Sharon Schulze - L'eau Clair Chronicles 03

Heart of the Dragon by Sharon Shulze

“Who are you?” Ian snarled.

He jerked his head to the side as Lily’s hand traced streaks of fire down his left cheek.

Crabbing her arms, he forced her back until her legs pressed against the bedframe.

“Don’t you know who I am? Have you not heard of Llywelyn’s Dragon?”

Lily’s gaze darted toward the bed, and her resistance increased.

“Leave me be,” she shouted, squirming against his hold.

Did she think he meant to bed her now? All he wanted were answers.

Suddenly the fight seemed to leave her. She slumped against him, lowering her head until her hair veiled her face.

“I cannot tell you who I am, milord … because I do not know.”

Sharon Schulze is a confirmed bookaholic who loves reading as much as writing. Although she has a degree in civil engineering, she’s always been fascinated by history. Writing about the past gives her the chance to experience days gone by—without also encountering disease, vermin and archaic plumbing! A New Hampshire native, she now makes her home in Connecticut with her husband, Cliff, teenagers Patrick and Christina, and their miniature dachshund, Samantha. In her spare time she enjoys movies, music and poking around in antique shops.

HEART OF THE DRAGON

Sharon Schulze

MILLS BOON

With love and thanks to my husband, Cliff and my children, Patrick and Christina. I couldn’t have done without you.

To Julie Caille, Ellen Keefe and Nancy Block, for encouragement, faith and steel-toed boots when I needed them. And with love to my parents, Colleen Towle and Howard Cottrell. You raised me to be stubborn—thank you!

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer. Neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises H B. V. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MILLS & BOON and MILLS & BOON with the Rose Device are registered trademarks of the publisher.

First published in Great Britain 1999 Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

Sharon M. Schulze 1997

ISBN 0 263 81288 X

04-9901-77492 C1

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Caledonian International Book Manufacturing Ltd, Glasgow

They called him Llywelyn’s Dragon.

A warrior bold as the creatures of Welsh legend, his temper as fiery, Lord Ian ap Dafydd was the Prince’s right hand. Men of power quaked at word of his arrival, for he was the sword to carry out Llywelyn’s judgment.

“Twas rumored he’d do any deed at the prince’s bidding, avenge any slight to his master’s name. Only Llywelyn had the might to direct the Dragon’s fury, to shape the form of his vengeance.

Or so the prince believed.

But shrouded deep beneath that scaly hide, the Dragon’s true nature slumbered.

Obscured by fire.

Hidden from harm.

Buried beyond the reach of pain.

Until he met her.

The woman with the power to free the heart of the Dragon.

Northern Wales, Spring 1215

Lily breathed deeply and stared up at the obstacle looming before her. Of rough stone, darkly menacing in the fitful moonlight, the curtain wall surrounding Dolwydde-Ian Keep rose above her like a vision from hell.

She loosened the strings of her cloak and slipped it off.

Rolling it in a bundle, she hid it in the shadows at the base of the wall, next to the sack containing her meager belongings. The wind whipped about her, pressing her short tunic and loose braes snug against her quivering flesh.

The cold didn’t make her shake, though she felt naked in the unfamiliar clothing. Nay, she’d borne worse. During the course of this ill-conceived trek, she’d encountered weather as unforgiving as the abbess herself.

She couldn’t even call it fear. It was desperation that made her shiver—but it had also lent her the strength she needed in the weeks since her mother’s death. Without that spur to goad her on, she’d never have escaped the confines of the cloister, let alone found Llywelyn.

For all the good it had done her.

Lily held her icy fingers to her lips in a vain attempt to blow some life into them. Exhaling deeply, she forced all her qualms to the back of her mind. It was no use thinking about it yet again. Some things had to be done, ‘twas all. She focused upon the rough-cut stones and, hands and feet groping for purchase, began her ascent.

Ian leaned back against the wall, arms folded across his chest. If only he could shut out the noise as easily as the cool stone banished the heat of the overcrowded room!

Tumultuous revelry filled Llywelyn’s hall, spilling out into the anterooms and up the stairs to the gallery above.

Wine, mead and ale flowed freely. He’d even caught a whiff of fiery Irish usquebaugh when the revelers reeled near in their drunken attempts at dancing.

But Ian stood apart, as alone among the mucous crowd as within the cool green depths of the forest. Ever silent, ever vigilant, he derived nothing more than a mild amusement from the scene unfolding before him. Once he might have joined the revelry, quaffed as deeply as the rest, but such foolishness no longer held appeal.

A woman stumbled toward him, skirts bunched in her hands and raised to the knees to expose her legs.

“Care to dance, milord?” she asked coyly, leaning close until her abundant breasts pressed against his folded arms. She freed one hand to trail her fingers down the front of his tunic.

“Come, I’ll teach you,” she said, her eyes promising more than a dance.

Something deep within him recoiled. Perhaps it was due to the smell rising from her tightly laced bliaut–old sweat and new ale—or mayhap it was simply her bold manner. Whatever the reason, he moved slightly away.

A burly soldier came up behind her and slipped his arm about her waist.

“Here, Meg—are you mad? What dye want with him?”

The woman cast one last look at Ian, lips curled into a pout, before she allowed the man to lead her off.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Ian shifted to a more comfortable position.

As he settled back again to observe the evening’s entertainment, he noticed one of his men elbowing his way across the hall.

“Beg pardon, milord.” Dai leaned close to speak near Ian’s ear.

“The guard on the south walk sent word someone’s climbing the curtain wall.” His lean face creased into a wry smile.

“Appears they’ve lost their stomach for it partway up.”

“By Christ, not another one.” Ian pushed away from the wall and headed for the door, traversing the long room easily as a path opened before him. Not two weeks past, some half-wit from the hills had tried the climb at first light to prove his valor to Llywelyn. His scream of terror and the sight of his body lying broken at the rocky base of the wall should have been warning enough to any other fool tempted to follow his example.

Who could be so stupid as to attempt such a feat in the dark of night?

Ian ducked beneath the door frame and ran lightly up the stairs to the walk, tugging his cloak close about him against the icy wind blowing down from the mountains.

The guard joined him as he peered over the crenel.

“Didn’t hear him till he’d gotten near where he is now, milord.” The guard’s eyes shifted nervously beneath the brim of his helm as he made the admission, but he stood straight and his voice was strong.

“At least ‘tis just the one.”

“Aye.” This time, at any rate, Ian thought with disgust.

He’d need to speak again to the captain of the guard, lest they wake some morn to find the keep taken.

“Bring me rope,” he commanded, turning his attention to the dark shape huddled against the wall.

“I’ll deal with you later.”

Ian scarcely noticed the guard’s hasty retreat as he tossed aside his cloak and unbuckled his sword belt. His attention remained fixed on the motionless fool below him as he propped the weapon against the wall, then climbed onto the uneven embrasure. He lay on his stomach, booted feet hooked round the merlon, and hung as far over the edge as he could reach.

“Are you hurt?” he shouted.

“Or just afraid?”

The shadow shifted, the movement resolving the dark blob into the form of a man.

“I fear nothing,” he said.

He slowly turned his head toward Ian in a surprisingly arrogant manner, revealing a face too youthful for a man full grown.

“I’m simply resting.”

“I should leave you here to ‘re st’ all night,” Ian said.

“Idiot halting,” he muttered to himself. Inching farther over the edge, he tried to judge whether his sword belt would reach, for he doubted the boy’s strength would last much longer. Faint moonlight gleamed white off knuckles that held the wall in a death grip. Mayhap they’d have to lower someone to pry those rigid fingers free.

But another glimpse of that pale face convinced him the guard would return too late. Moving quickly, Ian pulled himself back, out of the embrasure, and slipped the scabbard from his belt. He untied the other belt he wore about his waist and joined the strips of leather with a firm knot.

Even with the two belts together, they didn’t look quite long enough. He’d need to stretch as far as he could.

“I’m going to lower a rope,” he said, then whipped his tunic over his head and tossed it aside.

Ian wrapped the belt twice around his hand and, gripping the leather so tight that the metal studs bit into his palm, he levered himself over the lip of the wall and lowered himself and the makeshift rope.

The end stopped a bare foot short.

“Look up.” He kept his voice even, afraid the lad would loosen his hold.

“See the rope?”

Face pressed tight against the rough stone, the boy tilted his head and opened his eyes.

“Aye,” he answered, then squeezed his eyes shut.

“You’ll have to climb a bit more. Do you think you have the nerve for it, boy?” Ian asked, infusing the question with just enough mockery to raise the lad’s are.

“Or do I need to come down after you?”

The boy immediately eased one hand from its death grip upon the stone. A quiet moan blended with the soughing wind as that hand inched closer to the dangling leather. The lad had courage, he’d give him that—despite this foolhardy climb.

The provocation had the desired effect. In no time at all, the lad had scrambled close enough to grab the belt.

“Have a care,” Ian warned, as the leather stretched taut beneath the youth’s surprisingly meager weight. He wound the end tighter about his hand. Now, if the knot would hold… Muscles bunching from the strain, Ian pulled the boy toward him. Strong hands grabbed at his feet and held him, allowing him to haul the lad into his arms.

They flopped over the wall together and landed in a heap at the guard’s feet.

Sweet Jesu save him, this was no lad! It had been some time since he’d held a woman, but he couldn’t mistake the soft curves beneath the coarse male garments. Cursing, he shoved her aside and stood, tugging her upright to stand beside him.

The guard stepped forward to take her. Ian shook his head and jerked the woman’s arms behind her.

“You see to your duties,” he told the other man.

“I’ll take care of this.”

No need to have the guard carry this tale, at least not until he’d discovered why she’d attempted the wall. One hand a vise about her upper arm, Ian snatched up his sword and tunic and dragged the woman toward the stairs.

They hadn’t taken two steps before she dug in her heels and pulled to a halt.

“Come on,” Ian growled. She remained rooted to the spot. His sword clattered against the walkway as he spun to face her.

“Are you deaf, as well as stupid?”

“I wish to see Llywelyn.”

The faint moonlight gilded her face, highlighting her mulish expression. But her stubbornness didn’t matter.

Two could play at this game—and he had no doubt that his strength of will could overpower any resistance.