Chapter 3 #2
I hadn’t been carried thus since I was a little girl and my father tucked me into bed, and the instinct to nuzzle trustingly against a strong male chest wasn’t completely gone.
However, before I could do more than inhale, I was being placed gently on a comfortable bed, and I decided the escape plans could wait.
The terror of the day and night must have been overwhelming, because I slept until the sun was low in the sky. I awoke to the sounds of revelry and found myself alone. Curious, I slipped out of the cottage.
The center of the village was clearly the small island on the loch, accessible via the long wooden walkways, and now it seemed as if everyone was gathered there around a huge bonfire.
It would be the right time to turn and sneak into the night…so why did my steps take me across the walkway? I was curious about these strange beasts, aye, and I knew I was on an island in another world.
I needed information if I was to escape.
Which is how I found myself on the outskirts of the celebration. Music came from drums and flutes, huge males danced with human and orcish females, and voices were raised in song, laughter, and praise.
And suddenly, my stomach clenched and my knees weakened in a burst of longing so intense I could taste it.
There’d been nights like this in my childhood, before my father’s rebellion and loss. For years I’d wandered, searching for a place to call home. I thought I’d found it at the mining village, but seeing the unabashed joy on these faces, I realized I’d never experienced this kind of community there.
Mayhap this kind of community existed nowhere else?
“There she is!” boomed a loud voice, and I flinched when the Stormseeker’s scarred lieutenant, whose name I’d learned was Maardok, pointed at me. His other hand balanced a huge horn sloshing with some liquid, and he stood beside a spit roasting a large pig.
“There’s our wee wildcat!”
Oh God. I felt a hundred sets of eyes turn my way and resisted the urge to scuttle backwards.
It would have done me no good, though, because Maardok fought his way through the crowd and threw his arm around me, pulling me into the fire’s light.
“This is Rowena!”
The huge man lifted the horn in salute to me as he spun me about for everyone to see.
“Our chief’s prize. Why is she our chief’s prize, ye might ask?”
His smile turned absolutely wicked as his audience began to call out jibes and suggestions.
“Because she’s the only human to bloody the Stormseeker of Battleborn!”
I braced myself for the blows, the jeers, the retaliation.
Instead, the clan erupted in laughter and cheers, and Maardok turned me about so I faced the Stormseeker who was seated upon a fur-covered log—a place of honor—with his legs braced and his hands on his knees.
Watching me.
I caught my breath, wondering if this was the moment I had been dreading. Determined to face my punishment with courage, I lifted my chin in challenge…and was completely unprepared for the way Maardok thrust a horn into my hand and shoved me toward his chief.
“Sit at my brother’s side, wildcat! Ye’ve earned the honor!”
I stumbled forward, and only when the Stormseeker raised his hand to catch me and guide me to the log beside him, did I understand. Maardok was the chief’s brother, and I was to be…honored?
For wounding him?
The Stormseeker said naught but continued to watch the festivities. I took a sip from the horn to cover my confusion.
Unfortunately, that sip wasn’t water. ‘Twasn’t even ale.
I began to cough, and the male at my side turned just slightly to glance down at me, his dark eyes sparkling in the firelight.
“Uisge beatha. The water of life. We’ll get some meat into yer stomach to soak it up, and then ye can enjoy yerself, aye?”
Enjoy myself?
Did he expect me to enjoy myself here at this revel?
Well? Why not? He and his men are enjoying themselves.
Which gave me an idea.
Thoughtfully, I took a much smaller sip of the strong spirit and planned.
As the night wore on, I pretended to drink, pretended to grow more and more tired. By allowing my captors to think me lulled, I would fool them. I watched and waited for my opportunity—opportunity for what, I didn’t know, but I hoped I would recognize it.
‘Twas difficult not to be infected by the joy around me. I found myself grinning at the enthusiastic celebration and tapping my foot in time to the music a few times. This was so different than the somber religious ceremonies in the mining village where I’d spent the last two years as an observer.
When the feast was finally declared ready, the Stormseeker received the first trencher, loaded high with roasted meat, thick bread, and wedges of stolen cheese.
The clan shouted jibes at Issa—who was apparently the reason for the theft of the cheese—and her human Mate, since she moaned loudly as she ate.
Even I found myself smiling at the teasing.
Then the Stormseeker turned to me and offered me a piece of the meat from his trencher.
Casually, as if feeding me was a responsibility he didn’t even think about.
I didn’t want to point out how unusual ‘twas for a chief of a village to be performing tasks for anyone, so I took it carefully, making certain not to accidentally brush my fingers against his.
We continued this way—him offering me the choicest cuts and plumpest fruits—until I was stuffed…and I hid my confusion.
I’d hurt him. I’d bloodied him. I was his enemy…and he fed me like an honored guest?
In my world, our chiefs—men like my father—were powerful men who surrounded themselves with strength and wealth and steel. Here, the Stormseeker grinned softly at his people as if he were…a sort of benevolent father, watching his children’s joy as he casually fed me.
I didn’t like being confused.
But I continued my ruse, pretending to drink often from the strong spirit they called ish-ka, acting more and more drunk, until Maardok lifted his horn.
“To bed!”
His own drink sloshed as he gestured, a wench under each of his arms, a broad smile on his face.
“Vrogul, take yer enemy to bed, afore she falls asleep in the fire!”
I pretended not to hear the crude suggestions being called out and instead slumped further. It would have helped my ruse if I’d been willing to brace myself against the broad shoulder beside me, but I didn’t.
Was it because I didn’t want to touch him, or because I felt guilty for the bandage he wore?
With a hum I think mayhap only I heard, the Stormseeker stood and reached for me. He didn’t lift me, not the way he had done in his sister’s cottage, but he wrapped his good arm around my waist and tucked me against his side.
His size should be intimidating. Why was it not?
The hard planes of his body seemed to bracket me, and a confusing sense of safety swept through me.
He was my enemy. I had to remember that.
My ribcage pressed against his belt and it took me a moment to realize that was the hilt of a knife poking me.
My knife, if I wasn’t mistaken. Emboldened, I kept up my drunken act, stumbling against him and sliding my hand up to ‘support’ myself.
While he turned us away from the fire, I carefully slid the blade from his belt and secreted it against my arm.
He led me gently through the crowd, occasionally returning a greeting or embrace, and ignoring the jibes. I couldn’t ignore the jibes, wondering if he really was taking me to bed, wondering if I was strong enough to do what needed to be done.
The cottage he took me to was on the small island—a chief’s privilege, I supposed—and as cozy as his sister’s.
Since I kept my head ducked to keep up the pretense of being intoxicated, with my arms against my stomach to hide the knife, I didn’t see much of it.
But the linens on the bed were fresh and there was a nice breeze through the windows which faced the loch.
Without a word, the Stormseeker led me to the bed, then knelt at my feet.
Instinctively, I tried to knee him in the head.
Mayhap, from his small huff of laughter, he knew ‘twas unplanned, as he blocked the blow.
But instead of hurting me, he removed my boots, then lifted my feet and swung them onto the bed. I didn’t have to pretend confusion.
Straightening, he watched me for a moment, and I wondered if he could see the sliver of my irises from between my lashes. Wondered if he guessed the knife I had secreted against my side, wondered if he knew I wasn’t as drunk as I was pretending to be.
“Go to sleep, little wildcat,” he finally sighed, turning away. “Ye’re safe here.”
Safe?
Safe?
I was in my enemy’s world—his village—his bed.
I wasn’t safe here.
I could never be safe here.
The reminder strengthened my resolve. I kept my eyes closed, kept my breathing even, kept my blade hidden, as I listened to him putter about the room, banking the fire and pulling off his boots. The mattress dipped as he joined me on the bed.
He’d said I was safe, but still he planned on tupping me? I braced myself for his foul touch.
Interestingly, in that moment, I remembered the feel of his lips against mine on the beach. I’d stabbed him, and he’d kissed me. Was that an orcish tradition? In my world, a man kissed a woman he wanted to tup in order to soften her up.
I pressed my father’s blade against the inside of my forearm and vowed he’d not find me an easy enemy to rape.
With a grunt, the Stormseeker rolled over, reaching for me. Before I could react, his arm was around my waist, and he was pulling me toward him, clearly planning on sleeping like that.
Nay! I needed to act now!
With a wordless cry, I rolled. Not away from him, but toward. I flicked the knife away from my skin as I straddled him, and before he could react, I leaned forward, the edge of the blade pressed against the vein in his throat.
We froze, neither breathing.
His hands were on my waist, spanning my flanks. I knew I had the leverage and weapon, but he could so easily break me, even in this position.