Page 90 of The Iron Earl

“No?” His hand was quick and in the next instant the silver of a dagger flashed in front of her face. Polished to a shine, with a pattern of flames engraved along the high ridge of the blade. Evalyn had seen this knife before. The very one he’d promised to cut her with in that corridor at Wolfbridge.

“No, I think you’ll ride with me.” He pressed the length of the blade to her cheek, the tip of it digging into the flesh at the corner of her eye. “You recognize this? This is the blade that is going to carve your flesh, Evalyn. It can be deep, or it can be shallow. It’s up to you. You’ll ride with me or this blade will find your flesh the second you try to escape me.” He leaned in, his putrid breath invading her pores. “But I won’t kill you. Of that, you can be assured.” He pulled away from her, his head shaking. “Your father was always too easy on you. Things will be different, now.”

“Stepfather.” The word mumbled past her lips. For all that she was in desperate danger, she needed to speak it. To correct that blasphemous slip.

Snorting a laugh, he slid the dagger back into the sheath at his waist. His dull brown eyes lifted to her and without warning the back of his hand flew, slamming against her cheek. “Did I ask you to speak?”

Everything inside her shriveled. Not again. She couldn’t be at the mercy of this soulless beast.

Her look flew frantically around as he dragged her toward the back of the stable. She had to get out of here. Had to yell. Where was that stable boy? Or Lachlan—he hadn’t truly meant to leave her—had he?

For the things she’d said to him, for the speed with which he stalked away from her, he was surely back up at the main castle by now.

A scream was her only chance. She tripped over her feet and Mr. Molson yanked her upright.

Her look landed at him. If she screamed and the stable boy came, Mr. Molson would gut the boy without blinking. There was no doubt. She’d overheard him laud his own kills with her stepfather—it was clear what little respect he had for the lives of those beneath him.

Mr. Molson spun her into the last stall in the stable, stopping for a stretch of raw rope. He wrapped it around her wrists, then lifted her onto the already saddled horse.

He heaved himself up behind her and the tip of the dagger pressed into her side just above her hip bone. “You only get one warning, mousey—make a word and this blade will be deep into your side and I will shove you from this horse. It’s a slow way to die, bleeding out, your back broken—painful—so be a dove and keep your trap shut.”

He sent the horse through the narrow back entrance of the stable and pushed the mare quickly into the adjoining woods. They disappeared into the thick of trees until they hit a trail that snaked away from Vinehill.

Her head craned, desperate, she kept the castle in view, praying for someone—anyone to see her—to see her being hauled away by this madman.

The last breath of hope exhaled from her lungs as the final glimpse of the top grey stones of the east turret vanished.

She was on her own.

~~~

They rode for six hours straight, almost to dusk.

Lachlan would think she’d stupidly run. Think she’d left him. That fact alone crushed her soul more than anything. More than the stench of Mr. Molson behind her. More than what he planned to do with her.

Lachlan would believe she didn’t trust him. Didn’t believe in him.

Didn’t love him.

The first three hours on the horse she sat, collapsing upon herself while inner pieces of her broke off shard by shard, dying, leaving in their wake only a barren cavern of emptiness.

The last three hours she was left with nothing but numbness.

Happiness wasn’t for her.

She never should have longed for more. Never should have hoped for more. Never should have tried to escape her life.

With her eyes downcast, moored deep in the cold stupor that had overtaken her body, it wasn’t until Mr. Molson pulled the reins of the horse to a stop that she realized they approached a set of four small cottages set along a grassy hillside.

Mr. Molson poked her back and her eyes lifted slowly.

A group of three families. Two husbands standing in front of their wives and children. Two elderly ladies, both leaning heavily on canes. One lone mother with two children clinging to her skirts.

The group stood in the center of the four cottages, huddled into one spot, fear striking their features.

Six men, burly and dirty, stood around them. Two of the brutes held pistols, one a club, and the other three held swords.

She’d thought her insides were dead, but her heart burst alive, pounding, while her stomach found way to plummet further. Her gaze flew across the families. Nine children. None more than ten years old.

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