Page 10 of The Iron Earl

“Hurry, lass, I’m ripe hungry here.” A Scotsman at the far end of the fire grumbled her way.

Her head snapped up at the sharp words and she jumped, moving forward quickly. She knew what would happen if she didn’t move fast enough—she’d lived a life of not moving fast enough and being punished for it.

The next black boot in the shadows of the fire she didn’t see. Her toe caught on the edge of a heel and she flew forward, sprawling, a gasp escaping her lips.

Two bowls of soup flew through the air, spinning, tumbling, crashing into the Scotsman nearest to her.

Two hot, steaming bowls of soup.

She landed with a hard thud on her side, the impact taking the wind from her lungs.

“Bloody hell, ye stupid little wench.” The Scotsman shot to his feet, sloughing off the scorching liquid from the front of his shirt and wool waistcoat. “It’s fucking burnin’ me, ye wee bitch.”

Evalyn scrambled to grab the upside-down bowl closest to her, then clambered to her feet. “I’m so sorry, sir. So very sorry.” Her fingers lifted out to try and help brush the scalding stew from his chest.

Mortified, her head bowed, she didn’t see the slap coming. Didn’t brace herself.

The back of his hand hit her. Hard. The force of it wicked across her cheek, it sent her sprawling onto the ground—sent her body into a panic that seized her nerves, her blood pumping fast.

She curled up into herself, her limbs dragging through the dirt. Her head hidden under her arms. Small. She had to get small.

If she was small, there was less to hit. Less to kick.

Her body rigid, holding tight against the oncoming pain, she held her breath.

But no additional blows came.

No hits. No kicks.

Just silence.

Silence around her. Silence echoing, pounding in her skull.

Silence was what she waited for. Silence meant she could escape. If there was no raging voice, there was no fist on the way to her head.

She moved her upper arm covering her eyes and saw the man that had smacked her walking away from the clearing in the direction of the brook.

Terror still fully gripping her body, Evalyn struggled to her feet, her slippers loose on the dirt, haphazardly catching ground as she ran past the men still sitting, watching the incident with indifferent looks on their faces.

Escape. She had to escape.

Her body moved on instinct, begging for it.

Escape.

Her eyes frantic, she spun, searching.

The woods. The woods opposite of the stream. Opposite of the man that had just hit her.

Escape. She needed to escape.

~~~

He’d wanted to make it farther.

Farther from Wolfbridge. Farther from the possibility of Lord Falsted sneaking up upon them in the middle of the night and capturing back what he just took.

He’d had to acknowledge the possibility, however slight. The ongoing festivities at Wolfbridge were his salvation. With the hunting parties during the days, the majority of the men would be separated from the females during the daylight hours. With any luck, the blackguard was just realizing now that his stepdaughter was missing. Maybe he wouldn’t realize it for another day or two. Evalyn’s disappearance wouldn’t be tied to him.

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