Page 48 of The Iron Earl

Her foot involuntarily attempted to jerk from him again, but his clamp on her ankle kept her foot securely on his lap. “M—marriage? To me? But—but no. No. You’re betrothed to another. You need to marry that Karta woman.”

Her hands went to her left leg and she gripped her thigh, trying to pull her leg free from his clasp. No success. His grip on her was unbreakable.

“I am betrothed, yes. But that can be broken.”

“No, Lachlan, no. You need do no such thing on my account. You need to marry her for your lands. For your grandfather. For the future. Domnall made that very clear.”

“Domnall likes to pontificate upon subjects he should generally avoid.”

“He sounded quite certain of himself.”

“Of course he did. But what Dom likes to speak of has little influence over what I actually choose to do.”

“Oh.”

His eyebrow lifted. “Does that mean the matter is settled?”

“Settled?” Her head snapped back. “As in I agree to marry you?”

He nodded.

“No—no, it means nothing of the sort. You don’t want to marry me, Lachlan, I am very sure of the fact.”

“Now you think to pontificate on matters you know nothing about?”

“I know I would make you a terrible wife.”

“You do?” His bottom lip jutted up and his head tilted to the side, considering her words. “Interesting. Do tell me how.”

“Well, for starters, I’m English. That will not sit well with your household, an English mistress.”

“Not ideal, but my household will grow accustomed to you, English or not.” He looked down to her foot, releasing his grip on her ankle and grabbing a new strip to continue the wrapping. “What else?” he asked without looking up.

“Well, I only speak one other language—French, my knowledge of running a household is quite limited, and I am only marginal at sewing.”

He didn’t give her so much as a glance. “All things I couldn’t care less about. What else?”

She searched around her, her look frantic on the trees and brook for something—anything to dissuade him from the mad thought he’d latched onto. She caught her blurred reflection in the water.

Her gaze whipped to him. “You—you haven’t seen the scar along my face. I am not what you think I am.”

“Beautiful?”

“I—a—no.” Her fingers twisted together, a heated flush invading her neck.

His fingers paused and he looked up at her, his hazel eyes serious. “Has no one ever told you that you are a beauty, Evalyn?”

She shook her head. “No. Save for my mother, but I was five. And she didn’t know that this”—she pointed at the hair carefully covering her right temple—“would befall me. I will never be beautiful.”

He straightened slightly, his gaze pinning her as his fingers rested lightly on top of her ankle. “Then let me see it.”

“You want to see the scar?”

Her throat collapsed on her. No one—no one ever saw her scar. She made sure of it. That her hair had fallen away from it the other night at the campfire had been a gross oversight on her part. But at least that had been in the darkness with only the campfire—not in the brutal light of day.

She eyed him. Why would he want to see the hideous scar?

A trap.

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