Page 8 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

Out of all he expected her to accuse him of, this wasn’t the worst of it. Sweat slid down his back, but this was another interrogation, and he’d do better now that he was rested up. And if she believed him to be an idiot who named pregnant goats Benjamin, then he’d happily help her believe it. He crossed his boots at his ankles and said casually, “Yes. Raspberry jam is my favored recipe, but I do make a mean blackberry jam as well. I have also tried my hand at wild plum, and rhubarb with orange and ginger. And golly, believe it or not, my pomegranate cranberry jam just won a blue ribbon at the county fair—”

“I don’t care,” she said, so abruptly that he couldn’t help but feel a little hurt. It was his fantasy. Did she have to be so dismissive towards it? “So you make jam, and that explains all the jars you’re packing. Explain the lute.”

Morfran was ready for this one. “I bought it from a penniless bard who sang about burbling streams. Said he couldn’t find work and he was going to jump off a bridge the next day. He sold it to me for quarter-price. Quite a good bargain, if you ask me. I was going to ask for lessons from him the next day, but I don’t know where he went.”

She hesitated at that answer, but continued. “And then there are these?” She held up his black leather pants with a triumphant look. Panic threatened to well within him. No one in the kingdom owned a pair of black seductive leather pants like those except their Dark Lord. It was kingdom-wide knowledge. He chuckled, turning his head to the side so she wouldn’t see the sweat trickling from his temple.

Ramble, you idiot. Idiots ramble. “Oh, those. Well, those soldiers who attacked my farm had an extra pair in their wagon. Who knows why. I hear that Lord Morfran carries spares in every one of his wagons, but I took them because—this is humiliating, but I wanted to see what I’d look with them on.”

Her glower faded into disbelief.

“And well, I looked good, very good, so I couldn’t part with them. You never know when you’ll next get the chance to woo a pretty lady like yourself, and frankly, hose aren’t exactly on the same level of seductiveness, don’t you think? Anyways, they caress the buttocks very well, and flatter the frontside. If you will, I’ll model them for you. Just come over here and help me take off my pants—”

“Absolutely not.” Her face flushed red. She ducked back to the bag as if to hide it, rifling through the contents. “There’s one last thing.”

She pulled out his journal, and any hope that he’d been successfully bullshitting her disappeared completely.

What exactly would they do to him? There’d always been enemies of his rule, those who’d tried and failed to mount armies against him. No one had ever gotten close. He was always quick to stomp rebellions down when they arose. But here he was, tied up. His weapons removed. His army long gone.

Perhaps it was better this way. They might torture him, sure, but Ravana’s torture would involve cheese graters and feral geese and cutting off his feet for her own viewing pleasure.

Releasing an uneven breath, he began to speak—and halted. She wasn’t acting smug. She wasn’t smirking, as he imagined she would be if she’d found concrete evidence against him. And that meant…

She couldn’t read old language. No one here could. Not if she was here trying to make him squirm about it.

“That”—he let his mouth purse into a small smile— “is nothing you need to worry yourself about.”

“What is it?” she asked, suspicious. Illiterate though she may be, she wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t make the mistake of assuming it.

“It’s a story I’m penning.”

“A story?” She grimaced, unsold. “So you’re a goat farmer who makes jam, plays the lute, writes novels in old script, and can fight off several of the Dark Lord’s men whilst stealing a commissioned sword and a pair of his pants?”

“Yes.”

She was growing angry now. “What stories could you possibly write?” She thrust the book out at him. “Read it. The first page. Now.”

Sweat was flowing down his back freely now. “I don’t think you want me to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because these stories aren’t your regular run-of-the-mill stories. These stories are…” Think fast. Think fast. Think fast. What would she not want you to read aloud? He thought of the way she’d blushed at him ranting about his tight black pants and said, “…smut.”

“Smut?” she asked, incredulous. “What is that? A type of spell? Are you going to tell me you’re a wizard now, too?”

If you looked foolish enough to believe that, yes.

“No, not at all.” He shook his head, trying to appear like the embarrassed half-wit he hoped she thought he was. “What I meant to say is these stories in here are…a certain type of genre that I don’t think you’d…They’re not exactly…”

“What is it?” she snapped.

He dropped his shoulders and committed. “It’s an exceedingly raunchy and unwholesomely in-depth autobiography of all the exploits I’ve had with women over the years. Tall women, thin women, large women. Old women, one-eyed women, peg-legged women—”

She dropped the book in her hand at once. “You’re disgusting.”

He swiped it towards him with his boot, saying, “Yes, well, that’s fine if you think that. It’s more for myself, anyway. Are you going to let me go now? Am I innocent?”

She let out a heavy breath, and in that moment her expression changed. It wasn’t that there wasn’t a glower there still, because there was. But now he could see pride, and hope, and— Great. Now her green eyes were sparkling just like her father’s. He outwardly realized what he’d realized subconsciously before: she was rather pleasant to look at. Except the words out of her mouth weren’t pleasant in the slightest.