Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (16 page)

He drew her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her. “Then why do you refuse me?”

She shook her head, pressing her face into the curve of his neck instead. It was all just a fumbled vow, a mistake that he had no choice but to honor. She had not meant to trap him, imprison him just as surely as the king had. She had meant to set him free!

“Arianna.” He caught her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Why?”

“You didn’t want me,” she blurted, her eyes filling with tears. “You turned your back on me and walked away. How can I trust that you want me now? That this is not all just some debt you would repay?”

“Ah, Princess,” he sighed. His hand slid to her throat, so warm and gentle, his thumb tickling her pulse, and then lower, until his palm pressed flat against her chest, over her heart. Beating too fast, too hard, as tears slipped down her cheeks. “The first orcs could not remember love at all. It had been torn from their minds, twisted into hate, while they festered in the dark. The only pleasure they knew was the hunt, the kill. When they joined with one another, they felt nothing, and in anger and frustration, they lashed out at their lovers.”

He lifted his eyes from his hand to her face, and his pain closed tight around her heart. “Until the lady came, the first of the elves to join us in our exile. She was Ingvifreyr’s sister, Vanadis, and like her brother, she knew the hidden ways. She came for her stolen, ruined husband, but she loved us all, and slowly, slowly, the orcs remembered what it was to feel more than just pain and hate. She healed our hearts, that we might love, but without it…” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his fingers threading through her hair, and it seemed as though she would never breathe again. “Without love, we can share only pain. And until you love me, until there is love between us, I will not risk you.”

And then he let her go, setting her back upon the rock as the sun sent pillars of light through the frozen sky.

Perhaps she should have been afraid, but even then, even knowing there was one instance in which he might truly harm her, without reason or warning, she could not bring herself to fear him.

With the sun streaming across the rock, he found the entrance easily enough. His first trip up the face, he carried their water, the extra cloak, and the bulky fur, tossing them inside the passage before dropping down again with a grunt for how it jarred his side. Coaxing Arianna onto his back was more difficult, and he could only pray that hollow wariness in her eyes was for the climb. When she hesitated to touch him, he feared it wasn’t.

Her grip firmed as he approached the rock face, her arms tightening around his neck and her legs wrapping firmly around his waist, though it meant her gown had bunched high at her hips. After the things he had told her, he did not dare to look down, though his fingers itched to skim the surface of her skin.

He dug them into the stone instead, finding the first cleft and then the second. Arianna’s body was so rigid his own shoulders tightened in response. “You will be safe, Princess, I swear it.”

She only hid her face against the curve of his neck, her breath tickling his skin, and he chuckled softly. At least her terror of the climb had washed other concerns from her mind. If he kept her distracted long enough, perhaps he could drive them out altogether.

He hauled himself up, checking to be sure each of the grooves he had cut would still take his weight before releasing the last hold. It had been too long since he had climbed, but the burn in his arms and legs as the muscles worked was more relief than pain. He got his palms over the ledge, then his elbows, and heaved them both inside.

Arianna clung to him even then, trembling, and he stroked her arms, loosening them gently from around his throat. “You’re safe,” he murmured. “Just a bit farther and you’ll be warm as well.” He did not touch the smooth softness of her thighs, but kept his fingers curled gently around her wrists. “Let go, now.”

She released him slowly, slithering down his back until her toes touched the stone, and she pressed her face to the place between his shoulder blades, her hands lingering at his waist. “All I could think was that if my strength failed, nothing would stop my fall.”

He turned, framing her face in his hands. “Then the next climb we make, I will carry you against my chest, that if you slip, I might pin you to the rock until you find your strength again.”

“The next climb?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

“One more, but it’s well-traveled, with a thick rope for the youths to learn on.” He brushed his thumbs across her cheekbones. “I would not take you so far only to let you fall, Arianna.”

She closed her hands over his, and he let them slip away, careful not to touch her further. He didn’t want her to remember whatever had haunted her before the climb. She turned from him, collecting the skins of water, the fur, and the cloak. “When we leave the passage, how much longer?”

“Two more days.” Of bitter cold. He watched her move, looking for any sign of discomfort, but it was too soon to tell if her side pained her. She did not seem to favor it too heavily, and his own ribs hurt less and less. “Only one night spent in the wind.”

“Four more days,” she sighed, pausing to look up at him. “Do you suppose your people will find us before then?”

He bared his tusks. “If they don’t, there will be a great deal of regret when we arrive. It is the duty of the Hrimthursar to keep watch.”

Troubled lines creased her forehead and she rose with the bundle. “How much deeper?”

“Not far.” He took the bundle from her hand before she could object, and waved her ahead of him, the better to watch her walk.

She trailed her fingers along the stone wall, curving up over her head. They weren’t smooth exactly, but no hand had carved this passage. It was a vein of the earth, shaped by melted rock, then wind and rain. The sun followed them until the tunnel curved, and Arianna stopped at the edge of deep shadow.

“Will it all be so black?”

“There are shafts to the surface, with clean air and light. Another turn and you’ll find one, but you’ll be colder beneath it.”

She glanced back, looking beyond him to the last splash of sun on stone. “I’m warm enough here,” she said.

By the quickening of her heart, he knew it for a lie, but the way she stared at the sunlight made his heart ache and sorrow swirl in his belly. He had kept her so much in shadow and night; he could not deny her this last glimpse of what she would leave behind.

He crouched and spread the bear skin over the rock, setting the skins of water aside. She sank down into the soft fur and curled up on her side, her eyes on the sliver of sun.

“Rest,” he told her. “Sleep if you can. I must go back and be sure we left no tracks. If you shout, I will hear you.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. He tucked the other cloak around her shoulders and wrapped the rest of the bear skin over her body.

When he came back, she was asleep, one arm freed from the covers, her hand open in the puddle of light. He smoothed her hair from her cheek and sat down beside her, praying she would not hate him for stealing her from the sun when she spent the winter in darkness.

Bolthorn left her again after she woke, and came back with two rabbits, kindling, and several large chunks of black rock. She watched from the warmth of the fur while he chipped the rock into smaller pieces and struck fat sparks over the results.

Could he really harm her, as he had warned? She’d seen his strength, the power in his body, but everything he had ever done was to protect her. To keep her safe and warm and help her to heal. And when she had woken in his arms, his body curled snug to hers, she had not been trapped. The barest suggestion of a wish to move, and he had responded. Or did it only mean he did not love her as he felt he should? She was not sure which was worse.

When the rocks began to smoke, she sat up. “What magic is that?”

“No magic.” He stepped back from the fire and then resumed his crouch to skin one of the rabbits. “Blackrock burns hot and strong in place of wood. We mine it in the mountains.”

“No trees,” she realized. After all those days in the forest, she couldn’t imagine looking out a window and seeing no trees. But then, she wasn’t certain she’d have a window to look out, either.

“Not for firewood,” he agreed, working with slow, steady movements to reveal the flesh of the rabbit. “Lower down the slopes there is plenty, but it is not worth the journey just to burn it.”

The skin came off in one piece and he arranged the carcass over the fire with a stick, supported by rocks on either end. She watched him rinse the blood from his hands before he came to sit beside her.

“What about the other?”

“It will keep for another meal,” he said, his hands resting loose upon his knees. “There is no game in the passage, and we’ll go hungry until we reach the mouth on the other side.”

“I wish we hadn’t lost the basket.” She drew her knees to her chest to distract herself from the way her stomach growled and her mouth watered. They hadn’t eaten before she fell asleep. Bolthorn must have set the snares when he went to cover their tracks, though what he used for rope, she could not guess. Perhaps he braided the sedge, for it was thick enough. “I had bread in exchange for the elk you left in the tree.”

“When we reach my village, you’ll have all the bread you can eat. And soft goat cheese to spread upon it, warm honeyed milk to drink, if you wish, or mead if you prefer it. You will never want for anything to eat again, and if you wish to take your meal elsewhere, I will pack a basket for you with my own hands.”

She smiled at the thought. Such a different life than anything she had ever known. Even if they must be careful with one another, did it matter? Why should she fear it, unless he never loved her?

Her smile faded, and she glanced at him sidelong. He had leaned back, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. How he had come so far with bare feet, she did not know, but his toes were black with stone dust and dirt. His soles must have been thick as leather, and she knew from experience he was never cold. “Will the Gothi have time to picnic?”

“He will find the time for his wife.” He brushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingers warm against her cheek. “If she wishes it?”

The softness of his words sent a shiver down her spine, or maybe it was his fingers, trailing along the curve of her neck. She closed her eyes. Everything she had wished for, if he would but love her, too.

“Breathe, Princess,” he murmured, his breath tickling her ear. She inhaled sharply, half-startled. He had not been so close a moment ago, his weight resting upon his hands, watching the fire. But now she could feel the warmth of his body leaning close to hers, and if she turned her head…

He pressed a kiss behind her ear, and her breath caught again as a new warmth lit through her, flushing her skin until it burned. Her heart picked up speed.

“Tell me.” He dropped his forehead to her shoulder, his voice so low she felt it more than heard it. “Tell me there is some hope, Arianna. Tell me you might love an orc, one day.”

She twisted then, to see his face. Lined, but soft, his eyes so warm she might melt beneath his gaze. “Because you are orc, Bolthorn, I have loved you from the start.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

He let out a breath, long and slow. His arms ached to draw her close.
No.
Not yet. He must be sure. “Not simply out of gratitude, or pity.”

“No.” Her fingers smoothed his brow.

“You must be certain, Arianna.” He caught her hand by the wrist. Her skin was so soft under his fingers. It was all he could do not to drag her against his body and roll her to her back. “There must not be any doubt.”

She shook her head. “I am only in doubt of your feelings for me.”

He growled low, pulling her across his lap. His feelings! The slow burn of his blood, roaring in his ears, and her warmth pressing against his body. How could she be in doubt? “Is that all?”

The scent of roses still clung to her hair, and when he pressed his lips to the thrumming pulse of her throat, her skin tasted of salt and earth. But if she had tasted of ash and blood, he would not have hesitated. Not now that she was in his arms.

“I began to love you the moment you leapt through the mirror, Princess.” His lips brushed her skin with each word he shaped, climbing the column of her neck, across her jaw. And then he found her mouth with his, and a soft moan caught in her throat with his kiss.

The sounds she made undid him, waking or sleeping, and he coiled his fingers in her hair. Her lips parted to his without hesitation, and her whole body softened with a sigh. He deepened the kiss, molding her against him. So warm, he could not even dream what it would be to sink inside her center as his tongue had delved into her mouth.

He grasped her hip as he broke the kiss, bringing her tight against the hard ache of his desire. “Do you doubt me still?” he asked her softly, pressing his forehead to hers.

He felt her smile in his heart, in the song of her heartbeat, and the touch of her nose to his. “Only when you stop.”

He chuckled and kissed her lightly, peeling the bear skin from her shoulders. “I swear to you, I do not mean to stop again.”

He made a bed of the fur and laid her down, his strong fingers making short work of the laces on her dress while he kissed her again. She clung to him when he shifted, but he only rose up far enough to free her from the heavy velvet of her gown, and when his hand cupped the bare skin of her breast, her back arched and she gasped with a need unlike any she had ever known.

His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw to the hollow of her throat and then her collarbone, tasting and teasing her skin until she trembled, hot and cold together. Lord Alviss had never… No, she would not think of him now. She would not think of anything but Bolthorn’s touch, his lips, his hands, his body hard and warm beneath her fingers, and the pleasure that rained through her like falling stars.

“More,” she begged, guiding him to the tight ache at the bud of her breast. The warmth of his breath alone made her shiver, but when his tusks grazed her puckered skin, she moaned.

Bolthorn turned his attention to her other breast, his calloused palm rough and warm against her ribs. His fingers curled, pressing against her skin, not hard enough and then...

She cried out at the white-hot spear in her side, tears pricking her eyes as she twisted from his touch. Bolthorn jerked his hand away. Too late.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, stroking her hair, her cheek. “Forgive me, please. I did not think…”

Arianna closed her eyes and struggled to breathe, but each rise of her chest only slipped another sharp pain between her ribs. She rolled to her good side and curled up, grasping the wound that wasn’t hers.

“It wasn’t supposed to hurt,” she managed. “Not if we had love.”

His hand rested over hers, the warmth seeping through to her ribs. “Love cannot heal wounds caused by the blade of a knife. This is only that, I promise you. Nothing more.”

She exhaled, shuddering with a sob, and he drew her against his chest, cradling her like glass. Perhaps she was, for she felt as though she had shattered, first with joy and then in agony.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice rough. “If I could take it back, I would.”

“Even the part where I married you?”

He kissed her forehead and for a moment, she forgot the ache in her side, all the broken pieces of her body made whole again. “To hold you in my arms unharmed, even that.”

At last, blanketed beneath the cloaks, the creases of pain faded and her breathing steadied into the quiet rhythm of sleep, but Bolthorn still cursed himself. How could he have forgotten, even for a moment, all that she had suffered? The torn and healing skin of her back beneath his fingers twisted his heart, and in her sleep, it was easy to spot the shades of green beneath the stain of umber on her face. And her side. Her fair skin was black with the wound she had stolen.

So much, because of him. He stared at her, and wondered. Would she have disobeyed Alviss and her father if she had not known him? Would the king have become so obsessed with blood magic if he had never crossed the mountain to be found? From the things she had told him, he tried to imagine the life she would have had without his interference in the affairs of Gautar. Alviss for a husband, but if she had pleased him, done her duty…

The thought made his blood roar and his stomach roil. He clenched his jaw and strangled a growl in his throat before it might wake her. She had never told him what Alviss had taken from her, but he remembered her torn gown and the hot tears she had spilled against his shoulder. He remembered each wrenching sob, muffled against his chest, driving another arrow through his heart.

No. She would not have been better off with Alviss. Not when he could not love her for the boldness of her heart and the strength of her mind. Not if the man took by force what must be given freely. What must be given with love.

Bolthorn smoothed her hair from her face, tucked her head beneath his chin, and prayed that such sorrow would never find her again.

Sunlight filtered through the dust of the passage, streaming warm and wonderful over her skin. They should have left it long behind last night, would have, if she had not slept so deeply a second time. She opened her hand, letting the light pool in her palm, and sighed. She had not meant to lose the whole night, and even less to let Bolthorn slip through her arms, but she could not hide the pain, nor the fear that it meant something different, something worse.

Between one heartbeat and the next, she had believed he did not love her.
Without love, we can share only pain.
But of course it had been impossible. If he had not loved her, he would not have touched her at all, would not have risked whatever pain he might share. They shared too much discomfort already, between the fever and the sharp ache in her ribs, and the marks of the lash upon both their bodies.

No, Bolthorn loved her. The thought warmed her where the sun did not reach, and she smiled. Human or not, weak and breakable, he loved her. And he had done so even before she had promised to free him, before he had made his vows, before she had bound them together, unknowing what it meant. He loved her, and he would never send her from his side.

“There is sunlight on the other side of the passage, too,” he said softly from behind her. “For a time, at least.”

She rolled to her back, only stiff now where the skin had been broken. Without the bodice rubbing the wounds and digging into her body, she felt better than she had in days. Bolthorn lay on his side, watching her, propped on one elbow. And he was hers.

His chest looked much better, now, the lashes nearly healed into thick, grey scars. She touched one that cut across the tattoo above his left breast. He had never told her the meaning of it, though she knew at least the markings on his face showed his clan.
Hrimthursar.
She tried to move her tongue around the word but it tripped even in her thoughts. When Bolthorn said it, it rolled rich and thick from his mouth.

Bolthorn caught her hand and pressed it flat over his heart, the beat steady beneath her fingers. “Are you feeling well enough to go on?”

Of course he would be anxious. They had lost a whole day, and if Lord Alviss’s men had realized the Seithr woman traveled with an orc, it would only be a matter of time before they were hunted in earnest. No one she had spoken to in the village had heard of the king’s disappearance yet, but they all knew he paid well for oddities of that kind.

“Is there something I might eat, first?” she asked, for her stomach grumbled along with her guilt. If someone found the opening to the tunnel before they closed the other side, what then? “Or even as we travel.”

His lips curved. “Time enough for you to eat and ready yourself. We will reach the other side before nightfall, though for your sake, we should sleep still in the shelter it gives.”

“But you said it took two days.”

“I said we would spend two days in its warmth.” He squeezed her hand. “I feared you would need it to gain your strength, for once we reach the mountainside, I do not dare carry you. If you do not move, you will freeze in the wind.”

“Oh.” She tried not to see the lines of worry at the corners of his eyes. They had the bear skin, and the rabbit fur boots, and the fever had not woken for two days, at least. But how long after that journey would he insist she rest? If he did not put her to bed the moment they reached his village, she would eat the king’s knife. And then how many more days before he had time to spend with her again? While he feared her freezing, he was not likely to let her leave the warmth of a fire. And knowing his honor, he would return to the passage to see it closed himself.

No, he would not send her away, but nor would he be free to spend his days with her, a constant presence at her side. She pulled her hand from beneath his, unable to meet his eyes.

Two, maybe three days until he found his people, and love or not, everything would change.