Queen of Dragons: Steamy Fantasy Erotic Romance (Dragon nights Book 1)
Read Queen of Dragons: Steamy Fantasy Erotic Romance (Dragon nights Book 1) Online
Authors: Tasha Bell
©Tasha Bell
2015
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this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or
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*Disclaimer:
A version of this book was previously sold under my pseudonym Alice Longstaff
as People of the Vale. If you bought that book please send me an email at
[email protected]
and I will
send you a copy of this version free of charge.
The bedchamber shuddered a battering ram slammed
into a wall somewhere far below, the curvy courtesan’s body jiggled and shook,
not from the impact of the siege weapon, but from the tongue that worked
expertly between her legs.
She had always wanted to be fucked by a king, it
would be just her luck for the castle to fall down before he actually put it in
her. She pulled the man up by his tousled hair. “Take me, Your Majesty, we haven’t
much time.”
The King knelt between her legs, his thick shaft clasped
in one gold ringed hand. “We are safe here.” He gestured at the groups of stone
trolls who stood impassively around the edges of the chamber, maces gripped in
their huge grey hands. He ran the tip of his fat cock up and down her valley,
wetting himself in her juices, and plunged into her. The courtesan cried out in
shock as in one moment he filled her completely and the door to the royal quarters
burst open in a splinter of oak fragments.
Framed in the entrance stood a dark haired young
man, his heavily muscled body covered scars, mud and died blood. Double handed
over one shoulder he carried a heavy broadsword, he was light on his feet,
ready for whatever might come at him.
“Oh, fuck off.” Muttered the Pretender King, Lord of
the Dukes of the North, as he rolled from the soft bodied courtesan and reached
for his dagger.
Viviana had heard the glad news a week ago, after
ten long years of war the Dukes of the North had finally been defeated. A
traveller on his way out to the plains had recounted the news in the tavern. He
told the excited villagers that King John’s armies had run down the traitors at
Castle Ranchester and that in front of a fifty thousand cheering soldiers they
had thrown the Pretender King and his stone trolls from the high battlements.
The stranger had said that the army was being disbanded and the soldiers
demobbed. The men of Amvale would be coming home.
She couldn’t believe it had been ten years since
the war had come to the village, ten whole years since the men of the valley
were summoned to the square and marched out of their lives. They had not known
how to fight, those poor Sons of The Vale, they were ploughmen and millers,
gentle country folk, raised to nurture crops not to kill - but they had been
ordered away none the less - fodder for King John’s endless fight. Amvale had
once been the home of the Dragon Riders, and it was written into the ancient constitutions
of the land that they would provide support to the King in times of need by
sending him three dragons, or failing that three thousand men.
The last of the Dragons had died out three
generations before, and with it the glory of the Vale, now they were nothing
but poor farmers, obliged to honour an ancient debt. She shuddered at the
thought of what the men would have been through since she last saw them, the
miles they would have marched and the death they would have seen.
“Do you think they’ll remember us Alexandra?”
Viviana asked, gazing from her window to the other side of Amvale Forest, where
a faint cloud of dust was rising, kicked up by the weary feet of the Men of the
Vale marching towards their homecoming.
“I don’t know Viv” replied Alexandra. She was
normally so cheerful, but Viviana could tell from the tone of her voice that
today she was worried. Alexandra continued: “I was only fifteen when they left
and you must have been twelve, they have been away so long I’m not sure that I
can remember what they look like.” Viviana leaned on the windowsill and tried
to judge if the dust cloud had got any closer, it seemed to her that it hardly
moved at all. “I’m sure Christian will remember me,” she said, she turned to
face the other girl. “And your father and your brother, they won’t have
forgotten you”
Alexandra looked sadly at her highborn friend. “We
must be prepared,” she said. “After ten years of war this village will not see
the same amount of men return as went to fight.”
“I know,” said Viviana with a sigh. “But if
something had happened to Christian, or to your father, we’d have felt it,
surely somehow we would have known by now”
She looked back to the dust cloud, now almost at the
edge of the forest, and pictured her reunion with Christian. He had been her
childhood friend. The son of the head gardener at Loxley Hall. They had been
inseparable and he had taught Viviana more than any of her fusty tutors with
their ancient books ever had. He had snuck her out of the house to hunt for
wild honey in the woods, had shown her how to imitate the calls of the birds so
that they would come down and take food from her hand. He had shown her the
best places to swim in the river Am and how to sneak into the dairy and skim
the cream. The best memories of her childhood all seemed to revolve around
Christian, and she always felt that a part of her had been taken with him when
the men were conscripted.
Her most cherished childhood memory was of the day
that he took her climbing up in the mountains. They had sweated and toiled for
the best part of the day, along narrow ledges and seemingly impassable outcrops
of rock. Many times she had wanted to go home, but Christian had led her
onwards he eyes shining, telling her that she had to see what it was he had
found. Finally they crossed the lip of a cliff and out onto plateau at the top
of the world. They were they were standing in on the lip of a gently sloping
depression, like the shallow crater of a volcano, all around them were
scattered the ancient bones of cows, horses and people. She had wondered what
could have dragged all those animals up there to die, and then all at once realised
that she was standing in an ancient abandoned dragons nest. How he had found it
she did not know, but it was her he had chosen to share his discovery with, it
made her thrill in a way she had never experienced before.
So it had been the most horrible of days, that cold
November morning when he had been called to the square with all the other
menfolk. She could still picture him as he stood in front of the recruiting
sergeant, no longer a gardener’s son, but not quite a soldier yet either. The
breastplate he was given had been far too big for his narrow boy’s chest and
the helmet had pressed his unruly hair into his eyes. At only fifteen he had
been the youngest of the men to leave for the wars, but he’d bravely marched
off with the others, trying to look like a man though his slight frame and
hairless chin were those of a child.
She wondered what Christian would look like now, she
was sure he’d be handsome, even at fifteen she had thought him the most
beautiful man she had ever seen. And she knew he’d still have the same
mischievous laugh and broad ready grin. She looked back to the dust cloud and
started to plan all the things they’d do together over the coming weeks as she
reintroduced him to the gentle pleasures of life in the vale, she would pack
ropes and they would climb once more to the dragon’s nest.
Alexandra finished pinning up Viviana’s hair. She
too was thinking back to the day the men had left. She had wept from the moment
she heard the terrible news, and had begged her father to flee into the woods
with her brother, to hide there until the round-up had finished. But her father
would not be moved, he had said that the Men of the Vale always did their duty,
that they might not have dragons anymore but they still had their pride, and he
strode out into the square with his eldest son, their jaws both clenched tight
though their eyes glistened. Alexandra’s last memory of them was seeing them
turn back one last time to look at her as they crossed the bridge over the
River Am, Kit had stumbled over his large feet and her father had hauled him up
by his elbow, that’s how they had walked out of her life – arm in arm – and she
desperately hoped it was how they would return.
After the men left the village had grown quiet.
Everywhere Alexandra had seen the shadows of those who had gone to fight, in
the empty benches they left outside the tavern and in the unharvested corn left
to spoil in the fields. In those first few years the women had stuck together
to help each other through, unusual bonds had developed, relationships that
never would have flourished in times of peace. With her clumsy brother gone to
fight, Alexandra’s rooms above the tavern had felt deserted and cold, and she
had come to rely more on her friendship with the highborn Viviana.
She remembered how hard Viviana had taken
Christian’s departure, it was like a part of her soul had fallen away that day.
She desperately hoped that she would see them happily reunited, and she dared
not tell Viviana that she knew something terrible had happened to the men of
the vale, that she had woken in the night three years ago knowing a tragedy had
befallen them. Alexandra had her mother’s blood, and was cursed with the
visions that came to all women of their family. Although the she tried to be
happy at all times the images of blood that had hit her then still had not
left.
She looked over at Viviana’s silhouette framed in
the window. When the men had left Viviana was just a girl. A scruffy little
thing, thin as a whip with uncontrollable blond hair and a permanently dirty
face, no one would have been able to guess then that she was heir to half the
Vale. Alexandra smiled to herself remembering her friend as the scrappy little
tom-boy she once was. No doubt that she was a woman now. At some point her hips
and breasts had filled out and her walk had taken on an unconsciously feminine
shimmy, she found it hard to believe that any of the men would recognise the
fine lady her friend had grown into.
Judging by the dust cloud’s progress the men would
not reach the village for another two or three hours, their tired feet making
slow progress after what must have been several months of marching. But
Alexandra could not bear to spend the afternoon stuck away inside Loxley Hall,
waiting to see if they would have their hearts broken or healed, so clutching
her friend’s hand she pulled her out into the corridor, they would go and wait
in the square, even if they had to stand there all afternoon.
By six almost the whole village was assembled in
the centre of the village, but still the men did not arrive. The still warm
autumn sun slanted over the rooftops and hit the wall of the tavern that for
generations had been run by Alexandra’s family. Outside Matt Tindall and his
three sons sat drinking strong ale with a ragtag gaggle of cronies, they leered
and shouted as Viviana and Alexandra past. Viviana seemed not to notice, but
Alexandra gave them a seething look of contempt. Matt and his family had been
left behind when the other able bodied men were summoned to fight. They claimed
that they had been hunting boars high in the Borset Mountains when the call to
muster had sounded, and so they had missed their chance to fight for King John.
Alexandra did not believe a word they said, two separate villagers swore that
they had seen them sneaking towards the woods that grey dawn.
Elsewhere groups of women and the other men who
were not taken to the wars - those too young or too old, those who had hidden
and those who were crippled - were gathered in small groups talking nervously.
All were excited to see their loved ones return, but terrified of receiving
confirmation of their worst fears, that the husband or son they had waved off
on that cold November morning all those years ago had fallen in some lonely
northern field, far from those who loved him. No one had been able to get
specific news about their loved ones, but reports filtered down to them from
travellers through the village, three thousand killed by stone trolls at
Carnock Water, another eight hundred in Blansford Dyke.
A shout went up from the crowd and there came
sound of marching feet on the old boards of the Bridge. Moments later the man
of Amvale walked back into the square. Cries of excitement mingled with
exclamations of horror from the waiting villagers. Of the hundred and fifty men
who had marched over that bridge and out of Amvale ten years earlier barely
forty limped back in, and those not the big-chested, ruddy-faced country men
who had left, singing harvest songs and promising to be back in time to sow the
spring crops, these men were a different breed. Most were ragged and hollow
checked, they looked more like a colony of lepers than a column of soldiers.
Some were obviously wounded, missing limbs or eyes. One small group seemed to
have been blinded, they walked roped together following the sound of a bell.
Alexandra spotted her brother Kit and ran to him.
“Kit” She shouted, throwing her arms around his
neck, “oh Kit, you’re back! Thank the lord!” She paused looking at her brother,
he was still tall and lanky and still seemed to have a faint twinkle in his eye
though his lips were already quivering, it seemed that some men were incapable
of having their spirit broken. “And father?” Alexandra asked, already knowing
the answer.
Kit looked down at his little sister. The girl
he’d left behind had grown, filled out, become an attractive women. Her large
eyes began to fill with tears as he stood silently still, shaking his head
sadly. Eventually he managed to speak.
“Three years ago” he said, “At Neighton Bridge. I
tried Alexandra. I tried all I could but…” he began to sob. Alexandra had
always known her brother as a happy-go-lucky joker, but as he stood in the
familiar square, the place where he had spent his carefree childhood, she saw
all the emotion and pain of ten years of horror flowing out of him, his
shoulders seemed to crumple and he fell forwards to embrace her.
As Kit sobbed disconsolately on her shoulder a man
stepped forward to talk to Alexandra. She did not recognise him, he hadn’t been
one of the men who had left the village. He was hugely broad and powerfully
built, so much so that he had almost looked squat standing next to Kit, though
he could only have been a few inches shorter than her brother. He was older
than the other men, his close-shorn hair flecked with grey.
“Your father was a hero Alexandra,” he said in a
deep voice. “I was with him when he fell.” His broad sun browned face furrowed
with emotion as he talked.
“I’d been separated from my regiment when they
ambushed us on the bridge. I’d taken a crossbow bolt to my calf, I couldn’t
walk. Your father didn’t know who I was, we’d never seen each other before, but
he ran to me and held off the Pretender King’s troops as I tried to crawl back
to our lines. He fought them off long enough for our reinforcements to arrive,
but he was cut so badly.” The stranger stopped speaking and ran his hand over
his cropped scalp. Alexandra could not bear to hear what he was saying, but she
found she could not stop him either.
“I held him in my arms all that night,” he said.
“All he wanted was to talk about was you and your mother, about this village
and his tavern, and I promised him that no matter what happened to Kit I’d come
back here and look after you.”
Alexandra looked at the muscular stranger, this
man who’d brought her the most devastating news of her life and who was now
saying he wanted to help her, she felt herself flush with emotions, joy at her
reunion with Kit, grief at the loss of her father. Maybe if he hadn’t rushed
back to look after this outsider he would have come home to her.
“I don’t need any looking after” she said.
Viviana scanned the returning men for Christian.
She was certain that she would spot his broad grin or hear his infectious laugh
as he ran towards, but there was no sign of him among the home comers.
One-by-one the men hurried to embrace their families in the square. All around
her Viviana could hear their sobs as they recounted the fates of those who had
not come back. Eventually there was only one man left alone in the square. He
stood at least a head taller than the others and his dark hair fell to his
broad shoulders. While the other home-comers had searched the crowd for
familiar faces he stared ahead with his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed.
Around his narrow waist he wore a thick leather belt from which hung a long
sword. He carried a large, green leather sack under one arm. The other villages
kept away from him, intimidated by this dark unmoving presence in their midst.
Eventually Viviana approached him.
“Christian?” she said.
The man looked down on her, she could feel his
gaze travelling over her body, starting with her hair, so artfully pinned by
Alexandra that morning, but now falling loose, and moving over her face along
the curve of her neck to her breasts, before sliding down to her hips. Viviana
was used to the stares and winks of Matt Tindall and his friends, but this look
felt different, it felt hungry, as if this man could have ripped her clothes
from her right there in the square, in front of the whole village. Eventually
he raised his eyes to hers and she shivered, they were Christian’s eyes, but
older, so much older, as if he’d been away 1000 years not the ten she had
experienced waiting for him.
“Viviana?” he said at last.
“Oh Christian!” She threw herself into his arms,
he was so much bigger than the boy she remembered. Back then he had been a
lanky bean-pole, but now she could feel the layers of muscle beneath his tunic,
she was acutely aware of how small and soft her body was next to his. How if he
wanted to he could have picked her up and crushed her in his arms. There was a
power in him that had never been there when they had lain next to each other as
children, staring up at pictures in the clouds, something had changed.
She clung to him “I knew you would come back, I
knew they wouldn’t kill you,” she said. “You must come home with me, we still
have your father’s old cottage in the grounds,” she paused remembering that he
would not have heard the awful news. “Oh god! You don’t know do you? Oh I’m so
sorry Christian your father, he…”
“He died?” said Christian, his voice
expressionless.
“I’m so sorry,” said Viviana. “It was two years
ago, a very short illness.”
Christian gave a shrug and said “If there’s one
thing I am used to now its death. I’m going home.” And with that he walked off,
neither waiting for Viviana nor turning back to look at her. His sword and bag
clutched tight.
