Page 64 of The Iron Earl
He glanced to the door, his eyebrows drawing together. “I didn’t lock you in here.”
“No, but you requested I leave the room for nothing or no one. And this is odd—for a husband and wife to share a chamber. Is this the custom in Scotland?”
Lachlan stifled a sigh, his finger lifting to sweep an errant strand of hair across her brow. His fingertip grazed the edge of the scar on her temple and—small miracle—she didn’t flinch away. Progress.
Progress he wasn’t about to lose by telling her that their sleeping arrangements were a silent command for the staff and all the inhabitants in Vinehill—she was his wife, and he would tolerate no disrespect from them. She’d get enough hostility from his grandfather.
“It is common and uncommon. It depends on the marriage, I suppose.” His fingers in her hair stilled. “And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Leave the room?”
The edges of her lips pulled back in a grimace. “I met your grandfather.”
He jerked upright, sending her rolling off his chest. “Hell and damnation—how—what?”
She flopped onto her back, propping herself up by her elbows. “The marquess sent a maid to retrieve me. I tried to resist the request, but she said it wasn’t a request. It was an order. I thought it best to comply or be tossed out on my ear.”
“Damn the buzzard.” His fist slammed into the bed, his head shaking as he stared at the fire. “I wanted to be the one to introduce you, but there wasn’t time before the trial started.” He looked to her. “What did he say to you?”
“He knows.”
“Knows you’re my wife?”
“Knows I’m English.”
“And?”
“And he’s having a divorce petition drawn up.”
His look narrowed at her. “He is?”
She nodded.
“Ornery ass.” He chuckled, his head shaking at the foolery of his grandfather. Leave it to the man to try and snake a way out of a marriage for him. Be damned whether Lachlan wanted it or not.
Evalyn sat up, moving away from him on the bed.
“Wait. Why are you looking like you were just sentenced to an execution, Eva?”
She reached for her shift at the foot of the bed, her fingers pulling it inside out to right it. “I didn’t realize it was what you wanted.”
From behind her he reached out to grab her wrist, stilling her movements. “I didn’t say a thing about wanting a divorce.” He settled his chin on her shoulder, his lips next to her ear. “I laughed because it is exactly my grandfather’s way, his way until his last breath is out of him. The old coot loves to have papers drawn up to shove in front of me—I swear he spends half his time concocting ways he’s going to control me from the grave.”
Her hand clutching her shift fell to her lap. “So you don’t want a divorce?”
He pulled her arm up to his face, his lips brushing across the fleshy mound on the inside of her wrist. “The thought never occurred to me. It is the last thing I want in this moment.”
“What do you want in this moment?”
He dropped her wrist, lifting his head from her shoulder. “First, I want to measure your foot.”
“My foot?”
“Aye.” He started to move around her on the bed but stilled when he saw her back in the light of the fire. His fingers rose, tracing a long ragged white scar that ran along the backside of her ribcage. Two smaller lines of scar tissue crossed the main line near the top. He’d seen enough scars to know a blade had cut her skin.
Bile stained his tongue. “Hell, Eva, what’s this scar from?”