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Chapter Two

Guinevere

This is so undignified, Guinevere thought as the half-orc warrior carried her through the dark forest like a sack of potatoes.

His steps over the grass were swift and sure.

He shouldered his way through the undergrowth as though it weren’t there at all.

Soon he had put so much distance between them and the fire that she could hardly see it anymore.

Not once was there any indication that he was in danger of dropping her or the trunk.

She couldn’t help but be awed by his unflagging strength.

He slowed his pace only when it began to rain—and she had never been so relieved to feel water on her skin.

The fire would be put out. She would not be responsible for destroying an entire forest. And she still had some of the precious wares and the infinitely more precious trunk.

All things considered, it was an extraordinary stroke of good fortune.

Thirty minutes later, Guinevere was utterly convinced that she’d betrayed her country in a previous life and the gods were punishing her in this one.

The rain came down in droves. She was cold and wet, her satin slippers covered in mud. The stranger had set her down once it became clear that the inferno was no longer a concern, and they’d been walking for what felt like an eternity in total silence.

She would have attempted to strike up a conversation—would have thanked him for saving her from the bandits, at the very least—but her teeth were chattering too much. Even if they hadn’t been, she lost her nerve every time she glanced at his imposing figure. He veritably towered over her.

“There’s a cave up ahead,” he suddenly announced, raising his voice to be heard amidst the deluge.

He led her to a small hollow cut in the base of a moss-covered rocky outcrop.

Once they were inside, he dropped the trunk, and she immediately sat on it, out of some foolish notion to not dirty her white nightgown any further.

She rubbed her freezing hands together for warmth, grateful to be out of the rain.

The stranger peered down at her, his shoulders hunched. He couldn’t straighten up fully without banging his head on the cave ceiling. Most of his features were shrouded in darkness, but she had the distinct impression that he was scowling at her.

At a loss for what to say, Guinevere resorted to pleasantries. Her tutors had assured her that discussing the weather always proved reliable in smoothing over any awkwardness.

“It truly is Fessuran, is it not, sir?” she said lightly, finding her voice at last. “Why, I don’t believe there’s been a shower as brisk as this all year—”

“What the hells are you talking about?” the stranger growled.

“The weather,” she persisted, a little helplessly. “The amount of rain and the evening chill, they are very much indicative of the autumn month of Fessuran…”

She trailed off when he knelt down and rifled through her satchel. He appeared to have no difficulty making out its contents in the oppressive gloom of the cave.

A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the stunned disbelief on his face when his gaze swiveled back to her.

“Jewelry.” He sounded slightly strangled. “Goblets. Figurines.”

Guinevere had no idea why he was reciting the contents of the satchel. “Pardon?”

“I thought there were supplies in here. I thought that was why you didn’t want to leave it behind.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” she said, pleased that they were clarifying a minor misunderstanding between them. “I mean, I definitely couldn’t leave the satchel behind, but those aren’t supplies. That is inventory.”

“Inventory,” he repeated in a near whisper.

“Yes. Goods to sell. My parents are merchants, you see, and I’m to meet them at—”

The stranger shot to his feet. There was a sickening crack as the top of his head slammed against the cavern ceiling. He swore loudly, rubbing his scalp.

Guinevere was torn between chiding him for using such language in her presence and checking to make sure that he wasn’t bleeding. Before she could do either, he spoke again, this time at a volume that bounced off the rocks.

“You almost burned to a crisp for a handful of brooches?” he bellowed. “I nearly died to save some shitty cups?”

She frowned. “Our merchandise is of superb quality. We do not sell rubbish.”

He stared at her for several long moments. Whatever he saw made the fight drain out of him. He lifted his hands in a gesture that called to mind surrender. “You don’t travel much, do you?”

“Not as often as I would like,” she prevaricated.

She’d been born in Cyrengreen and she’d spent the first three years of her life with the merchant caravans, but then her parents had installed her at the house in Rexxentrum, and she hadn’t ventured beyond the Shimmer Ward since.

However, there was a part of her that didn’t want her rescuer to think she was completely na?ve.

He sighed. “I left my supplies at my own camp when I heard the commotion coming from yours. It’s probably all ashes now.”

Her heart stopped. He’d lost all his supplies— she’d burned them down. Guilt and horror clawed at her, so intense that at first she thought Teinidh was trying to fight her way out again.

But the stranger must not have seen Guinevere unleash the wildfire spirit, or else he would never have bothered to save her, and he wouldn’t let himself be stuck in a cave with her now. He would not have wanted to be further exposed to the disaster-in-waiting that she was.

“We need to make a fire,” he announced. “A smaller one. To warm up.”

She swallowed. “With what kindling?” Miraculously, her voice quavered only slightly.

It wasn’t lying, she assured herself. It wasn’t even lying by omission. She couldn’t control Teinidh’s comings and goings.

The stranger gave her another disconcerting stare and then, without saying a word, pointed to the pearwood trunk she was sitting on.

A lady never lost her composure, but panic heightened Guinevere’s voice to a fever pitch. “Absolutely not! It’s priceless !”

She clapped her hands over her mouth. She’d said too much. It sank in how very alone they were in the cave and how she knew next to nothing about this man, not even his name.

A muscle twitched in his chiseled jaw. “I’m nothing like the scum who killed your guards and looted your camp,” he said icily, “but I have better things to do with my time than try to convince you of that. Don’t worry, miss, I’ll take my leave of you as soon as the weather clears.”

He stomped over to the entrance of the cave and took up an unmoving position there, his arms crossed and his back turned to her. His posture was rigid with an alertness that made it clear he really was waiting for the rain to stop and would walk off into the night once it did.

Guinevere felt terrible. After he so gallantly saved her life, she’d repaid him by casting aspersions on his character—and based on what? His gruff demeanor, his ragged attire? What did those matter when he’d faced down a giant like Lashak even though he hadn’t needed to?

She thought about the guards again. They could all have fled and saved themselves when the bandits attacked, but they’d stayed to protect her instead. And she hadn’t even bothered to learn their names.

You must always be careful around the have-nots, Guinevere, her father often warned her. They turn to crime at the drop of a hat. Do not let compassion blind you. A person born in misery perpetuates that misery everywhere they go. There’s no overcoming ill breeding.

She had never vocally disagreed with her father on that account, else he turn the subject to her own failings. But there was no denying that, right now, she felt like the ill-bred one.

Taking a deep breath, she went to her rescuer’s side. His profile was like granite against the backdrop of shadow-clad bushes and shimmering rain.

“Sir,” she squeaked out, “it wasn’t my intention to offend.

I was jumpy from the scare I had, but I know you’re not like those ruffians.

” He made no response, and her nerve almost deserted her.

But she persevered, because a lady knew when to apologize.

“I’m so very sorry. I’m grateful to you for saving me, I promise.

I beg your forgiveness for my—my unpleasant disposition.

Please don’t go. I couldn’t bear it if you had to endure the night without shelter on my account. ”

His honeyed gaze flicked to her, contemplative, measuring. She held her breath.

Then—he grunted. As far as male expressions of sentiment went, it was aloof but conciliatory.

She relaxed. “I’m Guinevere.” She offered it shyly, a hatchet to be buried.

Silence.

Complete and utter silence.

He leaned against the cavern wall and said nothing at all.

“This,” Guinevere declared a little too stiffly, her cheeks flaming, “is the part where you tell me your name.”

The stranger took his sweet time studying her, as though she were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. She lifted her chin, forcing herself not to flinch at his scrutiny. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was reluctantly amused by her defiance, one sharp, slender tusk gleaming in the moonlight.

“Oskar,” he finally said.

It was the last word he spoke to her for the rest of the evening.