on this journey.

Lachlan could feel the curious stares from his men behind him. Curious stares that he’d have to answer to eventually. They all hated Lord Falsted the same as he did.

Five minutes passed with Domnall peppering Evalyn about her blisters—how many she’d counted, which ones had burst open, the ratio of pus to blood.

The man loved to talk about blood and pus.

He’d just tuned out Domnall’s jabbering when the blasted man chuckled to himself.

“Lach tell ye ‘bout his betrothed?” The note of mirth in Domnall’s words cut through the rampant thoughts flying about in Lachlan’s mind.

His gaze whipped to Domnall, his glare shooting arrows at his friend.

“Betrothed?” Evalyn looked to Lachlan, a smile frozen on her face.

“I’m to marry in a month.” Lachlan’s gaze didn’t shift from Domnall. The ass was smirking.

“She’s a beautiful one, that lass,” Domnall said.

Lachlan exhaled a long sigh. “Yes, and as vapid as they come.”

“Vapid?” Evalyn’s eyebrows drew together.

“The girl can’t hold two thoughts in her head at once.”

Domnall scoffed. “Says the man that hasn’t said more than four words to her.”

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