Page 69 of The Iron Earl

Lachlan dropped his hands from her shoulders, turning from her as he pulled free a silver flask from inside his overcoat. He pulled the stopper and drank a long swallow.

“Exactly.” Shaking his head, he looked to her, holding the flask out to her.

Her last foray with Scottish whisky did not go well for keeping her wits about her. But she needed the sting of whatever was in that bottle to wipe the bile from her mouth. To embolden her for what she was going to have to tell Lachlan.

She took the flask from his hand and set it to her lips.

One sip, and it burned a slow trail down her throat. Brandy. She took another drink, filling her mouth. Too much, but she choked the vile liquid down.

Her eyes lifted to see him watching her intently. As much as she guessed she needed a third swallow, she handed the flask back to him. “So what is going to happen to Mr. Lipinstein?”

Lachlan shrugged, taking one last drink before setting the stopper in place and tucking the flask back into his coat. “Domnall talked to one of judges at the end of yesterday—he said they would send the bastard to Newgate in London to await trial on smuggling charges. The judges all knew and respected Jacob, so he said that they would ensure Lipinstein will rot there for some time before his trial—they were to make sure on it.”

Her bottom lip jutted up in a frown. “A small consolation.”

“Miniscule.” Lachlan’s face contorted in rage for a short second, and then he exhaled, looking at her. “But that’s not my worry at this moment.”

“What is?” Her look darted about, a rabbit in a snare.

“You. We’re going back to Vinehill and then you’re going to tell me exactly what has happened to light the terror in your eyes.”

“Lachlan—”

“Or would you prefer to tell me here?” His eyebrow arched.

She glanced at the courtroom building. Mr. Molson would be exiting soon. Possibly coming back to the stables. Panic started to tighten her throat, but she forced what she hoped was a smile on her face.

She nodded. “Vinehill. As long as we leave directly.”

~~~

Lachlan stared at his wife as she stepped away from the carriage. A rogue breeze, almost balmy, cut through the chilly air and a tendril of auburn hair that had escaped from under her small black bonnet lifted from her temple.

“You are positive your feet are recovered enough for this?”

“I believe so. You said the trail was not too long?” She lifted her foot out past the dress and military-inspired pelisse that a maid had procured from his sister’s wardrobe this morning. “The boots you found for me have just enough room that they are not rubbing my skin raw again. When did you have time to retrieve them?”

“After you fell asleep last night.”

“You got out of bed?”

“Yes—why?”

“It—” Her brow furrowed, perplexed. “It is odd that I did not feel you move—hear you leave.”

Lachlan turned to the carriage driver and waved him onward up the long drive to Vinehill. He needed to talk to his wife alone and he didn’t want to have a conversation with her in his chambers where he was driven to distraction with thoughts of stripping her bare. It had only taken a day with her ensconced in his rooms and he already realized he was helpless against it—could think of little else other than getting lost in her.

Last night he had thought it peculiar, how his anger over his brother’s death didn’t manifest when she was in his arms. Once—in his bed—it was an anomaly. But twice?

Twice was much more than that.

When she had grabbed his hand at the trial, it was as though a thousand sparks of light had descended upon him and doused away the searing hatred burning him from the inside out.

Her hand clasping his in the courtroom had been the second time her touch had quelled the demons that refused to set him free. He’d only been given that respite for a few minutes in the courtroom before she’d torn her hand from his and escaped from the room.

Now he intended to find out the exact reason she’d run so fast from the trial.

He turned to Evalyn and offered his elbow to her. She slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm and he was already regretting not bringing her to his room forthwith. If he had satiated himself, they could speak without the anger from the trial still coursing through his veins.