Page 30 of The Iron Earl

He bristled, his arms clamping over his chest. “I do because you’ll do as I say, Evalyn. You asked for this. You. You wanted to join our party—well, this is our party. And there isn’t margin for the additional weight of that monstrosity.”

“Monstrosity?” Her voice screeched into the night. “That is my mother’s dress, Lachlan. The last—the only thing I have of her.” Her voice cracked and it took her a long moment to steel her breath enough to continue. “Please—it’s the only thing. I know it’s not practical. I know it is of no use to anyone but me, but I couldn’t leave it behind at Wolfbridge. That’s why I wore it. And I cannot leave it now. I need it. Please, just tell me where it is. I will carry it. It won’t be a burden. I swear.”

She flung an arm out from the blanket wrapping her and ripped the wool dress from his hands, then spun away from him. “Here—see—I’ll wear your damn dress and I will carry the gown.” She bent, the blanket hanging over her back as she stepped into the serviceable wool dress. She straightened and the blanket slid off her bare back as she yanked the dress upward.

For half a second, her backside was bared to him. Even with his tent between them and the fire, he could see her clearly. Her creamy skin, the gentle slope that dipped in along her lower back then led to her smooth backside—curves that begged for his fingers to cup.

She tugged the dress upward, covering her bottom, but the fabric still gaped wide from her shoulder blades down to the small of her back.

Spinning around to him, her hand flattened on her chest to clasp the bodice of the dress to her breasts. Desperation laced her words. “See—I have it on. Just as you wanted. Now please, just tell me where my mother’s dress is, Lachlan. Please.”

Curse it all to bloody hell.

Had he known what it was, what it meant to her, he never would have been so casual in disposing of it. He knew about keepsakes. Knew about mothers that passed well before their time. He’d carried about his mother’s favorite mother-of-pearl hair comb—the one she would always let his tiny fingers set into place in her fine russet hair—somewhere on his person every day for years after her death.

He exhaled an exasperated sigh. “The dress is at the wagon with Rupe. He was to rip it into strips and use it as kindling.”

Her jaw dropped, air escaping, though words didn’t leave her mouth.

She shoved by him.

“Evalyn—”

She didn’t stop, charging away from the tent and running to the wagon.

He followed her, watching as she found the sopping wet pile of the white and gold gown on the ground next to the rear left wheel. Rupe was still busy at the cooking fire making bannocks for tomorrow’s journey. It didn’t look as though he’d gotten to it yet.

Small favor.

She gathered up her dress, clutching it to her chest and sending water dripping from the fabric.

“Damn…Evalyn, no.” He reached out to snatch it from her, his fingers quick to grasp onto a piece of the dress. “Give me that.”

“No, damn you, Lachlan.” She yanked it backward with a step and the fabric tore. “Damn you.”

His fingers flew wide, releasing the silk. Both of his hands lifted, palms open to her to calm. “No, I’m not going to ruin it. It’s wet and you’re going to be soaked again in another minute if you keep pressing it to your dress.”

“What?” The word screeched through her teeth, clear disbelief in his statement.

He couldn’t blame her.

Lachlan leveled his voice to what he hoped was a non-threatening timbre. “I don’t have another dress for you, Evalyn. The one you wear is all we have and we can’t afford to get it wet as well.” He took a cautious step forward. “I’m not going to take your mother’s gown from you. I didn’t know what it meant. I’m just going to drape it along the wagon so it can dry. That is all.”

The glare in her gold-green eyes waned, confusion setting in. “You’re going to what?”

“Dry it.”

“You’re not going to have Rupe wreck it?”

“No.”

She glanced back over her shoulder to look at Rupe. He’d stood as straight as the stoop in his back would allow and was now intently watching the scene by the wagon.

“You swear it, Lachlan?”

“Yes.” His look stayed on her as he half turned his head to his cook. “You hear me, Rupe?”

“Yes, Lach,” Rupe said as he sauntered over from the cooking fire, large wooden spoon in his hand as he watched the proceedings.