Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Torvolk
My first night back in the village, the snow hit. I spent it in Vartok’s cottage, knowing Isadora was warm and cozy in mine, being looked after by Nan.
Vartok is our chief’s younger brother, the one left in command when Kragorn set off on that ill-fated raid, and I considered him a friend as well as cousin. He welcomed me with a hot meal and all the news.
I confess I was distracted during the recitation.
The second night, with the storm still raging, I went to the tavern with Mkaalad and drank too much and ended up passed out on one of the benches.
Turns out my twin could still outdrink me, but at least I didnae have to listen to him teasing me about the female I’d brought back.
The third night, when the snow ended, Vartok gave me a mission in the south, offering information to the Battleborn clan in exchange for anything they knew about our missing chief or our feud with the Bladesedge chief’s new allies. He ordered me to return by the Midwinter Feast, which was a few days afore the next full moon.
I was grateful for the order to be away for so long.
As I rode away from Bloodfire village, I confess I found myself studying the faces of the small females I passed. ‘Twasn’t until I was well away from the village that I realized I was looking for Isadora.
Which was fooking ironic, considering I’d clearly been doing my best to avoid her.
Bah.
She was Nan’s problem now, not mine. I’d gotten her safely to the village, safely to other females who could care for her and keep her safe. I didn’t need to be a part of her life any longer.
So why, by Palton’s Spear, did that make me so damnably itchy ? Beneath my fur cloak, my shoulders hunched as I rode, and I had to resist the urge to scratch my chest, because more than once I caught my claws trying to dig into the skin there, as if I could scrape out whatever ‘twas that was making me feel this hot.
Heat, aye, that was it.
I was hot and itchy and anxious and angry . So fooking angry, and I knew ‘twas because I wasn’t getting answers about Kragorn’s location, and I was stuck here until the next full moon. Aye, that’s why I was angry.
And I stayed angry for the next fortnight, the time it took me to travel south, receive approximately zero answers, and return home.
Home? Nay, the village wasn’t home, was it?
I rode toward Bloodfire Village a few days before the new moon, the normally bright orb a mere sliver in the sky, a full fortnight early. The Midwinter Feast was almost a fortnight away, which meant I had even longer before the next full moon; the next time I could return to the human’s world to look for clues and spread more gold.
I should be focused on that , not wondering how Isadora had fared this last fortnight, if her ankle had healed.
I should be focused on Kragorn, and the debt of friendship I owed him. He needed me!
What had happened to our chief in the last days? Where was he? Why hadn’t we heard word?
If only I had answers, or any sort of information to report! Instead, I was returning to the village in defeat. Cold, angry, and still jumpy as all the hells.
I hated it.
I hated feeling this way.
For the last fortnight, as I wandered through our world, avoiding the clans we were feuding with, making contact with the rangers and chiefs of our allies…my mind wasn’t centered. ‘Twasn’t centered in a way it had never been uncentered before.
And ‘twas because of Isadora.
I would be crouched in a grove, silent, still, watching a hunting party in the valley below…and find myself wondering if Isadora liked the scent of pine.
I followed the chief of the Battleborn clan into his home and saw the way his Mate smiled at him, saw the way his children cheered in excitement…and wondered if Isadora might ever respond that way to her Mate.
I took down one of the mighty bkarn with my bow and gifted most of it to an isolated crofter who gave me lodging for the night…and wondered if I could somehow preserve the heart to bring back for Isadora to taste.
And each and every time she crossed my mind, I cursed myself for a fool.
She was no one—merely a human who’d needed help. She wasn’t obligated to me, and I had no reason to stay awake at night thinking of her.
For certes, I did not have any right to take myself in hand and stroke my cock, imagining what ‘twould feel like to have her pressed against me. Imagine what ‘twould be like to bury my face in her cunny and taste her arousal, to lick her until she came on my lips. To settle her atop me so I could touch every part of that delicious body, those heavy tits, as she rode me to oblivion.
Nay, I had not the right.
I did it anyhow.
By the time I rode back through Bloodfire Village, I was in a foul mood, and, judging from the way the clan members shied away from me, ‘twas obvious I wasnae able to hide it.
I found a few of the males on the sparring ground and swung down from my horse. I would walk it over to the stables when I was done with my reports, and then I would…fook, I dinnae ken what I would do. Take a cold bath in the icy loch, mayhap.
Growling at my own stupidity, I scrubbed my hand over my face.
“Ho! Torvolk!”
I dropped my hand to see a pair of warriors striding toward me. My twin brother carried his huge sword at his side, and cousin Vartok was sliding his blade back into its scabbard. They were sweaty and breathing hard, and I realized I was envious.
Mayhap if I could work my body to such exhaustion, I might silence this unsettled anger in my chest.
“Any news?” Vartok asked eagerly as the two of them stopped near the stacked bales of hay we occasionally used as padding when we sparred. I shook my head with a scowl.
“Naught useful. If Kragorn isnae dead, he’s being hidden, and nae one in the Highlands has heard aught of it.”
“Ransom,” mused Mkaalad as he rested the haft of his ax on the ground and folded his arms atop the butt. “If he fell in the last battle with the Bladesedge, they might be holding him?”
I shook my head. “Could the entire clan keep such a secret? I’ve heard naught.”
“And why no’ make their demands?” Vartok’s expression turned bleak, and he shifted his gaze toward the village. “If they had him, they would have sent word, if only to gloat.”
“Fook,” I muttered, knowing he was right. “The human world then?”
“Aye, the humans.” Vartok dragged a hand through his hair. “We need him back.”
My brother scoffed and nudged his elbow into Vartok’s side hard enough to send the younger man stumbling.
“Ye do a fine enough job as chief. So eager to hand the responsibility back to yer brother?”
“I would gladly cut off my left hand to have Kragorn back and all this”—my cousin waved said hand to encompass the village, the fields, the loch, and all the inhabitants—”be his problem again. I’m no’ meant to be aught more than a blacksmith.”
“Yer left hand?” I asked, raising a brow.
Mkaalad snorted. “He didnae say his right hand, did he? He’s no’ that desperate.”
I nodded solemnly. “When he starts offering to cut off the more important bits, ye ken he’s serious.”
“More important than his right hand?” my brother mused. “Like his right ballock?”
“’Tis his favorite ballock,” I deadpanned.
My twin’s sharp bark of laughter surprised me, as did the way his hand fell heavily against my shoulder.
“Torvolk making a joke? Mayhap the loch will dry up and the sun shrivel next! I always said there were swarms of bees with better dispositions than ye, brother.”
“There are,” I scowled. Granted, ‘twas easy to scowl with the arsehole shaking me the way he was. “And I could offer to cut off yer right ballock for ye.”
“Avaleen would never forgive ye,” announced Mkaalad cheerfully. “But ‘tis irrelevant, because Vartok isnae suggesting he’d trade his ballocks for the chance to give his brother back all this responsibility, is he?”
“I might be,” Vartok muttered.
My brother nodded to me conspiratorially. “He’s been bitching and moaning since ye’ve been gone. The new female’s been giving him shite.”
New female ?
“Isadora?” I snapped, hackles and instincts rising. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”
Mkaalad flicked his fingers teasingly. “Nay, no’ that one. The other one. Myra.”
I gaped. “Ye forgot yer sister-in-law’s name?”
“Ye’re being a fool,” my cousin muttered. “I cannae understand why she’s no’ yer problem. She lives in yer home, aye?”
“I wish she didnae. Ye ken how difficult ‘tis to do aught more than cuddle with yer Mate when her sister is sleeping right on the other side of the screen?”
Vartok dragged his hand through his hair again. “Nay, I dinnae, and I have nae interest in kenning. Move her elsewhere. Nan likes her.”
“Avaleen wants her close by in case she goes into labor,” my brother confessed, “and I’m no’ about to do aught that’ll cross her when she’s so round with my son.”
Fook .
‘Twasn’t until the pain flash through my brain that I realized I was pressing my claws against my chest again, digging, digging, digging at the source of this horrible, unsettling unease. Was it jealousy? Anger? This heat that wouldn’t leave me be… All I knew was I couldn’t stand to listen to Mkaalad’s blather about his Mated bliss any longer.
“Torvolk.”
My name, spoken in quiet defeat from my chief’s brother, my younger cousin, cut through the buzz in my veins. I jerked my gaze up, dropping my claws away from my chest.
“Go,” he said quietly, nodding toward my cottage. “Yer Mate has been agitated, asking after ye each day. I’m sorry for keeping ye apart.”
I reared back as if he’d struck me. “She is no’ my Mate. She was being sold as a slave and I used clan gold to buy her. If aught, she’s yers .”
Mkaalad snorted again. “He can only handle one female giving him shite at a time.”
Vartok was eyeing me now in concern. “She’s no’ the clan’s, she’s yers . Nan gave her yer home, and she’s asked after ye each day ye’ve been gone.”
“Aye,” my brother cut in, “and have ye looked at yerself lately?”
My scowl deepened. ‘Twas the same thing the Keeper had asked me, but it made no sense.
“She’s no’ my Mate,” I growled. If I said it often enough, I would believe it. I couldn’t afford distractions.
And the way my Kteer was howling at the thought of claiming Isadora as my Mate? Pretty fooking distracting, if you ask me.
“Go,” Vartok snapped, pointing toward my home more emphatically. “Talk to her. Set her mind at rest. Let Nan ken ye’re alive. I’ll no’ send ye out until the next full moon anyhow. The Midwinter Feast is nearly upon us, and ye deserve to celebrate our survival as much as the next male.”
A fortnight. A fortnight here in the village. With her .
“I should go now,” I rumbled, desperate. “If I could find out where he’s being held, ‘twould be easier to cross through the stones and go directly there?—”
“Nay, I’ve given ye orders.” And I saw, in Vartok’s tired eyes, the strength his brother had seen when he’d left Vartok in command. “Rest. Ye deserve it.”
Foooooook .
Still scowling, I turned away, scrubbing my hand down my face. First, I would have to go to the stables?—
“I’ll take yer horse!” Mkaalad called out cheerfully, likely guessing I was stalling.
I made a rude gesture over my shoulder which had him laughing.
I didn’t want to face her. I didn’t want to have to look into her haunted eyes and bruised lips and remember the fact I fooked my hand while thinking of her. She wasn’t mine to fantasize about like that.
Was she?
My stride was longer now, my kilt slapping against my thighs as I turned the corner. Ignoring the stares of my neighbors, I made my way toward my home, faster than I expected.
And then I was there, in front of the door. I told myself not to go in, to give her privacy, but my hand was on the latch. My heart was pounding in confusion and anger and need and fear…
I opened the door, and there she was.
Every damned part of me relaxed. The band around my chest eased and I stepped into the cottage like a moth drawn to a flame, helpless to resist, and knowing I hadn’t felt this peaceful in the last fortnight.
Isadora spun about from her task near the fire, a smile on her face. Gods below, that smile. It reached down into my chest, wrapped around my Kteer and squeezed, soothing the anger and the itch.
“Torvolk,” she breathed, her face lit with—joy? She grasped the skirts of her gown—a pretty blue one with billowy sleeves—and offered me a small curtsey, her gaze never leaving my face.
“Welcome home, Master.”
I hadn’t stopped at the door. I should have, but I didn’t. I just…went to her, as if ‘twas the most natural thing in two worlds.
And when I reached her, I wanted to pull her into my arms, to crush her against me. Instead, I took her chin between my thumb and forefinger and tipped her head back to meet my eyes.
“I’m no’ yer master, lass.”
Her cheeks pinked, a saucy grin twitching her lips, but she didn’t reply.
“Yer lips look better.” Torvar’s Hammer, what an understatement! I wanted to lick them, to claim them the way the human females like. “Ye are well?”
“I am,” she whispered, those blue eyes sparkling. “My ankle is healed and I have been hard at work.”
I took the time to glance about the cottage and saw what she meant.
There was a large screen separating the bed from the main room now—enough to grant privacy, but not enough to block the heat. Another screen hid what I have to assume was the pisspot and mayhap her hanging gowns.
Here in the main room there were feminine touches: curtains in front of the shuttered windows, a cloth on the table, dried herbs hanging near the door, and stacks of what looked like bars of soap piled atop the mantel. And throughout, the most magnificent scents of baked bread and cooking meat.
Almost as good as the scent of her .
“You do not mind the changes?” she asked, her voice low, cautious.
I realized I was still holding her chin. I dropped my hand and stepped back.
“Nay,” I managed gruffly. “Nay, I’m glad ye made the cottage yer home. Ye’re welcome to it.” I would stay with my cousin Vartok or in the unmarried males’ barracks or?—
“’Tis your home, Torvolk,” she said clearly, clasping her hands in front of her. “I have made it welcoming for you .”
I glanced at her sharply, or mayhap ‘twas just because I couldn’t not look her way.
“Why?”
She smiled. Gods below, she smiled. With her cheeks flushed from the fire and her hair bound back in that kerchief, she looked…fook me, she looked happy .
“Because I want you to feel good.” After dropping that mind-boggling bit of rhetoric on me, she spun back to the fire. “Now, are you hungry?”
“Aye, of course,” I grunted, because how could I not be hungry with those smells wafting through the house?
“The venison stew is not yet ready, but the bread is.” She used her skirt to protect her hand as she lifted a tray from the coals. “I will make you a quick snack if you will do me a favor?”
The shy glance she shot my way bypassed my chest and Kteer entirely and wrapped around my cock.
“Aye,” I rasped, already stepping closer. “Aught.”
She glided past, her skirt brushing my leg as she moved to the counter and set the bread down.
“Would you fill the tub?”
Her back was to me, but she used her chin to point to the cauldron of boiling water on the hearth. “I cannot lift it all at once, so ‘twould be easier if you do not mind.”
“Of course.”
For the first time I noticed the large barrel tub half-hidden behind the bed screen, and looked between it and the cauldron hanging from the crane hook. Isadora must have set the water to bubbling ages ago for it to be ready now, and I hated that she had to go through so much trouble to have a comforting soak. ‘Twould take many trips to fill the tub from the cauldron if she had to do it by the bucketful.
There were hot springs nearby, and I would take her there so she could enjoy a hot bath without all the work. I vowed that the next time she wanted a comforting soak, I would fetch her whatever she needed; ‘twas not right for someone as wee as her to work so hard.
Nodding to myself, I swung the heavy cauldron from the flames—I recognized the piece as Nan’s, and assumed Isadora had borrowed it for her bath—and lifted it with a grunt. Careful not to spill the boiling water, I crossed to pour it into the tub.
“Thank you,” she called out. “The cold-water buckets are by the door.”
So they were. I moved them closer to the tub, then checked the water. A little too hot, so I poured in water from one of the buckets and decided ‘twas perfect.
I straightened, ready to beckon her to her bath when she turned to me with a tray and a smile.
“Could you move the stool closer to the tub, please?”
Raising one brow, I did as she asked and was surprised when she crossed beside me to place the tray on the stool. She’d broken off a large piece of the bread, sliced some cheese and dried beef, and arranged it on a plate with some apple pieces. There was also a folded rag and a bar of soap atop it, along with a mug of something strong-smelling.
This was a lass who knew how to bathe, and I was impressed.
“Your brother told me your favorite brew,” she announced, straightening.
“What?”
“The whisky.” Isadora gestured to the mug. “’Tis your favorite, I have been told. I am sorry the meal is not prepared yet, but hopefully this luncheon will hold you over?”
Frowning, I glanced between the tray and her face. “The meal…is for me?”
“’Tis not much of a meal, Master.”
Unable to help myself, I reached for her chin and tipped her head back. “I told ye, I’m no’ yer master.”
Her eyes twinkled, and by all the gods below, I wanted to taste her. I wanted to claim her.
“I know,” she whispered, impishly, then pulled away. “Enjoy your bath, Torvolk.”
“Lass—” I called out, but she had pulled her cloak down from the peg by the door, and now the cold blast of midwinter air hit me as she slipped out.
Leaving me alone in my home.
In my home, which had never looked so appealing. The scents of fresh baked bread and strong whisky and a hearty stew filled each corner. Her gowns hung on the walls, and a few feminine touches were scattered about—hair pins on a shelf, a vase with dried rosemary on the mantel.
Isadora had done this.
She’d taken my empty cottage and turned it into a home.
I glanced down at myself, filthy from the last fortnight’s travels. A Ranger had no home, I reminded myself. This cottage should just be hers.
But she prepared a meal for ye. A meal and a bath and, gods below, ye could use a bath. And that whisky .
Aye, I could.
She’d done this…for me?
Slowly, I unclasped my cloak and then shrugged it off, hanging it beside the door on the same peg where hers had hung. Where had she gotten that cloak? One of the females of the village who had taken pity on her when they realized I couldn’t provide for her? Or—my Kteer growled at the thought—one of the males?
‘Tisnae yer responsibility to care for her .
I bent to remove my boots.
Aye, ‘twas not my responsibility. So why did the thought of someone else caring for her, providing for her, fill my chest with that same itchy anger?
I rested my battleax beside my cloak, then stripped out of my kilt and shirt until I stood naked in my cottage. I hissed when I stepped into the hot bath, but forced myself to sit, to acclimate to the waters.
And by Malla the Beginner, it felt good . The heat—wet and comforting instead of the hot sharpness I’d been used to these last weeks—wrapped itself around me, soothing aching muscles.
Blowing out a breath, I sank down, pulling my knees up and resting my head back. I reached for the whisky and held it against my tongue to enjoy the smooth burn.
Aye, I was right.
The lass knew how to take a bath.
And she’d made certain I did too.
She’d done this for me.