Page 53 of Plucked By the Orc

He slanted his hand to the armchair across from his desk.

As she sat down, she gathered the folds of her skirt around her. She dressed as formally as she did for their lessons, with a high-turned collar and long sleeves. Not that she needed any of the frills and ribbons that adorned ladies’ outfits. It was only that he’d grown accustomed to such and wondered why she withheld them from him.

“I wish to speak. To you. About your book. I confess to reading a section of it.”

Duncan regarded with horror the embossed leather notebook, imagining the words he had committed to the page now with fear rather than the pride he’d felt earlier. Still, she had crossed a line.

“Why the devil would you sneak a look at my notebook? I told you I would let you read my work once it’s done. And forbade you from reading it even a second beforehand.”

Her voice recovered some of its unique sound. “Forbid? Are you daft? What makes you think I would obey any request framed as an order.”

“Even so, you knew that I wish to keep this to myself.”

“If you truly wished it, you would have kept it under lock and key. Instead, you left the notes out in plain sight.” She raised her hand and jabbed a finger in his direction. “You told me I could come here and borrow books whenever I wanted. So I did just that. And when I saw that there … well, can you blame my curiosity for getting the best of me.”

He tapped his thumbs together, fingers otherwise interlaced, as though in prayer. “Could you not satisfy yourself with MissBurney and the other novels you might find on my shelves? What did you see?”

“I saw what you wrote about me. In English, it was. Not Orcan.”

It shouldn’t matter at all that he’d written about Miss Gabbert coldly and dispassionately. It was only upon re-reading what he had committed to paper that he felt it was phrased in such a way at all. And it was certainly no different in tone from how he had portrayed all the humans he recounted in his book.

Besides, he had intended to ask her permission before the English version of his tome ever saw the light of day. And that assumed he wanted to pursue the London publisher Albion had mentioned. He had only translated in the first place so that he might have the option.

But Iris was no mere subject. Not anymore. She was a vibrant woman and had been even as a flower seller in front of the Theatre-Royal. But this was different from the way their tale read.

He had been protecting himself by treating her as he would any other human woman about whom he wrote when that didn’t match his feelings at all. But he had never considered what she might make of that depiction.

Deep down, he understood how her portrayal in his book could have seemed at first blush. But had he not told her to wait to read until he had polished his manuscript and deemed it fit? Was that simple favor too much to ask?

“You made me sound like an experiment!” Iris cried. “Someone here just for your observation and not like a real woman.”

“Poppycock!” he said, pounding a fist on his desk to emphasize the point. “Just because you are under scientific scrutiny doesn’t mean you aren’t a real woman. That is simply nonsense.”

“Scientific scrutiny? La! You really do know how to sweet talk a girl. Why, what’s to keep me from swooning here at your feet.”

“Based on your comportment, I know you are not speaking truly, but for my life, I cannot determine what you want from me.”

For a fraction of a second, Duncan thought she might confess something of her emotions, a part of her he had been far less successful in uncovering than that which made her luscious body hum. She might declare that what she wanted washim. And not just his body, but every part of him, heart and soul. Just as he wanted her, and yet, her countenance restored to its usual vibrant anger, with just a sheen of hurt feelings to indicate that she had anything beneath it at all. If she would not admit any feelings for him, he certainly wasn’t going to lead the charge.

He watched the movement in her delicate throat as she swallowed.

“You told me this book would only get published in the Hidden Realm,” she said shakily. “Why would you have an English translation?”

His blood ran cold. And now that she regarded him with disappointment, the ghost of Lady Margaret Hathaway returned to haunt him. To remind him of the risks he took in caring for a human woman. The memories of her cruel words and haughty laugh cut deep as any knife.

Duncan thought of Albion’s offer of the London publisher who had taken an interest. It intrigued him. Could anyone blame him? Could Iris? Why would he undergo the agony of trying to commit words to paper if not to have them read by the broadest audience possible? And so he had started the translation on impulse.

“An opportunity has arisen with an English publisher,” he said slowly.

“You lied to me!”

“I did not lie. When we first spoke, I told you what I knew. That it would be published in the Orcan world but not in yours. The situation has changed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me as much?”

Duncan had intended to do so. Truly. He still believed he had to have her permission before he would dare publish it in London. But something constantly distracted him. Felton Maberly paying a call and swooning over Iris like a lovesick pup. Iris’s request regarding her friend Lottie Greenstreet. His fears that he was repeating the worst mistake of his past by falling for a human woman.

It made sense in his head, but the words sounded incredibly weak when he uttered them aloud. “I meant to ask you. I would have asked you. You were not supposed to find out this way.”

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