Page 9 of The Iron Earl

Lachlan shifted in his saddle, facing forward.

He’d keep her until they reached Stirlingshire. She was beautiful, and if it suited her, he’d entertain the idea of making her his mistress at Vinehill. Or she could work in his kitchens. Whatever suited her sensibilities. Either way, stealing away Baron Falsted’s only kin had turned the entire disastrous trip to Lincolnshire into sweet revenge.

Justice.

Justice had appeared in the most peculiar of places.

In the most peculiar of women.

{ Chapter 3 }

Her shoulders dragging, Evalyn picked her way over the long legs stretched out toward the fire, balancing three wooden bowls in her hands.

Rupe had sent her scurrying the moment they broke for camp for the evening—gathering twigs for the fire, running to the brook for bucket after bucket of water, and then cutting the potatoes.

She’d never cut potatoes before—any food for that matter—and potatoes were slippery and hard to send a blade through. The knife had slipped and sliced into her forefinger three times, slashes of blood stinging her skin.

It didn’t help that she’d been blurry-eyed and half asleep since the moment they stopped. Not hungry, not even feeling the chill of the air on her bare arms as the sky darkened to night, the thought of crawling under the wagon and sleeping was all that consumed her mind. But Rupe kept barking orders at her, jarring her back awake.

Her head down, she’d stiffened her resolve and did everything bade of her. She’d sworn to Lachlan she would do anything to escape. So she had damn well not break her promise on the first day of the journey.

The stew Rupe had concocted finally complete, he’d sent her running with full, steaming bowls to the men gathered around the roaring fire.

She’d already delivered three bowls and the second set of three bowls were balanced in her arms as she stepped past the men—men that decidedly ignored her except for the food she set into their hands.

If anything, there were glares of death and destruction in her general direction.

She didn’t talk to them. They didn’t talk to her. She was perfectly fine with that arrangement.

What had Lachlan told them about her presence in the traveling party? When they had left from the stables in the dead of night, not one of the men past Lachlan and Rupe had acknowledged her presence. And the most Lachlan had given her was a curt order from high on his horse to move to the back of the wagon at the end of the trail of men.

Rupe had been the only one in the group to acknowledge her presence with actual words since they left Wolfbridge.

The second set of bowls delivered, she hurried back to the cooking fire where Rupe was fishing through the pot of stew with a ladle.

“Rupe, why did so many men from Lachlan’s lands travel with him to Wolfbridge for the wedding? It is slow to travel with so many. I would think only Lachlan would have made the journey to attend the event.”

“They didn’t travel to Wolfbridge to attend the wedding, lass.” He filled a bowl and handed it to her. “They went bearing swords and pistols to stop the wedding.”

“To stop it? Whatever for? It is a splendid match for Lachlan’s sister. And the Duke of Wolfbridge is well respected.”

Rupe snorted. “English bastard.” He turned his head and spit on the ground. “Ye don’t know much about his grace, then.”

Her head snapped back. “Oh, I did not know. Is the duchess in danger?”

“We left Sloane there, per the master’s orders, so she must be fine enough.”

Evalyn nodded and glanced over her shoulder at the crew of men surrounding the large fire. The size of them made much more sense. These men were not made for diplomacy. They were made for fighting. She’d begun to think all Scotsmen were built like Lachlan.

Lachlan was absent from the ring of warmth around the blazes. She’d seen him leave on his horse once they settled into the clearing along a grove of trees near the stream. A full day on the roads and he didn’t look the slightest bit weary. His hand running through his devilishly rumpled brown hair, he’d ridden off high on his horse, his back straight, his irked eyes fixed solely ahead. She heard him say something about visiting the local landowner and then he disappeared out of the camp.

Rupe shoved the last bowl into her free hand. “Deliver these two and ye can eat and rest, lass.”

She turned back toward the men, her steps heavy as she moved toward them to find the two with empty hands she’d missed. Her mind muddled thick with exhaustion, she couldn’t even keep track of the murmured conversations of the men around her as she searched for homes for the bowls in her hands. The low burrs of their voices only lulled her more into weariness. Just as her eyes slipped shut against her will, her toe nudged a lump and her look slipped downward, finding a black boot blending into the ground. Her eyes snapped open.

Two more bowls to deliver and Rupe would let her sleep. Two more.

The boot at her toe didn’t move and she stepped carefully over it while trying to swing her skirts away from the blazes of the fire. It wouldn’t do to have her only dress—her mother’s dress—set aflame.

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