11
His name was John.
Rosa’s severely addled brain could only seem to marvel at that, again and again, even as the orc — his name wasJohn— abruptly backed away from her, his eyes once more hidden, shuttered, distant.John.
And as the orc —John— began moving around the library, swift and silent and purposeful, Rosa only blinked, and stared. Watching with a strange, stilted bemusement as he piled up a precarious stack of books, plucked from various locations all over the stacks — and then beckoned Rosa over, with an imperious little flick of his fingers, as he carefully placed the stack upon the nearest table.
“Give me the blanket,” he said, voice flat. “I have not brought a pack to haul these with, and there is naught else here that shall suffice to keep them safe on our journey.”
Wait, what? Rosa’s churning thoughts finally caught on this — he was planning to take away these books, toOrc Mountain?! — and she gave a wild, rather demented shake of her head. “You can’t take books away from the library,” she managed. “Unless you’re a student at the university.”
John fixed her with a hard, disapproving glare, at utter odds with the quiet, thrilling look in his eyes not a quarter-hour past. “But you come away with me, do you not?” he demanded. “Are notyouable to take books from this library, so long as you return them safe?”
“No,” Rosa shot back, more bitterly than she meant. “I can’t. I’m not a student.”
John only kept glaring at her, lips pursed, and then back at his pile of books. They appeared to be from an astonishing variety of subjects, anatomy and botany and history and geology and medicine, and his hand carefully came up, and traced down their spines. With almost the same reverence he’d used on Rosa’s neck earlier, the verythoughtof it powerful enough to send a hard shiver down her form — a movement which, predictably, snapped his narrow, assessing gaze back to hers.
“I wish for these books, little woman,” he said, his voice pitched lower, softer — and his eyes seemed to soften too, his thick lashes heavy against his cheek. “I swear to keep them safe, and to bring them back with us when I return you here. Will you not grant this small favour to me?”
“Ican’t,” Rosa choked out. “I’m not a book thief.Never.”
John came a step closer, his hand reaching to slide familiar and wonderful against her neck. “But I wish for this for your joy also, little rose,” he murmured, his voice all sweet melting pleasure. “Do you truly wish to be held in my mountain for days, or mayhap weeks, with naught of worth in your own tongue to read?”
The thought was thoroughly chilling, as this devious bastard well knew, his head tilting — and suddenly the warmth of his touch vanished, and he was striding smoothly toward the lending desk. Grasping out something from beneath it —The Lady Bright— before coming back, and placing it on top of his pile.
“You wish to read this tale, do you not?” he said, again bringing his hand up, curling close against her throat. “I know this shall please you, my little pet.”
Rosa’s eyes were trapped on the book, sitting so innocuous and yet so tempting on his pile, and she shuddered at the feel of those equally tempting claws, tracing light and gentle on her skin. “Come, let us take these,” he whispered. “Should you grant this to me, mayhap I shall please you again, after. As I did last night.”
The words sent a sharp, desperate thrill of heat to Rosa’s groin — he would truly consider doing thatagain?! — and before she could stop herself, she felt her breath catch, her head giving a shaky, jerky nod. Saying —yes.
There was a flare of triumph in John’s black eyes, an almost mocking noise in his throat — and before Rosa could digest that, react to that, his hand had already reached for her blanket, tugging out the knot he’d made, and dragging it off her shoulders. Leaving her standing there entirely naked before him, shivering with the sudden chill, while he completely ignored her, and wrapped up the pile of books into a neat, self-contained package.
“Frábær,” he said, in the foreign-sounding black-tongue, and as Rosa watched, he yanked out the drawstring from his trousers, and tied it tightly around the package. Only then did he look back toward her, his eyes narrow and cold, lacking even the slightest trace of interest, let alone desire.
It was enough to finally set Rosa’s brain churning again, the shame rising hard and hot to her cheeks. He’d been — play-acting, he’d called it. Pretending, just like before. Manipulating. Blatantly using her to get his way.
And Rosa could pretend too, she sternly told herself, as she bit against the inside of her cheek, and held her naked body straight and still. She was going along with this for a reason. She was watching. Researching. She was going use her three weeks to get Lord Kaspar his war, and save her future, and damn this awful orc to hell.
The awful orc —John— was now studying Rosa with his typical disapproval, his dispassionate eyes flicking up and down her shivering form. “Have you no more clothes, woman?”
She couldn’t help a snort, earning in return an odd little flinch from John’s mouth. “No,” she snapped at him. “I don’t. You ruined my dress, remember?”
John flinched again, as though even the memory of him doing such a thing was a deeply unpleasant one. “Do you not yet have a coat, or a cloak? It has rained here for nigh unto two days, and you have little meat upon your tiny bones to keep you warm.”
Rosa tried for a dismissive shrug, but didn’t quite accomplish it, what with still standing here naked and red-faced — and apparently too small and bony — in front of a huge, fully clothed, disapproving orc. “Good coats are expensive,” she said finally. “I’ve been saving up, for a wool one.”
She left out the crucial fact that Lord Kaspar was only willing to pay for frocks, the flimsier and frillier the better — but John seemed to follow that point regardless, his face gone even more disapproving than before. And in a jerky, unexpected movement, he reached for his own tunic, and yanked it off over his head. Leaving him broad and bare-chested, his plentiful scars looking even more frightful in the bright daylight, as he thrust his tunic toward her.
Rosa blinked down at it, and then up at his flat, forbidding eyes. Speaking all too clearly, without him speaking at all, and shewascold, and highly uncomfortable, so she finally nodded, and pulled on the tunic over her head.
It was huge, halfway down to her knees, and the laced neckline that had been entirely suitable for him plunged deep between her breasts, risking accidental exposure at any moment. But it was warm, and well made, and smelled of musk and sweetness, and Rosa drew it close, and flashed him a faint, reluctant smile. “Thanks.”
He only looked away, his hand reaching for his carefully wrapped package of books. “Is there aught else that must be done here, before you come?”
Right, of course, and Rosa spent the next half-hour rushing about the library, tidying the back bedroom, searching for her ruined dress — it turned out that John had tossed it down the adjoining latrine — and writing cryptic letters to leave for Southall and Lord Kaspar. And finally, drawing up a large new “temporarily closed” sign for the door.
“And you’ll fix the door?” she asked John, once she’d hung the sign — and he accordingly strode over and snapped the twisted metal back to its previous place, as easy as if it had been made of clay. And then he stood there staring at her, tall and impatient and imperious, looking for all the world as though Rosa had kept him waiting for weeks.
