Page 4 of Tusk Love

“You almost burned to a crisp for a handful of brooches?” he bellowed. “I nearly died to save some shitty cups?”

She frowned. “Our merchandise is of superb quality. We do not sell rubbish.”

He stared at her for several long moments. Whatever he saw made the fight drain out of him. He lifted his hands in a gesture that called to mind surrender. “You don’t travel much, do you?”

“Not as often as I would like,” she prevaricated. She’d been born in Cyrengreen and she’d spent the first three years of her life with the merchant caravans, but then her parents had installed her at the house in Rexxentrum, and she hadn’t ventured beyond the Shimmer Wardsince. However, there was a part of her that didn’t want her rescuer to think she wascompletelynaïve.

He sighed. “I left my supplies at my own camp when I heard the commotion coming from yours. It’s probably all ashes now.”

Her heart stopped. He’d lost all his supplies—she’d burned them down.Guilt and horror clawed at her, so intense that at first she thought Teinidh was trying to fight her way out again.

But the stranger must not have seen Guinevere unleash the wildfire spirit, or else he would never have bothered to save her, and he wouldn’t let himself be stuck in a cave with her now. He would not have wanted to be further exposed to the disaster-in-waiting that she was.

“We need to make a fire,” he announced. “A smaller one. To warm up.”

She swallowed. “With what kindling?” Miraculously, her voice quavered only slightly.

It wasn’t lying, she assured herself. It wasn’t even lying by omission. She couldn’t control Teinidh’s comings and goings.

The stranger gave her another disconcerting stare and then, without saying a word, pointed to the pearwood trunk she was sitting on.

A lady never lost her composure, but panic heightened Guinevere’s voice to a fever pitch. “Absolutely not! It’spriceless!”

She clapped her hands over her mouth. She’d said too much. It sank in how very alone they were in the cave and how she knew next to nothing about this man, not even his name.

A muscle twitched in his chiseled jaw. “I’m nothing like the scum who killed your guards and looted your camp,” he said icily, “but I have better things to do with my time than try to convince you of that. Don’t worry, miss, I’ll take my leave of you as soon as the weather clears.”

He stomped over to the entrance of the cave and took up an unmoving position there, his arms crossed and his back turned to her. His posture was rigid with an alertness that made it clear he really was waiting for the rain to stop and would walk off into the night once it did.

Guinevere felt terrible. After he so gallantly saved her life, she’d repaid him by casting aspersions on his character—and based on what? His gruff demeanor, his ragged attire? What didthosematter when he’d faced down a giant like Lashak even though he hadn’t needed to?

She thought about the guards again. They could all have fled and saved themselves when the bandits attacked, but they’d stayed to protect her instead. And she hadn’t even bothered to learn their names.

You must always be careful around the have-nots, Guinevere,her father often warned her.They turn to crime at the drop of a hat. Do not let compassion blind you. A person born in misery perpetuates that misery everywhere they go. There’s no overcoming ill breeding.

She had never vocally disagreed with her father on that account, else he turn the subject to her own failings. But there was no denying that, right now, she felt like the ill-bred one.

Taking a deep breath, she went to her rescuer’s side. His profile was like granite against the backdrop of shadow-clad bushes and shimmering rain.

“Sir,” she squeaked out, “it wasn’t my intention to offend. I was jumpy from the scare I had, but I know you’re not like those ruffians.” He made no response, and her nerve almost deserted her. But she persevered, because a lady knew when to apologize. “I’m so very sorry. I’m grateful to you for saving me, I promise. I beg your forgiveness for my—my unpleasant disposition. Please don’t go. I couldn’t bear it if you had to endure the night without shelter on my account.”

His honeyed gaze flicked to her, contemplative, measuring. She held her breath.

Then—he grunted. As far as male expressions of sentiment went, it was aloof but conciliatory.

She relaxed. “I’m Guinevere.” She offered it shyly, a hatchet to be buried.

Silence.

Complete and utter silence.

He leaned against the cavern wall and said nothing at all.

“This,” Guinevere declared a little too stiffly, her cheeks flaming, “is the part where you tell meyourname.”

The stranger took his sweet time studying her, as though she were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out. She lifted her chin, forcing herself not to flinch at his scrutiny. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was reluctantly amused by her defiance, one sharp, slender tusk gleaming in the moonlight.

“Oskar,” he finally said.

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