Chapter Four
Cracking an eyelid open, Evelyn drew in a shocked breath as she looked up, and up.
Roderick stood between her and the Mackay with Angus’ wrist caught in a crippling hold.
“Ye’ve broken me arm!” the man cried. Shock and pain etched in his dirty features as he squirmed in the unyielding grip.
Roderick’s lips pulled back into a silent snarl, murderous rage etched into his savage features as he held the other man effortlessly immobile. Angus’ arm bent at an unnatural angle.
A Mackay kinsman bravely stepped forward. “All right! All right, man, we’ll leave the wench alone! Doona be crippling another sword arm when they’re sorely needed.”
The berserker remained motionless.
The room seemed to hold its collective breath. Expectant fascination and unease permeated the moment. Would he berserk in the middle of Moorland’s common room?
Tentatively, Evelyn reached out and touched his leg. “Really, milord,” she murmured. “Tis finished now. No harm done.” A dark part of her wanted to see him break each Mackay finger that touched her. She squelched the vindictive feeling, somehow knowing if she voiced the hideous request, it would be immediately carried out.
Through the buttery leather trews, she felt a quiver of solid muscle beneath her fingertips. She could sense his reluctance to liberate his quarry, and the self-control it took to do her bidding.
With infinite slowness, he released the squirming Mackay.
The fluid grace of his movements was astonishing for someone his size. He turned and lifted her to her feet as though she weighed nothing.
After performing a cursory inspection which, despite its brevity, left her feeling naked and vulnerable, he met her gaze.
She whispered, “Your eyes, milord.” The pupils swallowed the irises completely and the ebony bled into the whites of his eyes, creating a cold and eerie contrast. Disbelief snaked through her.
Impossible!
She watched dumbly, her blood roaring in her ears, as he stooped to retrieve her tray. He straightened and held it out to her. Irises the color of Irish moss glimmered at her.
Had she imagined the change? Evelyn always prided herself on being of a practical nature, not prone to fanciful imaginings even through the acceptance of her own anomaly.
He took her limp hand in his enormous one and with gentle care, wrapped her fingers around the tray. Once she had steady hold of it, he released her and cut a pathway back to his seat, leaving Evelyn feeling oddly bereft.
“Thank you,” she whispered, unable to speak until he was out of earshot.
A pause in his step caused her to wonder if he had, in fact, heard her.
Hastily she mumbled “Pardon me,” to the assembly at large before cutting a retreat to the kitchens.
“Well if that don’t tickle me stones.” Moorland roared with laughter, “Ye’ve a Berserker champion, and ye doona even know what that means!”
She refused to ask and give Moorland the satisfaction of berating her ignorance. Instead, she lifted her chin, grabbed a fresh rag to clean the tables, and headed about her duties, her heart lighter than it had been in months.
* * *
Lud, the day had been long. Evelyn tried to squeeze the tautness from her lower back for a stolen moment and warm the icy fingers of stiff pain that spread through fatigued muscles. The witching hour hastily drew to a close when she bent to pick up the final basket of clean bed and pallet linens for the morrow. She grunted. This particular load must weigh ten stone and the distance to the back door was a mile if it was one more step.
Evelyn felt the tiniest bit rejuvenated by the quick and cold scrubbing she’d just given herself from frigid water she’d pulled from the washhouse. She thanked the heavens to be clean and also for her small mattress of straw that awaited her on the attic floor. A shiver of yearning ran through her as she pulled her grey cloak tighter against the sudden chill.
The extremes of the Scottish climes never ceased to amaze her. Just this afternoon, excessive warmth had streamed through the meandering summer clouds. Tonight, however, a moist chill blew in from an approaching ocean storm.
Small price to pay, she supposed, for the safety of anonymity. Escaping as she had from the convent after the final disastrous “calling” she’d been set to by Bishop Grimstead, no corner of her home country felt safe.
She huddled beneath her cloak. Had the temperature dropped another ten degrees? Looking up from her basket, she squinted at the back door of the inn.
Black spots immediately danced before her eyes as the building began to blur in her vision. Frigid and foreign fingers grasped at her legs beneath her skirts, pinning her in place. After a moment of extreme disorientation, her vision cleared. She found herself staring through the trees at the front of the building; a completely different position than before.
What is happening? Her mind was suddenly interrupted by the thoughts of another in a frenzy of quick and foreign calculations.
The inn doors are thick and the ceilings high. Too high to jump. Clever innkeeper doesn’t want unwelcome visitors in the night.
The voice permeating Evelyn’s thoughts was arctic, sinister. And Male.
A dark chuckle choked her, filling her throat with malevolence and bitter envy. No matter, the soldiers camping in the fields tonight will be crushed on the morrow.
Cold hatred reached out toward the structure, emanating from this body she inhabited. If she’d been capable, Evelyn would have cried out with the chilling force of it.
Yes…He’s here, the triumphant voice hissed.
Whose thoughts were these?
As if lured by the evil stirring the air, the traitorous McKay and his clan ambled on unsteady legs in the direction of the front guest entrance. Evelyn was startled to feel amusement and recognition in this foreign conscious she somehow inhabited.
Angus, favored a splinted arm. “Once we find her, I’m going to enjoy plundering an English cunny as her countrymen have plundered our lands for centuries.” A drunken, riotous chorus of agreement sounded from his five or so kin. “Then, I’ll let ye all have a turn wi’ her.”
“We’ll ugly her up, after, so no one will stand to look at her face, the haughty witch!” Evelyn recognized him as the man who’d reasoned with Roderick in the tavern.
They’re after me! She panicked. Desperate to return to her body from… whatever was happening, she struggled with all her will.
Unfortunate little witch. The whispered laughter followed her as she somehow ripped from his presence and slammed back into her own being. Her eyes flew open to behold the rear of the inn again and the small kitchen door. Plucking up the basket from where she’d unwittingly dropped it, Evelyn scrambled for refuge as though demon hounds bit at her heels.