Page 32

From The Orc’s Eager Captive

Lillian

The orc was in chains.

The tray in my hands suddenly seemed heavier, and I tightened my grip on the polished steel, edging closer to the bars. “Why…” I whispered weakly, trailing off when I realized I didn’t know exactly what I was asking.

What had happened?

For months, I’d been bringing the beast a meal each day—or rather, I’d bring three meals to the icy dungeons; one for each of the guards, and one for them to pass through the bars of the orc’s cell and allow him to eat.

And each day, when he heard me coming, the beast pushed himself to his feet, the threadbare blanket falling from his shoulders as he stood. He would watch me with that dark intense gaze, ignoring even the food as he stared .

That gaze made me feel itchy and uncomfortable, and made me wonder if orcs possessed some sort of magic in that strange world of theirs.

But I was not the sort of woman to earn stares from males, so mayhap that was why I’d continued to volunteer to fetch his meals from the kitchens.

Today, though…

I limped closer to the bars, closer than I’d ever come before.

What did he do?

Because today, the orc wasn’t standing. He wasn’t hunched in the corner on the paltry bed of straw which had been his bed for the last three months. He wasn’t even looking at me.

I found myself missing his dark, disconcerting stare.

The orc was in chains.

He knelt, the heels of his boots resting against the wall opposite the cell door and his filthy kilt covering only his huge thighs.

His arms were stretched impossibly wide, his wrists bound by shackles.

The chains from those shackles were looped through iron bolts, and ‘twas clear the tension was the only thing keeping him upright.

His head hung down, his long black hair hiding one side of his face, but what I could see made me wince.

If he hadn’t lost that eye three months ago, he likely would now. Because the beast had obviously met with more damage .

After all these months, I knew his injuries, the ones he’d sustained in the battle against my father’s men in the late autumn. Those bruises had eventually faded, and the wounds were scabbed over. But this?

He was bleeding from a half-dozen new wounds, the remains of his eye were dripping something white and—for the first time—I saw defeat in the shape of his shoulders.

“What happened?” I managed to whisper, edging closer still.

“The bastard tried to escape, milady.”

The guard’s words, jarring in the frigid stillness, startled me into jostling the tray I held. I twisted to face him, keeping my chin tucked so I wouldn’t have to look directly at him.

“Did he—” How to ask? “How far did he get?”

“Almost out of the dungeon,” the man announced gleefully. “But ‘e didn’t know how many men yer father has at his disposal. Took down four of ours before we could lay him out, though.”

Swallowing, I peered back at the beaten orc. “He killed my father’s men?”

“Two of them. The other two will likely live. You see how big his hands are?” The guard’s tone turned conversational as he leaned against the bars, jerking his chin toward the orc’s arms. “’E’s got huge claws at the end of each finger.

You can’t see ‘em now, because ‘e’s like a cat, and can suck ‘em back inside. But they’re fierce, aye. ”

Nodding now, the man pointed. “And you saw his tusks? ‘E bit down hard on one poor bastard, tore out his throat. Bled out before we could help him. Aye, the orc’s no better than a wild animal.”

My hold on the tray was now so tight I could see my knuckles turning white. But ‘twas the only way to keep from shaking in dread.

Dear God, this orc had done such a thing? Was he really so much like a beast, the way Father said? I’d seen him each day for months, and thought him more like a man—a taller, greener man, mayhap, than I was used to—but I knew no man who could kill so ferally.

But…

But now, he was a wounded beast. A chained one. And after so many months being the recipient of his stare, I couldn’t help feeling some kind of responsibility for his life.

“They sent him broth,” I whispered, glancing down at the tray. I hadn’t thought aught of the change when the harried scullery maid had pushed the tray into my hands. “And bandages.”

The guard snorted. “Your father wants him to live, then? Makes sense that he’d send you, milady, what with your experience in such matters.”

Me? I had no— oh .

Swallowing, I glanced self-consciously downward, although my withered foot was hidden by my long skirts.

“Aye,” I whispered. “I suppose I do. ”

Not only was I the youngest of Lord Tarbert’s daughters, I was the least. Least able, least beautiful, least skilled. My sister Sorcha was the educated, adventurous one. My sister Roxanna was the fierce, bold one. My sister Elspeth was the beautiful, biddable one.

And I was the broken one.

But one benefit of being born with a cursed foot was knowing my place; I would never leave Tarbert Keep, I would never need to worry about making my way in the world.

My place had always been here, tending to my father’s demands as well as I could, quietly praying he would be satisfied with the best I could offer.

I wasn’t beautiful or accomplished enough to act as his hostess; Elspeth had done that before she’d been married off to Laird McDonald when Sorcha had broken that betrothal alliance.

But I did my best to follow my father’s orders, even if they required to be bold or speak with someone I didn’t know.

Aye, Father was right when he called me a mouse. I was small, timid, and mostly worthless, with a broken body besides.

But someone—perhaps my father himself—wanted the orc to live, and had sent me.

I took a deep breath, straightening as much as I was able. There was only one option.

“Open the door,” I whispered.

“Aww, milady, you don’t want to do that,” the guard all but whined. “You heard what the beast is capable of. Leave the broth for ‘im, that’s good enough. ”

He wouldn’t be able to eat it with his hands chained.

I kept my gaze on that bowed head, on those defeated shoulders.

“Open the door,” I repeated, even quieter.

The guard paused, then shrugged and reached for the ring of keys on his belt.

By the time the barred door swung open, I was shaking so hard the bowl of broth rattled on the tray. But still, I forced myself to step foot into the cell, holding my breath the entire time.

The orc didn’t stir.

I doubted he knew I was there. I doubted he knew aught but pain.

The knowledge bolstered me, and I took another small step toward him.

The beast’s breathing was shallow, silent, and as I watched, a droplet of blood ran down his nose to drop between his bare knees, which were resting on the frozen stone floor of the dungeon.

‘Twas red.

Orc blood was red, just like mine.

I’m not sure why that mattered, why that gave me courage, but it did. Mayhap ‘twas just the sight of another’s pain, pain I knew well, that spurred me forward.

I found myself standing before the orc, looking down at him, waiting for him to acknowledge me.

He didn’t .

Even kneeling, the beast was huge. I was taller, aye, but not by much. This shouldn’t surprise me, since I was smaller than everyone else in the castle, but the orc was twice the breadth of my father’s biggest warrior, and a foot taller besides.

Now, though? Now he was as broken as I was.

Without thinking, I bent to place the tray on the floor, and I reached for one of the bandages. I couldn’t wrap him until I knew the extent of his injuries. Wishing for some yarrow tea to ease his pain, I dipped the cloth into the wooden cup of water, and squeezed the excess.

I needed him to lift his head so I could wipe away the blood.

Taking another deep breath to steel myself, I reached for his shoulder.

But when the orc lifted his dark, mangled gaze to my face for the first time, I gasped and jerked back.

Kragorn

That bad, eh ?

‘Twas my first thought when I saw the look of horror upon the lass’s face as she gazed at the ruins of my own. Still, to give her credit, even though I’d startled her, she lifted the gray rag in front of my good eye, as if showing me her intention.

When I didn’t respond, she switched her gaze to my injury, and began to dab at it .

Hurt like all the hells, but I hid my reaction to her poking and prodding.

“You have a fever,” she murmured.

‘Twas the first thing she’d said to me directly, ever, and I didn’t respond. What was I supposed to do? Agree?

Aye, of course I had a fever; ‘twas the reason I kept seeing my brother Vartok pacing the cell nearby, complaining that I was dying and leaving him to handle the clan.

My twin wasn’t here. No one was here. I was alone, as I’d been these last months.

Until today.

I idly wondered if it had been worth it—getting myself beaten near to death—to finally feel another’s touch.

Finally feel her touch.

Lady Lillian. I’d heard the guards talking to her and about her in the three months I’d been imprisoned in Tarbert Keep. I’d used that time to recover from my wounds, to build my strength back as much as possible, to plan my escape.

And to watch her.

Malla the Beginner, but this little human was intriguing.

I could smell her fear—not just today, but always .

What was it like, to go through life being constantly afraid?

But still, despite her fear, she faced her challenges—faced me —each day.

I’d found myself looking forward to her arrival, not just because she brought food, but because she was intriguing .

She wore the gowns of a cherished daughter, but acted as if she were the lowest of servants.

Orcs had no ladies, no servants, in our villages, so I was fascinated by the dichotomy. Och, she wasn’t the only lady—or servant—who’d come to the dungeons to gawk at Tarbert’s Beast in the last months. Tarbert himself had often come to gloat at his cunning, capturing the chief of his enemies.

But Lillian only ever brought kindness.