Page 20 of The Orc's Innocent Plaything

I snorted softly, and Vartok studied me as he settled me on the bench at his side. I turned slightly to face him.

“Why did ye no’ come to me?”

“Where is yer injury?”

We both spoke at the same time.

Before I could process his question, or begin to consider how to answer it, his lips curled ruefully and he held up his left hand. For the first time, I noticed a small bandage wrapped around his forearm.

“One of the first lessons a smith learns is no’ to become distracted around coals,” he admitted. “I was distracted today.”

I was already reaching for the satchel I’d grabbed from Avaleen’s home.

“I have some burn salve I could?—”

He captured my hand, stilling me. “It is aright, Myra. Nan keeps me well-supplied in burn salve, and I ken how to apply it. It truly wasnae so bad, but ‘twas all I could think of to get ye away from yer sister’s home.”

I found myself flushing in appreciation.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my hand caught in his so I couldn’t walk away. Before I could think better of it, I asked, “Why were you distracted?”

His lips curled into another rueful smile, and I noticed that spark of green in his dark eyes again.

“I should say I was distracted by memories of yer taste, aye? And ‘twould no’ be a lie. But at the moment it happened, I was listening to Klorbkal complain about the changes in the sheep pasture plots.” He shrugged, as if he hadn’t just embarrassed—and thrilled—me. “I was frustrated by the pettiness and allowed myself to be distracted.”

There was something about the set of his jaw…I peered closer.

“You really were irritated?”

“Aye, of course!” He blew out his breath and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees without releasing my hand. “This whole damnable position irritates me. Why should I care whose sheep needs penning? What do I kenabout the proper times to plant, and how the seeds should be cared for? And precedents?” He clucked his tongue. “I hate it.”

“You hate precedent?” I hedged, trying to understand.

His breath huffed out of him in an approximation of a chuckle. “I hate having to remember them. I was made to hammer metal. ‘Tis an art, a skill. I have patience at the forge, or when I am working on my crafts…” When he shook his head, the beads in his braids tinkled, telling me which craft he meant. “But nae patience for this sort of thing.” He turned his full attention to me. “I am no’ a leader, Myra.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Here he was, staring at the fire, sharing his feelings. His secrets. And all I could think of was how handsome he looked in his cloak, his booted knees spread. Knowing he would guess my body’s reaction, I refused to remember how his knees had looked, covered in his seed.

I was mostly successful.

As he twisted his head to peer at me, I blurted, “I think you are a fine leader.”

“Liar.” The twist of his lips belied his harsh words. “I am grateful for yer suggestion to form the council.”

I reared back. “What?” I had few enough conversations with him—before yesterday—that I remembered them all. “I never suggested…”

“Nay, no’ outright.” He squeezed my hand. “’Twas at the beginning of the winter, ye suggested I was unfit forleadership—I believe ye called mearrogantandlazy—and I should allow someone aulder and wiser to lead.”

Oh.

I felt my cheeks heating again and pulled my hand from his. “I did not mean…”

“It matters naught.” He slowly straightened. “Because it made me consider how I could share leadership with those whowereaulder and wiser. Starting the council, asking for their help, meeting with them here…” He shrugged, one side of his lips curling. “Iamgrateful, ye ken.”

“You are not lazy,” I blurted.

And his lips finished their curl into a full smile. “But I am arrogant?”

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