Page 52 of The Iron Earl

For a long moment he stared down at her. At her wide eyes, now open to him, watching him. She wasn’t resisting. Not at all. And hell, she was beautiful. Her breasts perfect creamy hills, the dip of the smooth skin between them that traveled down her belly, her hips that offered just the right amount of flesh to grab a hold of during an onslaught. But she was also as pliable as the plank of mahogany wood above them.

A brandy. He needed a brandy. He turned from her, walking over to the small round table laden with food and drink and poured himself a dram.

“We are done?”

“For now.” He tipped back the glass and swallowed.

“That—that was not awful.”

He turned to her. “You expected it to be awful? Is that why you wanted to get it done with so quickly?”

“No, I…” She sat up on the bed, her hands angled behind her to support her torso.

“Yes?”

“I have been waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to announce this was all a farce. A joke upon me you were playing with your men.” She spotted the blood on her inner thighs and quickly scooted forward on the bed until her legs dangled off the side. Onto her feet, she leaned forward, grabbing her chemise from the pile of clothes. Her face disappeared for a moment as she set it about her body. It only went down to her knees now, but she was covered to him once more. She bent, shifting through the scraps of cloth that had wrapped her feet, finding one, and then wiped the blood from her thighs.

Her voice was small as she stood straight and adjusted the straps about her shoulders. “I wanted to get the business of this done with, to the point of not going back—either my humiliation or the consummation of the marriage. Either way it would be over. It is the waiting that is unbearable.”

He nodded and set his glass down, then contemplated her for a long moment. He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Come, eat. You must be starving.”

Evalyn gingerly hobbled to the basin of water atop a chest of drawers, rinsed her fingers, and then moved to the table. She began to sit before she reached the chair, swinging her backside into place just before she fell to the floor.

Lachlan set one of the plates in front of her and she dug into the food before he sat across from her.

He was accustomed to being in the nude when alone, so it took him a long moment to realize he’d just sat down across the table from her fully naked. He motioned toward his torso. “Do you mind if I don’t have clothing on?”

Her fork full of asparagus spears paused halfway to her mouth and her eyes dipped down to his chest. For a second, she looked like she would protest, but then she shook her head. “If you are comfortable, then I will be so as well.”

She was accommodating, at the least. Even though the tinge of red running up along the sides of her neck told him just how uncomfortable she was. Small favor that the table hid his still engorged member from view.

Her eyes averted to the fire in the hearth across the room and she swallowed several bites of potatoes before looking to him. “Why is it that we are at an inn tonight? There is no storm.”

“You would rather be in my tent with the men naught but six steps away?”

A small smile lifted the corners of her lips. “No. It is just that I assumed we would be at an estate of an acquaintance of yours as you appear to know everyone of importance from Lincolnshire to here.”

Lachlan cut a bite of roast beef and slid it into his mouth. “It is my grandfather’s doing. The marquess has lived through too much unrest in his years. He was born during the Jacobite rising of forty-five and his father and a number of our kin died in the Battle of Culloden—on both sides of the sword. He’s witnessed from birth onward the upheaval of the land. So he’s spent his life forging alliances up and down this isle.”

“To protect your lands?”

“Yes. For the fiend of a man that he is, he’s managed to hold the Vinehill lands together. Kept our people from starving.”

“He’s a fiend?”

“He isn’t a rosebud.” Lachlan leaned back in his chair, tapping the tines of his fork on the edge of his plate. “My grandfather has always been a difficult man—at least since I can remember. I have heard tell amongst my aunts that he was once kind, but I’ve never witnessed it. He lost his wife and my father and mother in one horrible winter due to consumption. That us three bairns lived through it—my older brother, my sister and I—was a miracle.”

“How old were you?”

“I was six. Sloane was a wee one. Jacob was eight. They said my grandfather was never the same after that winter. And he was left with three young bairns in his household to raise.”

“He still interacted with you?” Evalyn asked.

He shrugged. “Enough to make us into what he wanted us to be.”