Page 27 of The Iron Earl

She took another sip of the whisky and then wiggled her hand out of the folds of the blanket to set the cup onto the ground by her covered knees. Extending her left arm up further, she began pulling free small strands of hair at her brow from the rat’s nest that was now her hair.

Plucking methodically, she smoothed strand after strand with her one hand, her eyes glazing over as she stared at the fire. The chatter amongst the men had started again, a constant low buzz in her ears. She could only pick up rare snippets of the conversations for how slow her mind was processing the words.

She’d had too much whisky. Far too much. It was already muddling her thoughts.

Pluck, smooth. Pluck, smooth. Pluck, smooth.

“Lass, yer temple.” Domnall blurted out from her right side. He sat up straight, his look intent on her face.

Her fingertips flew to her right temple. Hell. She’d thought it was still hidden.

She quickly shuffled her smoothed hair forward, draping it along her right temple.

“That be wicked, lass.How’d it happen?” Domnall asked.

Her face grew hot, near to steaming with the added warmth of the fire. “It is of no matter.”

Domnall let loose a low whistle. “A wretched scar like that and it’d be a matter, lass. What happened?”

She glanced at Domnall and then drew a deep breath. Nothing but honest curiosity shone in his eyes. And where she always drew into herself when people asked her questions, the kindness Domnall had showed her demanded an answer.

Her look strayed to the sparks of the flames sizzling onto the dirt in front of her feet. The whisky loosening her tongue when she knew to keep her mouth shut. “I brought him the wrong slippers.”

“Wrong slippers?”

She nodded. “My stepfather. I brought him the wrong slippers. And I thought I could escape his wrath. But escaping never worked—it was always worse that way. I relearned that lesson that night.”

Domnall clucked his tongue, leaning back on his elbow as he downed a swig of ale from his tankard. “How old were ye?”

“Thirteen. I tried to run from the room before his anger could find me. I didn’t make it but five steps into the main corridor that ran the length of the abbey.”

“And he caught ye, lass?”

She glanced at him, her look quickly scurrying back down to the dirt. She’d never told this story before. She’d never needed to. Everyone in her stepfather’s home knew what happened to her. And there were never any visitors that she was allowed to talk to.

Except for Mr. Molson. She had been presented to him like a roasted pig on a platter. He knew the story. Her stepfather had boasted about it to him.

She cleared her throat. “My stepfather caught me and slammed my head into the stone wall. I don’t remember anything after that.”

“The wall was where the scar came from?” Domnall asked.

“I don’t know—the cut started there, I imagine. I went to blackness and when I woke up, the open wound on my temple had bled and the blood had dried to the stones of the floor. My skin was stuck to the stone. I cried out for help. Cried for hours. Begged. No one came.”

Domnall’s face cringed with a sharp intake of breath.

“I learned later that I was like that for two days. Dead to the world. Stuck to the floor. My stepfather had forbidden any of the servants to touch me. Said I would live or die by my own sorry will. He beat the chambermaid that had tried to press water to my lips to rouse me. She didn’t deserve that.” Her head shook and then she shrugged. “After that no one dared to come to me. Not even when I awoke.”

Her eyes slipped shut. “I had to rip my head from that stone floor. That moment…” A shudder ripped through her body. “It tore my skin. Left me this.” Her fingers pointed to her temple which she had already smoothed her hair over.

She cracked her eyes open, her downcast gaze shifting to Domnall and then settling on the flames of the fire. “I’m sorry you had to witness the scar. I know it is grotesque and I am careful to keep it covered. I will take better care in the future.”

Domnall nodded, his face solemn. Nodded for a long moment.

It took her several unsteady breaths to realize the entire camp had gone quiet. The constant buzz of the male voices, the Scottish burrs steadily streaming about the campfire had died.

She looked up.

Every man around the fire was looking at her.