Page 11 of Romancing the Orc

of the Adventures of Caroline Bakeworth

in Her Dealings with the Fair Folk

Caroline lived in England over three-hundred years ago. Family legend says she got into some kind of trouble—probably dallied with a man out of wedlock—and was married and shipped off to America with her new husband to avoid scandal.

Family legend also says she was a witch, that it’s something that runs in our veins. But no one else in my family has ever had powers, so it’s hard to believe.

Finally, I’ll be able to read her words, maybe get some answers! As crappy as this kidnapping shit is, I have to thank Elton for that—who knows when I would have realized I can read the runes.

WhycanI suddenly read them? Did years of my subconscious churning over this unknown language finally lead to a breakthrough?

I flip the journal open to the first page where she switches from English to the symbols, anticipation zipping through me.

Father forbade me to go near the fairy stones, but that only made me want to go more. I slipped out the servant’s entrance in the middle of the night. Barefoot and wearing only my night rail, I ran, such as I was never allowed to run during the day, the activity deemed too unladylike. Oh, the freedom of running! Energy coursed through my limbs. Was this why they forbade it? Because it felt too good, too much of the body?

The woods behind Harden Hall were dark and deep, the wind whispering secrets I longed to understand. I rounded the trunk of an ash tree and came upon a man.

Or perhaps not a man. For lo, surely no mere mortal could be this beautiful. His clothes, while of the finest cut and cloth, were a bright blue such as no Englishman would wear, the waistcoat heavily embroidered with silver thread. His pale skin gleamed in the moonlight as if he held a piece of that celestial body within his own. And his features were carved by a master, a sharp imperious nose, high cheekbones, and a mouth that spoke of sin.

“Little human, have you come to be mine for a night or an eon?” Those lips curled into a wicked grin, and everything my chambermaid told me of what happens between a man and a woman in the marriage bed flooded through my body with instant awareness.

“A night,” I whispered.

“Pity.” He dropped his head, his breath brushing over my ear. “What I would do to you, if I had an eon.”

Then those lips were on my neck, and a—

A deep thump makes me jerk against my restraints as my head whips around.

Vito lies in a heap on the floor.

CHAPTER SIX

Brokk

The sprites split up as soon as we reach the outskirts of the camp. Most of them head east, to where they say one of the larger tents serves as the mess hall.

Who knows how long it will be before the humans eat dinner and the Faerie Fruit takes effect? There are at least two dozen of them, scurrying around the camp like sugar ants on a dropped piece of cake. I bare my tusks as anger heats my blood. These are poor odds, even for an orc warrior, especially considering they have guns while I’m unarmed but for the hunting blade I carry inside a special pants pocket.

Unwilling to do nothing, I head west, circling the perimeter and making note of where sentries stand guard.

The humans are lax, with soldiers placed only every fifty yards. That’s not nearly enough when surrounded by jungle. I take full advantage of it, weaving in and out of the heavy underbrush made up of pineapple palms and fern trees. Numerous vines drape from the taller trees, adding tangling obstructions that will make a quick getaway an issue for any pursuers.

Not so for me. My magic flows outward, asking the vines to let me pass. They part like curtains before me, letting me slip through areas quietly.

Directly across the camp from the mess hall stands the next largest tent. It’s set a bit away from the others. At a guess, I’d say it belongs to the leader. A tiny tug in my chest pulls me toward it. Lara is there.

The vegetation parts in front of me, showing a valley. Lush foliage coats the land in the brightest of greens dotted here and there with the deep pinks and butter yellows of flowers. A ribbon of water curls across the bottom of the valley, a river bracketed by heavy trees.

It turns out the camp sits on a small plateau, and this tent butts up to the edge of the drop off. Interesting. I spin and survey the rest of the clearing. Even with all these soldiers and guns, they’re not patrolling this side of the camp, assuming the cliff is all the protection they need. It’s a weakness I’m more than happy to exploit.

Two men emerge from the large tent, and I blend back into the jungle, freezing in place and asking the plants to cover my brown-clad legs and blur their straight lines.

Remaining unseen in the wild is about three things: minimizing color differences, disrupting pattern recognition, and not attracting attention by moving. By the goddess, it feels good to use my warrior training again.

When they’re gone, I circle to the back of the tent, dropping to the ground to crawl along underneath a wide, open flap. I lift up for a moment to peek inside.

Lara sits in front of a large table, reading a book. She’s still wearing the pink clothing from the convention and looks unscathed, but the restraints on her ankles and wrist make my blood boil.

---