Page 11 of The Iron Earl

Not until he wanted it to be.

Yet he still would have been happier to be another twenty miles up the roads.

He didn’t have another twenty miles in him. Neither did his men. Exhausted, he wanted nothing more than Rupe’s stew and his eyes closed.

Leaving Wolfbridge in the middle of the night hadn’t been the best plan, not that he would have slept another wink the previous night in the duke’s castle. So it was just as well that he was traveling away as fast as he could from those blasted lands. At least they could pick up goods on the journey home, so the trip wasn’t a total loss.

Lachlan tied his horse off next to the stream and walked through the swathe of trees toward the camp. Baron Rogerton hadn’t been in residence, so he’d alerted the steward of their presence on the lands, arranged to have a barrel of spirits delivered to the wagon in the morning, and then had hurried back to his men.

The second his feet crunched onto the fallen leaves at the edge of camp, he knew something was amiss. The way his men suddenly sat straighter, their eyes flickering to him and veering off.

He looked around at the faces around the low fire just starting to die off. He’d thought they’d all be asleep by now, for they were as exhausted as he.

His head swiveled. Rupe was busy poking into his black pot over the cooking fire, his head down.

He stepped into the circle of his men. “Where’s the lass?”

Silence.

Every man in the group stilled at the one question, their eyes either sheepish as they glanced at Lachlan or looking off into nothingness.

Lachlan’s look morphed into a glare, pinning them, until he saw Rory break and glance at Colin.

Lachlan moved to his left, stopping in front of Colin’s outstretched legs. He waited until Colin ceased averting his gaze and looked up at him. Lachlan leaned forward, his voice turned to iron. “What happened, Colin?”

For a moment, mumbled rationalization came to his lips, but then Colin shook his head, the words spitting from his mouth. “I hit her.”

“You what?” Lachlan seethed. The blasted man never could control himself. Not since they were five—Colin had never learned how to curb his anger.

Colin scrambled to his feet. “She scalded me with the hot stew. Dropped it all over me.”

Lachlan’s look dropped. Stains of Rupe’s stew streaked down the front of Colin’s white shirt. His hands balled into fists at his sides. “Tell me she did it on purpose.”

Colin exhaled, his look flashing up to the night sky. “Not exactly, she tri—”

Lachlan’s fist into Colin’s jaw stole the word from his mouth and sent him reeling backward.

Lachlan glared at Colin bending over, his hand rubbing his jaw. Colin had the good sense not to look up at him.

His voice lethal, his stare didn’t leave Colin. “Where is she now, Rory?”

“Don’t know, Lach. She took off into the woods.”

“And no one followed her?”

Silence.

He tore his glare off of Colin and he looked around at the faces of his men. “Which direction? How long?”

“Half the hour,” Rory said. His head swiveled and his eyes landed on the trees across from Lachlan. He inclined his head toward the forest. “Into the woods there.”

“So Colin strikes her and you all sat around here this entire time and ate and drank and not one of you thought to check on her?” The words fumed through his teeth as he sent a sweeping glare across the lot of them.

“Yes, that be the way of it,” Rory said, his always unhurried voice not speeding in the slightest. “We figured she would come back soon enough. There isn’t anywhere for her to go. Not for miles.”

“Blasted imbeciles.” His head shaking, Lachlan stomped away from the fire, going to the brook to retrieve his horse.

{ Chapter 4 }