Page 18 of When the Merchant Met the Orc

Halvard is a storm cloud hanging over the common room.

“I’m sorry, Osric. What did you say?” I can’t focus.

Osric twists to eye the orc in question. “Is he going to be a problem?”

“No. He’s a friend. That’s all.” I finish my cider and wish there was more in the mug.

“A very protective friend,” Osric says.

A thought flickers through my mind—the fact that I’ve never had a friend who wasn’t protective in some way. Kaya and Tully, who isn’t close to me, but acts like a benevolent demon for the entire town of Leafshire Cove. I guess I’ve been lucky.

“The best ones are,” I say.

Osric nods, conceding, then continues about his business and what part I might play if I so choose.

My mind wanders as he gets into numbers we don’t really need to discuss quite yet. Halvard’s version of being protective feels different from that of my other friends, but I can’t put a finger on exactly how. Of course, I am attracted to him, but that’s not what my mind is stuck on. What is it?

“Rychell?”

“Oh, sorry. I’m quite thirsty. Give me a minute.” I leave the table to find a server or the innkeeper. Once I’ve ordered a second cider, I find my seat again. “Please go on.”

We talk amiably for over an hour; the candle on the marked holder by the hearth says so. It doesn’t feel that long. This is good. I’m feeling positive.

I smile and wish him goodbye, promising to find him at the market to plan our first date, which isn’t truly a date. The whole situation is very polite, controlled, and well-planned. I love it. I’m lighthearted and ready to have a good night of rest before tomorrow’s big day at the spice market.

But I keep mentally gnawing on one thing about the day’s events—why does Halvard’s protective attitude toward me feel different, aside from the physical attraction element?

After I check on Tamar—she’s happily ensconced in the stable out back—I walk up the stairs to the room the innkeeper said was mine. Halvard isn’t outside his room. His door is shut, so I guess he’s already in bed.

In my room, the inn’s workers seem to have started a small fire in the hearth while I was downstairs. The room is pleasantly warm. There’s a washbowl and a pitcher on a table near a window. The dry leaves and branches of an oak tap the glass lightly from outside. A generously sized bed and a jute rug sit against the wall opposite the hearth. On the nightstand, a candle flickers, and a piece of parchment, as well as a quill, sand, and an inkwell lie prepared for writing. I strip off my boots, stockings, skirts, and corset. The relief of having that off is lovely. I never lace myself tightly, but corsets are stiff things regardless.

In my lace camisole and undershorts, I shiver slightly. The autumn air is sneaking through a crack between the window and its housing. I add a log to the fire and rub my arms until I feel warm again.

The water in the washbowl is cool and refreshing on my face as I scrub off the dust of traveling. I lift the pitcher to pour fresh water into the bowl.

And a memory assaults me.

The blood on Halvard’s clothing. The wounds inflicted on the thieves. The way the attackers leap out of nowhere, bent on violence.

I drop the water pitcher. It bangs against the floor’s wooden planks, spills its contents, and I yelp as it bounces and narrowly misses my bare foot.

My door breaks open, the top hinge coming free, and Halvard bursts in, shoulders heaving, eyes aflame. His gaze searches the room.

“What happened?” His voice is a growl.

A shiver runs down my back. He’s so big.

“Nothing.” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat. “I dropped the pitcher. About smashed my foot. Did you just break my door?”

Halvard’s cheeks pink, and he raises his head to sniff the air. He shakes his head at himself and mumbles something.

“I’m so sorry, Rychell. I overreacted. I heard a bang and then…”

He’s looking at the floor, giving me privacy.

“It’s all right.” I’m too shocked to know how I feel about his intrusion. “Can you…”

He nods and grabs the door. His gaze finds mine. His eyes are a brilliant metallic brown in the firelight. “I’ll fix this. Once again, apologies.”