Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Lillian
This time, my night wasn’t spent staring up at the canopy, worrying about my plan. Indeed not. I’d slept little the night before, and put in a full day’s work, quite outside my trip to the dungeon. I was exhausted and fell quickly into a deep sleep.
And was, apparently immediately, beset with erotic dreams.
I might be a virgin, but I wasn’t innocent. My older sisters shared their stories—often with giggles and speculation—and a particularly naughty scroll Sorcha treasured called A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts. I’d been shocked by the illustrations.
Shocked, and…intrigued.
Today, when Kragorn’s tongue had flicked across my palm, I’d immediately thought of those illustrations, and the descriptions of what a male’s tongue might accomplish.
Of course, I’d never heard of such a thing from my mother or any of the married couples I’d known…
and I’d wondered if the males of my acquaintance worried about such things.
Indeed, ‘twas difficult to imagine a man like my father or Laird McDonald concerning himself with his partner’s pleasure.
Equal partners.
That’s what Kragorn had called Mating in his world, and I found myself praying that meant Sorcha, Roxanna, and our cousin Effie had found, not just happiness, but acceptance and—dare I hope?—caring partners.
So aye, those considerations, paired with the feel of Kragorn’s tusk beneath my fingers, his tongue across my skin…was it any wonder my dreams turned erotic?
I woke with my hand pressed against my mound, the heel of my palm grinding against the pearl of pleasure hidden in my curls, my fingers curled under to press against my opening. The linen of my nightrail was soaked with my desire, and I came awake as my orgasm crashed over me.
My moan was positively decadent, and before the tremors passed, I’d pushed myself up on my elbows, praying no one had snuck into my room to see such perversions.
Are they perversions? A Harlot’s Guide teaches that women are worth such pleasure. Orcs honor their Mates. Has Sorcha found pleasure in their world?
Groaning, I flopped back against the pillows, rolling over and vowing not to dream such things again.
It didn’t work.
I woke after dawn, feeling drained and sweaty and confused. When had I last slept so long? I scrambled to prepare myself, worrying that Father would be cross at my laziness.
Thank the Lord he did not seem to notice when I stopped by the Great Hall to find him already breaking his fast. One of the other servants must have taken over the duty of ensuring he was fed.
Other servants? Ye are a lady of the keep, are ye not?
Frowning, I pressed my arse and palms to the stone wall of the corridor, wondering why I’d heard that admonishment in Kragorn’s voice. Likely because I’d spent all night thinking of him.
Or because he was right?
Nay, he was a prisoner! A beast my father kept chained for a good reason. He’d killed violently, and I should not have spent so much time with him yesterday.
But my father wanted him healthy enough to display at Hogmanay, and I told myself I was merely doing my duty to my father. As I would be later today, when I visited Kragorn with more tea and healing herbs.
Right. Aye. Just doing my duty.
I hurried to the kitchens, prepared to do what I could to help in the running of Tarbert Keep. As I always had.
With the big celebration only a few days away, and Father inviting important allies, there was much to be done.
The cooking had already begun, and the kitchens smelled of cloves and spices and honey.
‘Twas my responsibility to see the Great Hall cleaned, and I tied my hair up in a kerchief before throwing myself into the work, hoping that laying new rushes would help distract me from thoughts of the beast in the dungeon.
My foot and leg ached by the time I straightened from my task, and I limped terribly. But the scheme had worked; the time had passed quickly instead of crawling by, and now ‘twas time to take my tray to the dungeon once more.
I shuffled to the kitchens to choose my offerings.
This time, there were two guards in the dungeon, and I was pleased I’d planned for such an eventuality.
“Hello, good sirs,” I murmured, my attention on the uneven stones of the steps. “I have brought you something to tide yourselves over until supper.”
The younger guard jumped to help, and I gestured toward the large meat pie I’d smuggled from the kitchens.
“’Tis for you to share,” I whispered, pretending shyness, tilting the tray slightly so the covered bowl next to the pie was less obvious. “The tea and broth are for the prisoner.”
“Aye, we heard,” the younger man drawled, his focus on the hot pie he passed from hand to hand to keep from burning himself. “You’re fixing him up enough so your father can gift him to the Battleborn, eh?”
Gift? I didn’t know what he was speaking of, but I made a little noise of agreement, hoping he’d think me knowledgeable.
“Father says I am to heal him well enough to stand.”
The older guard had joined us and was eyeing the meat pie eagerly. “As long as ‘tis no more than that, milady. We can’t afford the bastard—excuse my language—can’t afford to have him back up to full strength again. It took eight of us to fell him last time, and he was already weak then.”
Oh my.
Hoping I looked sufficiently cowed with my wide-eyed expression of surprise—real, not feigned—I limped toward the cell door. The older guard unlocked it and, as yesterday, moved with his companion to the bench around the corner, settling in to enjoy the treat.
Gift?
Kragorn knelt as I’d left him, his hands manacled above his head, his shoulders and head slumped in defeat. For a moment, panic set in before I saw his chest slowly expand with a breath. He lived, and the blanket and bandages were still in place.
Please, God, keep him alive. Make him well again.
I shuffled forward, feeling guilty for praying for such a creature, one not of my world, one who spoke reverently of his own gods. But how could I help but worry about him? How could I help but admire his strength and resilience, and hope my efforts weren’t in vain?
For certes, that was the only reason I prayed. Aye?
There was a little pile of snow beneath the high window, and I shivered at the way my breath fogged the air. Kragorn must be strong indeed to live through such a winter…and so much pain.
When I reached him, I squatted to place the tray by his knee, wincing as I did so.
When I coddled my foot, it meant my knee and thigh ended up hurting more by the end of the day, and today was no exception.
Still, I could wrap it in a hot towel tonight, and that would be good enough. For now I had to focus on my task.
The task I’d been thinking about since I woke.
Since before then.
Touching Kragorn.
I was reaching for the pot of yarrow tea when he spoke, his head still drooped between his shoulders, startling me.
“Yer limp is worse today.”
Was that accusation in his tone? I shrugged. I hadn’t thought he’d looked at me. How had he known, then? I focused on pouring the tea.
“I have been working hard today, making the floors shine. Hogmanay is a time for new beginnings, you know, and the keep must be cleaned top to bottom.”
“And ye…” Finally, his head rose, his ruined eye still hidden by the bandage I’d applied yesterday—when he’d licked me. His other eye, however, shone with something I couldn’t identify, that spark of green gleaming from the center of the blackness.
“And ye, the laird’s daughter, must be one of the ones to do that?”
What had we been speaking about? Oh, aye, the chores. I shrugged and moved closer so he might drink.
Kragorn tipped his head back and watched me as he swallowed down the tea. I, needing an excuse not to hold his gaze, examined his eye socket.
“Your fever has broken, and the poultice seems to be working. I brought more today, and will apply some to your smaller wounds.”
With a slurping noise, Kragorn finish the tea, and I pulled the cup away. He kept his gaze on me.
“I told ye orcs are fast healers, especially with help. The tea and poultices are miracles. Why do ye have to be the one to scrub the floors, Lillian?”
The question was slipped in so casually that I answered before I thought better of it.
“Because Father expects it.”
“Ye arenae a servant, Lillian.”
When he said my name, I could imagine that ridged tongue flicking against the back of his teeth to say the L sound. That shouldn’t be erotic, should it? Shivering slightly, I turned to the bowl and lowered my voice.
“I brought you meat today in your pottage. ‘Twill grow your strength.” I offered him a heaping spoonful. “Trust me.”
“I do, damn me,” he growled, his brow drawn in above his nose as if he were angry, as that intriguing tongue stretched out to slurp the food I offered. “Ye are nae servant,” he muttered around the food.
Was I not? I shrugged, continuing to spoon-feed him.
“I am the least of my father’s daughters. The least pretty, the least talented. The least able. My one skill is ensuring my father’s keep runs smoothly, and since I will not marry and move away, I have devoted my life to ensuring he is comfortable.”
Mayhap I spoke more than I ought, but I wanted him to focus on the food. Kragorn listened to me as he ate, and now he swallowed with a grunt.
“And what does Tarbert give ye in return? No’ a wage.”
“Nay, of course not.” I scooped up a piece of mutton with the next spoonful. “I am his daughter. He gives me safety, food, a place to live. I am obligated to him.”
“He treats ye as a slave.”
I shook my head, then glared at him, pulling the spoon away.
“He needs me. I am grateful for the opportunity.”
“Grateful to be needed? I can understand that,” Kragorn growled. “But ye work yer fingers to calluses, yer body to exhaustion, trying to make yerself useful to a man who doesnae acknowledge ye.”