Page 8 of Romanced By the Orc

Deep in her heart, Diana knew she did not deserve happiness.

CHAPTER THREE

“Blast this wind,” Albion declared, stepping inside the tavern. “Whatever happened to that bright morning sun? Dash it all if this climate isn’t bracing!”

Since the Hidden Realm was located northeast of England, near the Scottish border, the gray clouds and damp chill in the air roused him. But he slammed the door shut, sealing in the warmth of the fire blazing in the stone hearth.

The Wayfarer’s Respite was said to have been rebuilt several times over, the current incarnation resulting from the aftermath of a great fire that smote London some hundred and forty-odd years prior. The tavern’s high, beamed ceiling and oak paneling imparted a sturdy feel. A limestone slab near the door, about the size of a house cat, marked the site of a gladiatorial pit during the Roman Empire.

Albion’s Orcan ancestors had avoided the conquests their Celtic neighbors endured. Later, they staved off raids of the Vikings who had materialized from the Sea in the North. Duncanwould say that history accounted for the Hidden Realm’s secrecy.

“My good orc!” The tavern keeper, Ollie, was rosy-cheeked and rotund. As Albion walked in, Ollie was relating a story to three shivering humans in oilskin raincoats sitting at one of the long wooden benches in the back of the room, a mother with a boy of twelve and a girl of eight.

Had Albion not seen the dossier explaining their predicament, he would have guessed the children to be younger. Their diminished forms were due to poor nutrition and living circumstances over the past several months. All three had a lean, hungry look and seemed more intent on finishing their Santea soup than giving him the once-over, as most humans were prone to when Albion entered a room.

The Wayfarer’s Respite doubled as a haven for those escaping Chamberly. Being a good sort, Ollie didn’t object to the business. Certainly not so long as Albion remained a loyal customer. Yet Albion mustn’t express relief at seeing that the latest refugees had arrived here safely. From their vantage point, it would look as though Albion Higgins was there to enjoy a drink and hearty meal, the same as any other Londoner on a rainy day.

“Nothing like a fine ale to chase out the chill, wouldn’t you say? And have you any of your famed Santea soup left? I’ve developed an insatiable taste for it.”

“I would never let my top-earning item run dry,” Ollie said. “Might I tempt you with our brown bread to accompany the dish? If you please, I can give you half a loaf with plenty of butter.”

“Why stop at half?” Albion puffed his chest out so his body strained against his satin waistcoat. He rubbed his stomach good-naturedly. He took care with his morning calisthenics, so he hardly had any fat on his belly, but humans enjoyed such buffoonery. “Make it a whole loaf, if you please.”

“I’ll get to it, then.”

Ollie nodded agreeably before ambling back to his kitchen. Before Albion left later that night, Ollie would likely suggest another round of ale and an entire custard tart besides. Which he would gracefully agree to, though he doubted he could finish such a meal even given the entirety of a day.

“Blessedly fine dish, is it not?” Albion asked the trio. “I shall gain a stone on Ollie’s fare.”

The children remained silent, though both appraised him with wide eyes. As an orc in a human setting, a man could not fade into the background, as his entire family knew all too well. While Dunc resented that fact, Albion had learned to embrace his commanding physical presence.

Their mother met his gaze steadily. “It is good to have a filling meal, yes.”

Comtesse de Flarine spoke lightly accented English, reaping the benefits of a world-class education. Her children nodded sagely, more from obedience to their mother than familiarity with the language, he suspected. The Comtesse had shadows under her eyes, and her children’s shoulders were sharp and bony underneath the cloaks. Otherwise, they seemed unharmed, free from tell-tale scars or bruising.

Thank the old gods for that. The Duke of Rostin’s mercenaries were known to be brutal when confronting their employer’s enemies.

“My word! Do I detect an accent?” he asked in his customary lackadaisical manner. “Are you French or some such? I’m hopeless with that lingo.”

“You speak the language of the Hidden Realm, do you not, sir?”

“Indeed! But that’s hardly a new tongue to an orc such as myself. My mind has sufficient space for two languages, but Idare not tempt it with others. Might I ask where you acquired your lovely inflection?”

“We customarily converse in French,monsieur, but are citizens of the Free State of Chamberly. I am proud to say.”

“Welcome to London, though I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.” Albion shook his head fretfully as Ollie returned from the kitchen with steaming Santea soup in a tureen, a loaf of brown bread, and a generous slab of creamy butter. “Nasty business that.”

“We were fortunate to escape. Thanks to the assistance ofLe Fantôme Bienveillant, we shall make new lives for ourselves in England.”

“Deuces! You’ve met that notorious fellow?”

“Not the leader. Rather, a gentleman who works under his direction. He dressed as a peasant and instructed us to hide in a covered cart.”

“Hasn’t Chamberly a heavily fortified gate?”

“Indeed. But this brave gentleman never once lost his composure. He spoke with the cadence of an older man and shrieked about his grandson suffering from smallpox. We were then permitted to leave the city in all haste.”

“Stuff it if that isn’t a clever bit of thinking.” Albion forced himself not to smile. He had instructed his most loyal compatriot, William Langley, to use that line about smallpox. While Duncan and Albion were inoculated as children against the dreaded disease, many humans feared the injections.

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