Page 23 of Running from the Orc
Well, to be fair, youdowant his flesh. Just not the dead animals.
Oh Lord help me, my mind was making cock jokes. I flushed and bent over the bread dough I was pounding, hoping my blush would not be noticed.
I should have known better.
“Ye ken, that idiot grandson of mine will return by tomorrow.”
I did not ask how she knew his schedule, and I did not ask how she knew I was thinking of him. In the last days, I had discovered exactly how good an orc’s sense of smell was. Gelma, from her spot by the open door, where she was sorting herbs, had likely smelled my arousal.
Because in the days I had been here, it seemed as if I couldn’t escape Varkaan either. Everywhere we went, someone would speak of him.
Och, this wool? Dyed with the woad Varkaan traded for in the south. This venison? Varkaan brought it down after a two-day track. This spice? Purchased after a month-long journey east by—I should have guessed it—Varkaan.
And at night, ‘twas as if I couldn’t keep the thoughts of Varkaan at bay.
Gelma was likely used to scenting my arousal.
Deciding I could not be any more embarrassed, I pounded the dough harder than necessary. “I do not care if he returns.”
Gelma snorted. “Ye ought to. ‘Twill take some time to work it out in his head, but he will.”
“Och, aye?” My fist slammed down. “And then what? He will strut around the village, flirting with all the females and charming all the traders, ignoring me until he leaves again?”
The old woman did not respond to my outburst. Instead, she hummed and continued sorting, her attention on the herbs spread before her. Finally, she spoke, a hint of amusement in her tone.
“By now, child, ye ought to ken that we orcs view desire differently than yer people. ‘Tis no’ something to be ashamed of, but something to celebrate between two willing adults, sometimes more.”
When I jerked my gaze up, the wizened face crinkled into a smile, and she winked. “I was young once too, long ago. Why, I could write abookon the adventures and positions I’d seen and experienced.”
My lips parted,but no sound emerged.
A book?
LikeA Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts?
In the days I had been in the Bladesedge Village, I had seen that of which Gelma spoke. Here, passion wasn’t something shameful or hidden away.
The first time I had come across a couple rutting in the stables—in theAuld Furry Weaselposition—I had slammed my hands over my ears and backed away, embarrassed to intrude on them.
The next time I had seen a similar sight—a Mated couple, her sitting astride his cock inThe Clinging Vineas he lay beneath a tree near the river—I had hidden to watch, intrigued.
And when I saw a woman leaning against the wall of one of the cottages, a male’s head under her skirt while her head was thrown back in ecstasy as he performedThe Invasion of Brussels, I had not even bothered to hide my interest.
Aye, here among the orcs, passion wasn’t something to be hidden away and ashamed of.
As my fingers dug into the dough, I wondered if the author of theHarlot’s Guidemight have been part orc.
The thought made me smile as I arranged the dough on a warmed tray to be taken to the baker’s oven.
“Yer sister arrives.”
I glanced at Gelma, surprised, but she was looking out the door, over the hill.
I began to run and didn’t stop until Sorcha was in my arms.
Was there ever a more joyful reunion? I thought mayhap, once Effie was here with us, we might be complete. But first, I had to hear what was planned for Sorcha.
“He is going to dowhat?” I gasped that afternoon, as I helped her into the bath. “And you will just allow it?”
