Page 28 of The Iron Earl

Looking at her with the same solemn countenance of Domnall’s face.

Hell.Why had she swallowed the whisky? So much of it.

Her cheeks flaming, she bowed her head, unable to take the pitying stares of the men about her.

Disdain she could take. Pity she could not.

What she wouldn’t give in that moment for a graphic hand gesture aimed in her general direction.

Domnall cleared his throat. Her head stayed tilted downward, but her eyes lifted to him.

He was grinning, his eyes sparkling in the light of the fire. “Lass, ye dinnae ken grotesque until ye’ve seen Finley’s back. Fire got the bastard after he ran from a widow’s bed—a widow that wasn’t a widow—and he tripped over a fire as he ran from her husband.”

The men laughed, jeers and caterwauls flying at Finley.

“Go on, show her, Finley,” Rory called out from the left.

Chuckling with a wild grin on his face, Finley stood up opposite the fire from Evalyn and yanked his shirt up, turning his back to her. Mottled flesh, bumpy and stretched tight to a fine white, cut a swath across the expanse of his skin. Smirking, he dropped his shirt, looking about his brethren. “Best lay ever from a widow, though, lads.”

Bawdy chortles filled the night air.

“And, Rory, show the lass where that boar ripped yer leg through.”

With a maniacal laugh, Rory jumped to his feet, dropping his trousers and turning his bare ass to her. Her hand flew to cover her eyes, her head turning away, but not before she saw the ragged scar that ran from the back of his knee up past his buttocks.

“And, Colin, the lass needs to see where ye ran at my sword when ye were a pup and I sliced yer side,” Domnall said. “Festered for weeks.”

“Ran at your sword, my ass.” Colin hauled himself to his knees and unbuttoned his waistcoat, yanking up on his shirt.

She held her hand up, laughing. “Enough, enough, enough. You all are marred more grotesquely than me, I understand.”

“But ye should really see what that ole bugger Domnall did to an innocent lad like me.” Colin freed his shirt, spinning to the side so she could see the thick, ragged band of flesh that had been stitched closed. He tilted his skin to the light. “Miss Mable was soused when she stitched me up.” His fingers pointed along the length of the scar. “Ye can still see the spots where she missed the wound completely, stitching closed skin that was already together.”

Evalyn groaned. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I was soused too.”

She laughed.

In that moment, in the middle of laughter flying freely from her throat, it struck her. She had never felt this before.

Warmth.

Whether it was from the whisky, from the fire, from the moment of laughter where she didn’t feel like a burden.

It was warm.

And it was wonderful.

Wonderful and fleeting.

{ Chapter 7 }

“Evalyn. I need you in the tent.”

Lachlan’s voice cut into the air from where he stood behind her. Hard. Clipped.

It cut the laughter still bubbling from her throat.