Page 6 of Tusk Love

“I—I have,” she stammered. “Stews, terrines…”

In porcelain dishes,he silently filled in,with jeweled forks, on linen-clothed tables decorated with fresh flowers. Maybe the butter’s carved into the shape of a swan—or is that too gauche?At any rate, Miss Guinevere had certainly never eaten freshly slaughtered rabbit from a crude spit while sitting on the forest floor with a blacksmith’s apprentice who was actually little more than a glorified chimney sweep.

Oskar’s thoughts came racing in fast and soured his mood, which had not been that cheery to begin with. He hacked off a generous portion of the roast, telling himself that he wasn’t selecting the tenderest part of the animal on purpose, and handed it to her with an air of challenge. She glanced around surreptitiously, and he knew, he justknew,that if she asked him where he’d washed his hands before eating, he was going to snap at her…

Guinevere straightened her spine and took the chunk of rabbit saddle from him. Her expression couldn’t have been more determined if she were marching into battle, and he suddenly felt more like laughing than snapping.

“Thank you, Oskar.”

She said it so prettily. Pretty, too, was the way she ate—in small bites, like a proper lady at a fancy banquet, rather than the bedraggled survivor of a bandit raid gnawing game off a stick on the forest floor. Her bow-shaped lips pursed delicately around each tiny morsel of flesh, her pink tongue darting out to lick glistening juices from her fingertips.

Oskar stared and stared, then cursed himself and scowled.

Chapter Four

Guinevere

The rabbit was lean and somewhat tough, but Guinevere was too famished to care. She asked for more, which Oskar obligingly gave.

Once the edge had been taken off her hunger at some point around her third helping, the awfulness of her situation began to set in. She was three weeks away from Nicodranas, without her guards, without a wagon, without the oxen. Her parents were going to wring her neck.

Such a disappointment, Guinevere,she imagined her mother saying.I knew you couldn’t handle something even as simple as this.

I can’t believe you lost Bart and Wart,her father would moan.They were like the children I never had.

And the horrible thing was that it wasn’t even the bandits’ fault that the oxen and the wagon were gone. Guinevere had been the one to manifest Teinidh, because she’d been so afraid that she’d failed to keep a level head.

We should never have listened to that batty old hermit,lamented theimaginary version of her mother.I should have tossed that terrible amulet straightaway!The imaginary version of her father nodded along, although with less rancor because he wasn’t the one who’d had to pop out a baby in the middle of an inferno.

“Where is it that you’re supposed to meet your parents?” Oskar asked abruptly. Guinevere told him, and he arched a brow. “The Menagerie Coast is a long walk from here.”

“I’d not planned on walking.” Misery leached into her every word. “I had an escort, as well as a conveyance.”

Gods, this predicament was dire. She had to keep it together, though. It would be most improper to fall to pieces with Oskar sitting across from her. He was so impassive and stern…and last night he’d dispatched that giant orc without breaking a sweat, and he’d carried her and the trunk effortlessly through the woods…and he’d even rustled up some breakfast…

An idea struck.

“Oskar,” she said, with a slow-blossoming hope, “I don’t suppose thatyoucould escort me?” His features hardened, but in this instance, desperation overcame her natural timidity. “Once we reach Nicodranas, Father will see to it that you’re adequately compensated for your trouble—”

“I cannot accompany you south,” he interrupted. “I’m headed north. To Boroftkrah.”

“Oh. I see.”

It could not be overstated how hard Guinevere struggled not to burst into tears in front of a man she’d met only the previous night. But despair rose from the bottom of her stomach and filled her chest and tangled in her throat. What was she going to do? She didn’t even know the way out of these woods. Her eyes grew moist and, mortified, she tried to rein it in, her bottom lip quivering.

Oskar’s sharp jaw clenched. “However, I will take you to Druvenlode.” He couldn’tquiteconceal his annoyance at this disruption in his schedule, which made matters worse. “It’s the nearest settlement. If we start walking now, we can get there before dusk—damn it, Guinevere, stop crying.”

“Druvenlode is still south, though!” she wailed, wringing her hands. “I’ll be t-taking you out of your w-way!”

“It’s no trouble,” he said curtly. “I live there, and I need to restock what was destroyed in the blaze.”

At this blunt reminder that the supplies for his own journey had also gone up in flames, thanks to her, Guinevere cried even harder. Memories of last night’s events swept through her like a wave, jumbled yet relentless, dragging her into a deep and tumultuous ocean of belated terror that was no place for a girl who could call the wildfire.

A heavy hand fell on the round of her shoulder. Oskar was crouched beside her, doling out awkward pats as she sobbed. He was so strong and broad, her unlikely rescuer, and she was overcome by a fierce longing to throw herself into his arms, to draw comfort from his warmth. But years of etiquette lessons and cutting corrections stopped her. They’d only just met. He was neither a relative nor her betrothed. She was wearing a nightgown, for crying out loud. It wasn’t proper. There were rules. Those bandits certainly hadn’t lived by the rules, and Guinevere wasn’t going to let them drag her down with them.

So she just stayed still and kept weeping.

“You’re safe now. That’s what matters.” Oskar’s tone was surly and ill at ease, but the words…somehow, the words were what she needed to hear. She clutched at them like they were lifelines. “It was unfair, what happened, but you made it through admirably. None of it was your fault. You’re all right now. You survived.”

---