Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Isadora
In all my life, I have never woken so warm and safe.
Until I came to Bloodfire Village, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d slept in an actual bed. Those first few nights, I struggled to get used to the soft mattress, and now each morning felt like a blissful slow awakening.
The birds chirping outside, the soft light through the shutters, the cloud of blankets and pillows…
Aye, I was in love with Torvolk’s bed.
But this morning?
This morning I woke sprawled atop Torvolk, my cheek pressed to his chest, his hand resting on the small of my back, and I knew the meaning of the word perfection .
For about five seconds, before I realized I was drooling all over the poor male.
I shot upright with a gasp, only to find him already awake, staring at me.
“Good morning,” he rumbled.
I swiped fingers across my chin, praying he hadn’t noticed the giant wet spot on his chest, and turned away to hide my embarrassment.
“You should have woken me. I will make porridge to break your fast.”
His hand closed around my wrist, stopping my attempts to roll out of bed.
“Are ye hungry, lass?”
Flustered, I tucked my newly trimmed hair behind my ear. “Nay, I am rarely hungry in the morning.” I was used to waiting until nearly noon to eat.
He shrugged. “Then there’s nae need to cook. I’m no’ hungry yet either, and when I am, I’ll cook myself some porridge.” His lips twitched. “Mayhap I’ll feed ye for a change.”
“Och nay, Torvolk, you have given me so much?—”
When his brow twitched, I realized what I’d said, and my cheeks heated.
Thinking of yesterday.
Remembering the way he’d held my chin so gently as he fixed my mess of hair.
Remembering how he’d cut his own plaid so I’d have more colorful kerchiefs.
Remembering how he’d let me blather on and had asked me to teach him to make soap.
Remembering the way he’d held me down on the bed and made me come all over his tongue and face.
Oh dear, here came my blush again.
“What are yer plans for the day, lass?”
I felt as if his question was a peace offering, allowing the memories of what passed between us yesterday to fade. He hadn’t released my wrist, and I didn’t want him too. Averting my gaze, I stared at the blankets when I answered.
“I thought I would make another small batch of soap. ‘Twill not cure in time for gifts at the Midwinter Feast, but I have already had many requests.”
“And when will ye do that?”
I peeked at him. “This afternoon?”
His nod was gruff, just like he was. “Fine then. I’ll do some chores around the place this morning and join ye then. What have ye noticed needs doing around this place?”
He was asking me ?
Well, why not? You have lived here the last fortnight, have you not ? Surely you have done more than drool on his bed?
My lips pressed together as I thought of what needed to be done.
“The thatch on the backside of the roof will need replacing this summer, but for now there are only a few places that need patching. The firewood pile needs restocking.” My mind raced. “There is a loose flagstone in the garden. One of the table legs is cracked.”
He made a little huff that might have been a laugh coming from another male. He squeezed my wrist once then rolled from the bed.
‘Twas… strange to go about my morning with him in the same space. I kept sneaking glances at him. Now that I’d been in the village for a fortnight, I was used to the way orc males moved, and how much space they took up.
But I confess myself utterly fascinated by the way Torvolk cleaned his teeth, and how he dressed himself in the strange kilt. A few times I found myself outright staring, and I had to shake my head and return to my own chores.
This morning I was to meet with Maybal, Amma, and Avaleen to do our washing out of doors. Luckily, the sun chose today to shine, which was a boon. Unluckily, I couldn’t seem to focus on my scrubbing, because we chose a spot within sight of Nan’s garden.
And, in the garden, Torvolk was chopping wood.
“Isadora!” I turned at the sound of my name in time to be smacked in the face by a wet chemise, tossed at me by Avaleen, who was giggling madly. “Do you want me to take over for you?” she asked teasingly. “So you can properly ogle?”
If aught, she should be the one sitting out the washing, and I vowed to do enough of hers so that my new friend could rest.
“I am not ogling.”
“Please,” snorted Amma, an orc woman a few years older than me who was not yet Mated. “Torvolk is a fine choice to ogle. The way he holds that ax?”
All of us turned, and I felt a hot ball of something in my chest. Was this…jealousy?
“Is he a fine choice?” I managed airily. “All those muscles bunching and relaxing. The way he fills out his shirt and kilt.” I swallowed in an effort to wet my suddenly dry mouth.
“I had not noticed.”
I shrugged, tilting my head to hide my grin as the others gaped at me.
This time ‘twas Maybal, a Mated orc lass younger than me who wore her sleeping kitling strapped to her back, who laughed gaily.
“There is nae shame in ogling, Isadora. No’ when a male is as lovely as Torvolk. Just dinnae tell my Gartaag I was noticing .”
The others chuckled, but my hackles rose despite my attempt to tamp down my jealousy.
“Have you all noticed him?”
It does not matter if they have, or if he has noticed them in return. He is not yours.
But…I suspected I was his , whether he wanted me or not. I became his the moment he stood up in that tavern and called out an outrageous price for me. The moment he took my hand in his and I knew I would be safe.
The moment I woke up warm and comfortable in his arms and discovered he’d been awake but hadn’t moved in order to keep from waking me.
The moment he rubbed lotion into my calluses and told me I was worth more than just my labor.
Swoon.
The other females teased and chuckled, but Amma placed her hand on my arm.
“Och, dinnae fash, lass.” When I glanced at her mulishly, ‘twas to see understanding in her eyes. “Torvolk is yers, we all ken it.”
Mine ? I reared back, not sure how to explain.
“Nay, nay. He is just…I was staying in his home while he was gone. I mean, he did buy me, but he insists orcs keep no slaves, and that I do not belong to him.”
“Oh, ye belong to him.” She patted my arm with a knowing smile. “We are all wagering how long ‘twill take for him to realize it.”
So ‘twas in a thoughtful frame of mind that I hung the linens and plaids out to dry. Yesterday Torvolk had washed a blanket and it had taken all night inside to dry. Hopefully the sun would do its work faster today.
Mine .
He’d called me that the first night. He’d claimed me as his then. What did the women mean? What did they see?
I returned to the cottage to find porridge bubbling over the fire and a crock of honey on the table. Torvolk had made a meal for me after all.
Swoon – again.
Just as I finished eating, the door swung open and he stomped through, carrying a heavy load of firewood. He dropped it beside the hearth and went down on one knee to arrange it, glancing up at me.
He didn’t smile, but something like pleasure lit his eyes.
“Ye’re eating. Good. ‘Twas acceptable?”
“More than acceptable. Do you want me to serve you?—”
“I ate earlier.” He finished stacking the logs then slapped his hands together to clean them of dust. “Will ye be making soap soon? I need to bring in a few more loads and stack the rest around back.”
He really did want to join me in my craft?
“I can wait for you,” I offered, my emotions a-whir at the heady sensation of his interest in what I did. “I will set up the preparations but wait until you have the time.”
He was already heading toward the door. “I’ll be back soon.”
I’d asked him that yesterday, because I was so worried he would run off again. You will return, aye? It had made me sound needy and whining, but I hadn’t been able to stop myself. The thought of him not returning…
I swallowed.
He is not yours to covet .
Still, by the time Torvolk returned, face and hands still wet from where he’d washed, I was near giddy with excitement. I’d never had someone interested in soap-making afore, and I didn’t care if he spent the whole time scowling and grunting at me, I was going to enjoy this.
“What do we do first?”
We? I suppose he was going to participate, and I couldn’t be happier.
I forced myself to keep calm as I explained the tools and ingredients and the steps and cautions.
“The ash slurry is caustic,” I warned. “We will be diluting it with the oils, so the final product will be gentler than the soap we use for laundering. But for now, be careful not to get it on your skin.”
Frowning down at the ingredients on the table, he tapped the bowl which contained the slurry. “Mayhap ye should let me do the mixing then. My skin is tougher. Why is it hot?”
I loved that he cared. “The ash and the water create heat as they meld. This is why I mixed them earlier, but the slurry should be cool enough to work with now. If I were making a large batch for laundering, we would be doing this out-of-doors, with kerchiefs over our noses and mouths.”
He wrinkled his nose. “No’ me. ‘Twould look silly.”
“Aye,” I agreed with a giggle, “but worth it not to inhale the caustic fumes. Since this is a small batch, we can do it here, with the fire to keep things liquid. Now, our first step…”
When I pointed to the small dram of whisky, he scooped it up. “If we’re drunk, we cannae smell the fumes?” he guessed.
I had to chuckle. He was cute when he tried to joke. “Nay, ‘tis for scent. This scent is very popular. Pour it into the slurry and mix well, but be careful not to splash.”
“Ye’re making whisky-scented soap?”
I scooped up the crock which he’d placed on the table to flavor the porridge. “Whisky and honey. While you mix the whisky into the slurry, I will mix the honey into the oils…”
He watched me for a moment, then followed my lead.
Despite my warning, he insisted on sniffing the slurry to see if he could still smell the whisky, then had to go outside to hack and cough as I fetched him some cool water to clear his throat. After that, he was more subdued when we mixed the slurry into the oils.
“Now we stir,” I told him, handing over a wooden spoon. “This is the deepest bowl I could find, so you can be vigorous without worry about splashing, but we will need to stir for a while for the magic to happen.”
“Magic?” he demanded, and as he stirred, I did my best to explain the strange reaction which turned water and oils and ash into sweet-smelling soaps.
After a while, I realized the benefits of having an orc as a soap-making partner. It seemed as if he didn’t tire. His strong arms continued to stir and stir long past the point where I would have to take a break.
“Look!” I pointed out. “See how the soap is opaque now and seems thicker? ‘Tis happening.”
“Thank the gods,” he muttered. “So I can stop?”
Well, mayhap he wasn’t entirely tireless. “I can take over.”
“Nay,” he grunted. “I’ll no’ have ye risk yer skin with a burn.”
I wanted to tell him I’d been doing this for years, but then I remembered the way he’d rubbed goat butter lotion into my calluses and told me not to work so hard, and something clenched in my stomach.
Torvolk was protecting me.
I turned away, uncertain what my face would show with that realization.
“I will get the tray.”
He was the one to pour the soap into the tray, but I smoothed it carefully.
“After a few days, we can cut this into bars or chunks. ‘Twill need to cure for a while, to account for the whisky and honey, but in a pair of fortnights we can give it away to friends.”
Torvolk was silent, and when I glanced at him, he was frowning.
“What?” I asked. “Would you rather sell it?”
“I will no’ be here in a pair of fortnights.”
Oh.
Oh .
He was leaving.
“Why?” I whispered, panic clawing its way up my throat. Was I about to lose him? “Where are you going?”
“I…” He set the bowl on the table and stepped to me. “I have to return to yer world. I’m searching for someone.”
“For the chief.” My voice choked. “The clan has been speaking of him.”
His hand rose to cup my cheek. “Aye, lass. I’m the Bloodfire Ranger. ‘Tis my responsibility to find him.”
There were tears pricking at his eyes.
“And when you do?”
And when you do? Will you return home ?
The words hung between us, unspoken. His thumb caressed my cheek.
“I am a Ranger.”
The words were simple, but I heard their true meaning.
I will not stay with you.
With a choked sob, I surged upward, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling his lips down to mine. His tongue met mine this time, teasing me the way I’d taught him.
This is how ye kiss .
I remembered his teasing words from yesterday as he’d tongued my clitoris. While the band around my chest didn’t loosen, heat pooled in my core.
With a groan of surrender, Torvolk wrapped his arms around my back and lifted me closer. His hardness throbbed against my center and I rocked my hips forward to cradle him as we kissed.
For someone who hadn’t tried the whole kissing thing afore, Torvolk was a fast learner.
His hands held my arse, my feet dangling, as I clutched at him desperately. I squeezed my thighs together to capture the sensation of friction as my core flooded with desire, and he groaned again.
Aye !
I needed him. I wanted him yesterday, I would want him tomorrow, but now? Now I needed him.
“Please,” I whispered frantically against his lips. “Please, Torvolk.”
He wrenched away with a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead to mine. “Lass…”
“Aye, your good lass.” I wriggled my hips again, trying to capture his cock against my pulsing heat. “Please, Torvolk, let me be your good lass again.”
With a groan, he set me away from him, and I actually swayed, surprise and confusion overtaking gravity for a moment.
“Ye are worth more than a fooking, lass.”
I fumbled for the back of the chair, using it to hold me upright. My mouth opened, but I didn’t know what to say in response to that claim.
He turned away, and I saw his throat work as he swallowed.
“Ye are no’ obligated to me, lass. Ye have a place here. Ye can have this cottage—‘tis ye who made it a home, after all. Ye deserve…” His voice caught. “I am no’ yer master.”
“I…” I took a deep breath, trying to pretend my chest wasn’t aching. “I do not need a master, Torvolk. Just you.”
“I cannae.” His words sounded defeated. As he scrubbed a hand down his face, I saw the way his cock jutted outward, tenting his kilt. “I cannae.”
“Why?” By all that was holy, I sounded like a whiney child, but I couldn’t help it. I tightened my hold on the chair, forcing myself to breathe deeply.
The look he sent me over his shoulder was tortured; there was no other word for it. His eyes were almost completely green now, something I’d only seen from a few other males in the village, and only occasionally.
His hand was pressed against his chest, his claws dimpling his skin, as if he were trying to dig at his heart, and his breathing quickened.
“I cannae,” he repeated. “I am… Nay ,” he growled, stalking toward the door, not making any sense.
As he swung his cloak around his shoulders, I repeated yesterday’s question.
“You will return, aye?”
He paused, his hand on the door. I saw his knuckles lighten as he squeezed. I saw him take a shuddering breath.
Then he growled, “Aye, may the gods forgive me. Aye.”
And he was gone.