What a Dragon Should Know (15 page)

The royal guards stood behind her now, ready to return home.

“Any word from Keita?” her daughter suddenly asked.

Rhiannon’s youngest daughter and most prominent pain in the ass, Keita the Red Viper Dragon of Despair and Death, was rarely in contact with her mother, which Morfyd knew well enough. But Morfyd also knew Rhiannon always seemed to have a good idea where her offspring were at any given time and when she might be needed by them, whether they called for her or not. It was no different with Keita, although she never seemed to need her mother or want her assistance.

Keita wasn’t merely independent; she was belligerent, and always sure Rhiannon was nothing more than a meddling old dragoness bent on making her perfectly useless life miserable. There seemed to be so much misplaced rage in that hatchling, although Rhiannon often felt she was the only one who ever saw it. To Keita’s siblings and Bercelak, Keita was the most funloving and carefree of them all, looking for pleasure wherever she could find it.

Yet Rhiannon knew differently. She saw Keita exactly as she was and treated her exactly as she deserved.

So, taking Morfyd’s question literally, Rhiannon answered, “Not since she told me to fuck off, no.”

“Oh, Mother—”

Rhiannon dismissed the conversation about her youngest daughter with a flick of her talons. “Gwenvael?” she inquired. Her son could be annoying, but he was never as antagonistic as Keita.

“In the Northlands,” Morfyd reluctantly explained. “Getting more … information.”

“And whose brilliant idea was it to send the Whore of the South into the Northlands alone?”

“Annwyl’s.”

“And that’s when you should have known that something
must
be wrong with her.”

“Mother!”

“What? I still didn’t call her a whore!”

Juicy blisters were lanced and the contents cleaned out, a salve smoothed into the sores. Torn palms were carefully cleaned out and blood wiped away, a different salve then put on top. The wounds on her feet and palms were wrapped in clean linen, and a concoction practically forced down her throat would help with pain and make sure there was no fever or infection later that night.

Then, after much arguing and haggling over payment—he’d forgotten about the Northlanders’ love of a good haggle—Gwenvael finally managed to get the difficult Lady Dagmar into a nice bed at the Stomping Horse Inn. Yet even with her hands and feet wrapped, she’d been more than ready to go off on her “little chores,” as he liked to call them simply because it annoyed her so much. Yet, he wouldn’t hear of it. Not when they’d had to go the more traditional route for her healing.

It had been ages since he’d seen someone insist that only the use of herbs could help them. His sister and Talaith always threw in additional spells and such to empower the speed of the healing process, but Dagmar had been adamant that that wouldn’t work for her.

“Because I don’t worship the gods,” she’d explained. “Magick from witches or priestesses or whatever never works on me. One tutor I had actually told me that the gods themselves would have to get directly involved for Magick of any kind to assist me.”

Since he and the healer doubted the gods would directly help with Dagmar’s swollen ankle and ready-to-burst blisters, Dagmar had to rely on drinking some vile-looking concoction and resting for the remainder of the night.

“Go out wandering tonight on those feet and you’ll be right back here in the morning,” the healer had warned.

Although she’d still argued, Gwenvael finally dumped her off in a bed at the inn and went out to get her something to keep up her spirits. When he returned with the puppy he found in someone’s yard, he thought she’d be happy.

“You stole someone’s puppy?” she’d accused.

“Dragons don’t steal. We simply take what we want. It’s not like that little girl needs him more than you do.”

She’d pointed at the door, looking haughtier than ever, even with her hands and feet bandaged. “Return him.”

“But—”

“Now!”

He grudgingly had, not appreciating the way she’d dismissed him, and proceeded to pick up a few more things. When he returned for the second time, he’d found her not sleeping but working with quill and ink and parchment. Annoyed, he pulled the quill from her hand.

“I’m not done.”

“You are.” He took the parchment and the ink, placing them on an empty chest at the foot of the bed. “The healer wanted you resting.”

“No. She didn’t want me wandering around. She didn’t say anything about me writing.”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m in a very bad mood because of you.”

“Who told you to steal a child’s pet?”

“Don’t make me cover your face with a pillow until you see my side of things.”

“Isn’t that called murder?”

“In some parts of the world.” He sat down on the bed. “Although you were completely ungrateful about that damn puppy, I got you other gifts.” He pulled out the sack he’d brought in with him.

“I’d really prefer something to eat.”

“Food will be up in a few minutes or so. Until then, ungrateful wench, I got you this.” He placed the book he’d purchased on her lap so she wouldn’t try and hold it in her hands. “I was told it’s relatively new, so I’m hoping you haven’t read it yet.”

She studied the cover.
“Jani: The life and loves of a local tavern girl.”
Dagmar let out a breath. “No. I can say with all honesty I haven’t read this one.”

“Good.” He went back into the bag and pulled out the next few items.

“I already have boots.”

“These are better boots. Better for when you’ll be doing a lot of walking. You don’t want those blisters back, do you?”

“And the socks?”

“Just as warm as wool but less rough against the skin. Wealthy soldiers-for-hire use them all the time when they’re traveling from battle to battle.”

Her fingertips rubbed along the leather of the boots. “Thank you. This was very sweet.”

“You’re welcome. Besides, I didn’t want to go through another round of boil lancing.”

“Blisters,” she snapped. “They were blisters not boils.”

“Blisters. Boils. Does it matter?” He glanced down at her feet. “How’s the ankle?”

“Better. The swelling has gone down considerably.”

“See what happens when you listen to me? Only good things.” He smiled at her. “Now, are you going to thank me properly?”

“I said ‘thank you.’ That’s considered in some cultures as thanking you properly.”

“I was hoping for a little more than that.”

She studied him a long moment before she nodded.

“All right.” She scooted down a bit on the bed, pulled her gown up high on her thighs, and relaxed back into the mattress. “If you could make it quick before the food gets here, that would be great.”

Gwenvael felt a small twitch beneath his eye. He often got something similar right on his eyelid but only when he had to deal with his father. Apparently a new one had developed that belonged only to Lady Dagmar. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to get on my knees, because I don’t think the healer—”

“No!”
Good gods, this woman!
“That’s not what I meant, either.”

“That’s always what men mean when they ask to be thanked properly.”

“Your world frightens me. I want us to be clear on that.” He leaned over and grabbed her waist, lifting her until her back again rested on the propped-up pillows.

“I’m unclear as to what you want, then.”

“A kiss,” he said, pulling her dress back down to her ankles. “A simple kiss.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because that’s what I want as a thank you.” And because he was certain a kiss from this obviously cold fish was just what he needed so he could stop thinking about her and focus on what was important.

“What exactly are you expecting?”

“Sorry?”

“What I mean is, is there some particular response you need for me to have in order for you to be pleased? Should I faint or merely moan at the contact? Perhaps I could shake a little, which wouldn’t be hard because I am so hungry right now.”

“Can’t you simply act like you always do when you’re kissed?”

“I’m guessing you’re used to much more dramatic responses than you’ll ever get from me.”

“Ah-ha!” He pointed a finger at her. “You’re a virgin.”

“Ah-ha!” She pointed her finger back. “No, I’m not.” She suddenly blinked rapidly and pulled off her spectacles with one hand while using her thumb and forefinger of her other hand to rub her eyes. “I have been, in point of fact, married three times.”

“You were? What happened?”

She put her spectacles back on. “The first insulted my father at the after-wedding first meal, although my husband did manage to drunkenly initiate me into womanhood the night before. By midday he’d been pulled into pieces by four of my father’s war horses, much to the audience’s drunken delight. The second wisely had his way with me right after the ceremony in one of the stables, but then insulted one of my brother’s wives at the celebration feast. He lost his head right there during the stuffed pig presentation. And the third, poor thing, he barely got through the ceremony, shaking and quivering like a lamb. Then he excused himself right after the commitment and I never saw him again. Not that I could blame him. Father insisted I have the marriage dissolved, so I did.”

Dagmar rested her hands on her lap, palms up. “Now,” she said, “aren’t you glad you asked?”

She did love telling those stories. They were all true, every word. She simply chose what to leave in or take out depending on her audience.

For instance, her father didn’t attack Dagmar’s first husband until The Reinholdt saw her face the day after her wedding. She’d tried to stay in her room, tried to hide what she’d woken up with after only one night with her husband. It wasn’t that Dagmar hadn’t been willing; she simply didn’t have the kind of responses her husband had been expecting.

Yet her servant at the time, a much older woman who’d also tended Dagmar’s mother, insisted Dagmar attend the after-wedding first meal as etiquette dictated. Dagmar would never forget the look on her father’s face when he saw her. Or the way her brothers leaped over the table to get their hands on her still-drunk husband. And they only waited until midafternoon to set their horses in motion because, according to her father, “We want the bastard to be nice and sober when them horses start moving.”

No, that part of the story was for no one else but her because at the time it had meant the world to her.

“I am glad I asked,” the dragon finally said. “It makes me feel much better about the legion Annwyl is sending to your father.”

“It does?”

“Aye. How a male treats his female kin shows me what kind of male he truly is. My father cleaved a dragon in half when he found out the bastard had been telling all his friends he’d been bedding my baby sister—which he had. But still, he shouldn’t have bragged about it as he did, so my father used the dragon’s own battle ax on him. Cut through him from the top of his head, straight through, splitting him into two distinct pieces. Keita mostly beds human males now. Dragon males avoid her.”

“Shocking.”

“Weak. If you’re too afraid to fight for what you want.” He smiled. “Now … Can I have that kiss?”

“If after all that talk of dismembering and cleaving in half you still want to kiss me, then be my guest.”

He moved up on the bed until his hands rested on either side of her waist.

“Come on now, dear,” he said in a high-pitched, elderly woman voice that made her laugh, “pucker up for me.”

She did, closing her eyes and pursing her lips like a fish. She heard him chuckle and then felt his breath against her mouth seconds before she felt his lips. They pressed against hers, firm and warm. Strangely gentle and almost unbearably sweet. With her eyes still shut, Dagmar relaxed her mouth and Gwenvael tipped his head to the side, his mouth slanting over hers. He didn’t rush her or push her, didn’t try to force his tongue into her mouth or push her back on the bed. Instead the tip of his tongue gently lapped at her lips. First the top lip, then the bottom, then between the two. The movement was slow and teasing.

Dagmar was well aware that Gwenvael the Handsome had kissed many before her. He would ease his way into her mouth the way he’d done with others. But she had no patience for this particular game of his and simply opened up. Perhaps once he got in, he’d leave her be and she could go back to finishing the message she needed sent to her father the following morning.

Gwenvael’s tongue sunk deep into her mouth and Dagmar placed her hands against his shoulders, ready to push him away. She didn’t want to start gagging, and she was already a bit bored, and she needed to get back to her … to her … uh …

Wait. What had she been doing before?

At the moment, she couldn’t remember any of it, nor could she care as her fingers tightened against Gwenvael’s shoulders, his chain mail harsh against the tips.

The dragon groaned, the sound of it rippling through her. His tongue tangled with hers and Dagmar’s body responded to it. Her nipples hardened, her thighs tensed, and the walls of her sex clenched over and over, demanding something slide inside for it to grab hold of.

She would have been disgusted by her weakness if the dragon’s gentle teasing hadn’t also turned more urgent, more demanding. His hand slid around the back of her neck, holding her in place, the fingers squeezing and releasing the muscles there. His body moved in closer, his free hand gripping her hip.

Dagmar had to have more. She released her grip on one shoulder and dropped her hand to his lap. She whimpered when she felt the hard cock beneath her hand. Even through the chain mail, she knew it was large and powerful. Built to make a woman promise anything if she could only play with it for a night or so. She stroked her hand against him and the dragon shuddered. She liked that, so she did it again. Now he whimpered and moaned while he still kissed her. Her hand continued to stroke him, over and over again, developing a rhythm he seemed to be enjoying immensely.

The dragon’s human form tensed, and then suddenly he was scrambling away from her, stumbling across the small room until he landed in the only chair they had.