Page 29 of The Iron Earl

Cut the easy laughter from all corners of the camp.

He didn’t mean it to sound so harsh, but he did mean to extract her from the men. In the span of twenty minutes she had just turned his men from adversaries to allies.

She jumped at his command, glancing downward and seeing how far down her bare shoulder the blanket had slipped.

She yanked it up, clasping the fur-lined wool tightly about her neck as she got to her feet.

Better.

Once upright, the blanket about her swayed—no, she swayed, near to stumbling.

Worse.

How many times had Domnall refilled her cup with whisky?

Holding her balance, she spun to Lachlan. Her cheeks had gone rosy, the liquor or the laughter sending warmth to her head. The back half of her auburn hair was still askew and knotted with snarls, the front was smoothed perfectly over her right temple. He’d watched as her fingers had threaded through the locks again and again as she spoke. He doubted she even knew she did it.

The remnant of the smile that was still on her lips faded when she found his face. For an instant, he wanted it back. Wanted to see her eyes glow with the merriment of the moment that the waning vestiges of the grin only hinted at.

He’d stood behind her for the last ten minutes. Silent, listening, but not moving into her sightline.

Now he wished he had.

He hadn’t seen laughter breach her face, ever.

Fear, he’d seen. Her chin jutting out in stubbornness. Outrage. Sorrow. She’d even rolled her eyes once at Rupe.

But never a laughing smile.

Her mouth pulled to a tight, wary line as her eyes met his. “The tent?”

He nodded, his voice gruff. “The tent.”

He turned and pulled aside the front flap of his tent and she shuffled past him into the confines.

Stepping in after her, his neck curved forward as he hunched to fit inside. He picked up the woolen dress he’d procured for her at Lord Jameson’s estate, holding it out to her, the row of buttons now freed. “Your shift is still sopping so I’ll set it by the fire while you pull the dress on. I’ll be back in to button it.”

Her look dipped down from the bland grey dress to the ground next to the front flap of the tent.

“Evalyn?”

She didn’t respond. Had she managed to fall asleep standing up with her eyes open?

Her look crawled up to his face, the gold flecks in her green eyes sparking in the glow of the lantern. “Where’s my gown, Lachlan?”

“Gone.”

“Gone? What—where? No.”

“Yes.”

Jerking the blanket around her, she pushed past him and stalked out of the tent, searching the cold ground. Finding nothing, she walked around to the back of the tent, searching the shadows.

Lachlan followed her.

“You don’t need the damned dress, Evalyn. It’ll do you no good in Scotland.”

She whipped to him, her palpable fury cutting through the dark. “You have no right—no right to dispose of it, Lachlan. No right to it at all.”