Page 82 of Romanced By the Orc

“No Englishman. No lady,” the man mumbled in French. “Other than the two of you.”

William hesitated before adding. “Are you sure? He is a most uncommon-looking fellow. He is not English by birth, though he has found a home in that land. He originally hails from the Hidden Realm.”

At that, Bacri’s eyes widened. Albion may have selected this inn as a meeting place, but clearly, its proprietor didn’t know he was an orc. Bacri made the sign of the cross over his chest with all due haste, as if William were looking for the devil himself.

“No orcs,” the man said with a ferocity that belied his lean form. “Not in this house.” He looked like he was about to spit but thought better of it. Diana had no clue why he should care when the floor of this hovel was already filthy. “Those monsters.”

This reaction was shockingly rude. Diana intended to tell him as much. But William tapped her wrist under the table and gave the subtlest shake of his head. Diana resumed staring at her pease soup. Hand shaking, she took a swallow of the red wine.

“Orcs are most unusual, I grant you,” William continued easily. “However, our friend is a good sort overall, and you understand how those fellows are. More money than they know what to do with. So he could pay handsomely should you permit him to stay here for a while. We hope to return to England soon, so we shan’t bother you for long. I only wondered if we had inadvertently crossed paths and missed him.”

“No orcs.”

“Very well. I shall make inquiries in town then. Might the lady remain while I do so?”

Diana could hold her tongue no longer. “I must come with you.”

“It is not advisable,” William replied. He had switched to English, which, thankfully, the innkeeper did not seem to understand. “I will cross the border to see if Lord Albion is traveling along the appointed path. It shouldn’t take long. And your husband would be most disappointed in me if I put you in any additional peril. I fear he shall be furious enough as it stands.”

“I’ve difficulty imagining my good-natured husband getting furious with anyone,” Diana remarked.

“But what if I miss him, my lady?” William whispered. “And he arrives here without me?”

If Albion came here, and she was not present to warn him, Diana would never forgive herself. Her only desire was for him to return to England unharmed. If William could best accomplish that alone, so be it.

Reluctantly, she nodded her assent.

William fished in the front pocket of his riding coat and withdrew a leather coin purse. He then placed several gold pieces on the table. Monsieur Bacri looked at Diana and then at the coins before grunting once more, sweeping the valued currency into his hand, and shuffling back to the kitchen.

“You see, he can be a reasonable fellow,” William said. “I won’t be more than half an hour.”

After a few gulps of the soup to fortify himself, he bid her farewell. She heard him call out to the coachman outside, then hooves trotting as the post-chaise departed.

Diana was left alone, the hoarse sound of Monsieur Bacri’s cough and throat clearing from the kitchen shredding her everynerve. She closed her eyes, attempting to calm her mind and establish how to convince Albie to flee at once.

But what of Lillian?

Her heart beat faster. Albie wouldn’t leave until he safely retrieved her. She was sure of that much. But Diana would insist that she travel with him this time around.

Ten minutes passed, the long-case clock ticking off the seconds fretfully. And then a commotion outside the door disturbed the relative peace.

Diana’s heart caught in her throat. Albion was here at last!

Her husband stepped over the threshold. He hadn’t yet seen her. And so she could luxuriate in his exquisite face and the tall form and firm body she knew every inch of by now.

Alas, this pleasure lasted less than a minute.

She waited, hoping against hope that the next sound she heard was Lillian. Instead, it was another masculine voice, chatting with Albie like neither had a care in the world.

A voice she had grown to absolutely loathe.

“Reg! What the devil are you doing here?”

When he spotted Reginald Addington outside the door to Monsieur Bacri’s inn, huddled in a voluminous greatcoat of a style all the rage a decade prior, outside the door of the inn, Albion easily maintained his amicable demeanor. He had perfected the performance to the degree that he supposed he might summon it in his sleep. He even worked up the cheek to slap the man heartily on the back by way of greeting.

As he hoped, his utter lack of guile seemed to confuse Sir Reginald, who started, jaw agape, before recovering himself.

“Lord Albion! How extraordinary to find a fashionable gentleman such as yourself about to enter such a humbleestablishment.” He rapped on the peeling timber panels along the doorway and gestured toward the low, rusting iron gate opposite. “Not your usual style, is it?”

---