Chapter Two
“Make ‘Evy do it, Moorland, I’m no’ goin’ near the man!” Abby McFayden made a rude gesture to the innkeeper, and then crossed herself against evil.
Evelyn bristled at Abby’s insolence, knowing that Moorland’s acquiescence followed. If she’d never stumbled upon them in the kitchen that day, her life would be much easier now. Evelyn suppressed a shudder at the vision of Abby’s legs braced against the counter of the island and Moorland’s pants around his ankles.
“There ye are!” Abby’s dirty hazel eyes glittered with malevolence. “Be a dear, and take this to the black knight in the corner, would ye?” She yanked away Evelyn’s empty tray and shoved a large bowl of stew into her hands.
Moorland jerked a finger in her direction. “And doona be bothering him with yer senseless chatter. I’ve been told that the man is mute and I doona want you to be angering ‘im. You hear me girl?”
“Yes, sir.” She nodded and turned back to the din of the common room. Unable to keep her shoulders from sagging, she moved whisper-quiet, avoiding contact with the rowdy crowd.
The atmosphere felt as grim as the faces circling the wooden tables. Clan Donald outnumbered the Stewart’s strength of three thousand more than three fold. As they scowled and talked, men knocked back ale with single-minded determination as though fortifying themselves against the inevitable. Amidst such pessimism, Robert Stewart and his son, Alexander, did their best to recruit whom they could to hold Ross land that spread from Skye all the way to Inverness.
Creeping along the back wall, Evelyn made her way towards the large leather chair in which he sat. Quelling the shiver of apprehension that coursed down her spine, she squinted at him through the dimness. Perhaps, if she looked hard enough, the intangible element of unnatural darkness that seemed to emanate from him would reveal its secrets.
She instinctively knew the moment he noticed her. He became more still, if possible. His muscles rigid with a tension that instantly vibrated in the air between them. Feeling like a rabbit exposed to a hungry predator, Evelyn froze as unfamiliar awareness washed over her. It pinned her where she stood, and stunned her with its intensity.
Vibrant green eyes momentarily glowed with an unnatural light as they regarded her from the shadows.
She swallowed and quickly averted her gaze. ‘Tis only a trick of firelight’, she told herself.
Attempting a casual approach, she couldn’t bring herself to lift her eyes above the table before him. “I’ve brought you supper, milord, if you’re inclined to dine,” she told his knees.
Silence.
She tightened her grip on the bowl to still the tremor that threatened to slosh its contents into his lap.
“I—its Moorland’s specialty of mutton and potato stew.” Why couldn’t her eyes seem to find a place to rest? Table. Large hands. Sword. Thighs the size of boulders. Fireplace! Stew. Yes, the stew.
“It’s quite good, and… important for building your strength for the morrow.” She winced, cursing her need to fill the deafening silence. Heaven help her if Moorland was watching.
Evelyn couldn’t stop a startled glance as his upper torso and face slowly emerged from the shadow of the wall.
He was terrifying.
He was beautiful.
The loose-fitting black tunic did nothing to diminish his shoulders, which were easily twice as broad as hers. Evelyn wondered if his skin struggled to contain the sheer mass of him.
Long ebony hair spilled to the middle of his chest, the forward locks pulled away from his face and secured at the back of his head.
The glittering green eyes held her captive from features so powerfully masculine it almost hurt to look at him. A broad forehead and thick, even brows offset a roman nose. The skin of his face and hands tanned to a gleaming bronze, his stark jaw made darker by the threatening shadow of a beard.
Don’t be a fool, she admonished herself, unable to swallow around a dry tongue. Nothing about him is blue. You should be safe.
Evelyn’s eyes dropped to his mouth out of habit, waiting for his response in the loud din of the room.
In all of her life she’d never seen such perfection, such sensual beauty on the face of a man. Tan and lush, his lips twitched with the slight movement of his jaw.
He gently took the bowl from her hand instead; startling her so much that the stew would have sloshed all over him had he not a firm grip.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, horrified. How could she have so quickly forgotten the innkeeper’s warning? Of course he wouldn’t reply.
One ebony brow lifted.
Dangerous. This man was dangerous. He had killed many and would do so again before his death on the morrow.
Those compelling green eyes held her prisoner.
“Would you like me to bring you some ale?” she asked, desperate to shake the yawning darkness that unexpectedly accompanied the idea of his inevitable demise. The least she could do was offer the man a drink. “’Tis a lovely summer brew, light and malty and it goes well with the stew. Uh, I don’t drink it much, only because I’m not allowed without it being taken from my pay, oh, and because I can’t be inebriated while I serve, besides. But, I snuck a tip from the cask once, and I thought it quite refreshing.” She flinched and bit her tongue to halt any further inane speech from leaving her fool mouth. He must think her dull witted and awkward indeed, which apparently, wasn’t a stone’s throw from the truth.
His jaw dipped in a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Right then.” Flashing him a nervous smile, she adjusted her itchy cap and escaped back to the kitchen.
If only she could catch her breath! All but throwing her tray to the counter, she rushed to the pantry, flinging herself against the door, heedless of the darkness. Bending at the waist, she clutched at her apron and panted as though she’d run a league.
What was happening to her? It had ceased to be this difficult so long ago. Not since London had she so battled with her conscience. Instead, she’d struggled to accept what knowledge she had, to do what she must to survive. Nothing should be asked of her beyond that. She didn’t choose this curse, this sight; it’d beset her at birth. And, unfortunately for the wicked and beautiful Berserker, she’d never been able to alter the fate of another, no matter how urgently she desired it.