Page 21 of Stolen Hours

Farrah shivered into her dress and socks after shaking them out, breathing hard as she realized what her path must be.

But what a silly path. You can’t expect to drift around the world until you magically stumble across your future husband. What kind of husband would even put up with your “witchcraft” and wood lore, your spells and charms? No Mr. Normal for you, Farrah.

Speaking of charm and wood lore, she’d seen a perfect branch in passing, one with a perfect double fork on the same branch. Very rare,and it was a necessary component for making a blessing for twins. Her college roommate wanted twins.

Twins are a blessing and a rarity.

For a moment, Farrah thought about snapping the branch for herself.

The urge grew so strong that she couldn’t fight it and ran ahead, suddenly pulled toward one tree as if the other end of the red thread wrapped around her rowan cross was attached to it.

Wait... Thatwasa rowan tree. One of the biggest she’d ever seen!

Farrah sped up, eyes squinted, senses tingling, legs damp against her skirt, and breasts bouncing under her loose shirt.

“Ah-aahh!” A broken gasp ripped out of her throat when she made it to the tree, and her hand came down hard—on an arm.

“Shh!” A thick green face with shining white tusks and wide eyes hushed her. “It’s all right. Nothin’ to fear.”

“Orc!” Farrah blurted, choking out the word.

The green half-giant blinked at her and made a hushing, settling motion with his hand, palming the air as if soothing a frightened dog. “Aye, that’s right. How’d you come to know?”

“Witch.” Farrah’s voice was still equal parts broken gasp and guttural choking.

“Aye, I thought so.” He nodded. “Heard that bit about the crimson and rowan.”

“I—Were you watching me?” Farrah backed up, blushing, suddenly feeling way too exposed, despite being fully clothed.

The handsome Orc—yes, there was no denying he was handsome—blushed and skirted her gaze. “Not on purpose. I was hunting and came up this way, and there you were. I didn’t know how you’d react. I hid. I looked back, and you were in the river.”

“Oh. I was muddy.”

“‘Tis easy to get muddy around here. I’m Ian Fenclan.”

“Farrah Fenclan. I mean, Farrah Falkirk! Flustered.”

“Falkirk.Like little Widow Falkirk who lives by the beach? She’s tough as nails.”

“My grandmother,” Farrah said proudly.

“Grand! She’s a good lady to know.”

“She never told me there were Orcs on the island. She said Faefolk...”

“You’re in more danger from the London laddies who come up and drink whiskey all day before they try to hunt something.”

Farrah shivered again, not from cold, but because she’d already met her fair share of grabby college boys and drunken businessmen.

“Night’s coming on quick.” Ian Fenclan whipped off a stagskin cape and laid it over her shoulders.

“I’m not cold.” Farrah’s voice drifted away, flying like the guga over the coves. The longer she looked at Ian, the more handsome he became, and the strangeness of him became more enticing.

“Keep it. It looks right bonny on you. More than it ever did on me.”

“I c-couldn’t. I’m not sure I’m staying on the island.”

The soft smile on his face fell. “Ah. Just a visit?”