What a Dragon Should Know (18 page)

“Oh … Brother!” she cried out, placing her hand over her mouth and shaking.

The old monk raised his walking stick again, aiming for Gwenvael. “You!”

“All right, I’m leavin’, I’m leavin’!” Several monks followed Gwenvael to the end of the row and he glanced back at her, giving her a quick wink and motioning toward the door before he disappeared.

The monk placed his arm around Dagmar’s heaving shoulders. “You poor, wee thing.”

“Brother, he was just so … just so …
forceful!”

“I know, dear. You must be careful around brutes like him.”

“I will, Brother,” she replied bravely as the monk helped her toward the main desk, where she could hopefully get her questions answered. “I never want to experience that horror again.”

* * *

Gwenvael let the monks force him out the massive doorway and onto the library steps.

“You’re all stuck up bastards!” he yelled as the door slammed in his face. He grinned. “I am such a bastard.”

He turned and realized he had everyone’s attention.
“What?”
he demanded with the appropriate scowl, and they all scattered.

Grinning again, Gwenvael went down several steps and looked around. He saw a nice-looking inn not too far away and thought about taking Dagmar there for a quick meal before they were on their way.

Though what he really wanted to do was get a room and keep her in it for the remainder of the day and all of the night. What was it about that woman that made his knees weak?

He’d only met one other woman who had ever done that to him before and she’d been his first. An older sea dragoness named Catriona who taught him all the important basics about pleasuring a woman. But he’d been a babe then—no more than thirty—and he’d realized too late that he was one of many. She’d waited until Gwenvael was good and attached to her before she disappeared one morning, back into the sea she’d come from. It had been his dear grandfather Ailean who’d tracked him down at a local whorehouse, knee-deep in ale and pussy. It had been his grandfather who told him that one day he’d find someone meant only for him and him alone …

Gods, what was wrong with him? He hadn’t even bedded the little barbarian yet and he was having wistful memories of his grandfather explaining love to his drunken ass.

Obviously he was losing his sanity in this cold, unforgiving place. Dagmar was not and would never be the woman for him. Not for more than a night or so and he was sure he could make that happen without much trouble. He knew she wanted it as much as he did, and there was no reason to deny either of them the pleasure.

Tonight he’d have her, tomorrow he’d take her back to her precious people, and with valuable information in hand, he’d head back to his own. Aye, perfect plan.

Gwenvael took a deep breath—trying to calm his cock down before anyone noticed—and looked up at the sky. As always there were those low-hanging clouds that seemed to perpetually block the beauty of the two suns, but he really expected to see darker clouds since it smelled like a storm was …

Realizing too late he should have been paying closer attention to his surroundings rather than day-dreaming about tiny plotters, Gwenvael swung around just in time to see that warhammer as it smashed into his head.

Yrjan had worked in the Great Library since he was fourteen winters. His father realized quite early that Yrjan would never have the skills or strength of his brothers, and he got rid of him as soon as he could manage by giving him to the Order of the Knowledge—the only order dedicated solely to the libraries of the Northlands. Not that Yrjan minded joining the Order. He was actually quite grateful to his papa.

Normally, here in the Great Library he was safe from the kind of violence he had suffered every day at the hands of his own kinsmen as he’d always been an easy, weak target. The brothers of his order, the other librarians, were all quiet, learned men who spent their time helping others find books or learning something new themselves.

But now that violence had come into their quiet lives.

The poor woman who’d ended up trapped in the stacks with that horrid warrior. His type thought they could get anything they wanted by taking it—and often they could. But the brute underestimated Yrjan’s order. They simply didn’t allow that sort of thing to happen among their sacred books!

Yet there was nothing to do about it now. Instead he was asked to soothe the young woman’s rattled nerves. Poor thing. She appeared so stricken by that animal!

She was a wee, plain thing and, like Yrjan and his order, most likely spent the majority of her time in the safety of books. She wore small, round spectacles, as did many of his library brethren, and the unadorned wardrobe of a true scholar. Yrjan was sure the brute had targeted her as he would a small deer or elk.

“You’re quite safe now, my lady,” he promised, putting a cup of hot tea in her hands. “I can call the city guards, if you’d like.”

“No. Please don’t. It’s unnecessary. I’m fine.”

He didn’t blame her. The city guards were not much better than the warrior who’d mauled her, though his order did have some influence with them. But he wouldn’t push if she’d prefer it.

“You can stay here as long as you’d like, my lady and—”

“Actually, Brother, I came here for a reason.” She placed her untouched tea onto the table and looked at him. “I need your help, if possible.”

“If it’s in my power, I’ll do what I can.”

“I am in search of an order of monks.”

He smiled, feeling confident. The different Northland and Southland orders of monks were among his several areas of expertise. “I actually know most of the orders. Which one do you search for?”

“The Order of the Warhammer?”

“Ahhh, yes. A great order. We have many of their books and documents in a special room. I’m sure I can get you permission to—”

“No, no, Brother. I need to get in contact with the Order itself. I was told their monastery is near Spikenhammer and was hoping I could get directions.”

Yrjan blinked in surprise and leaned back in his chair.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“My lady … the Order of the Warhammer no longer exists.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “What are you talking about?”

“They were destroyed.”

Her hand flew to her chest, her eyes widening in horror behind her spectacles. She looked absolutely devastated by the news. “No! That’s not possible!”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but it’s true. The books and papers we have are all that’s left of them.”

“And Brother Ragnar?”

He shook his head. “I’ve never heard of Brother Ragnar.”

“You must have. He’s one of the leaders of the Order.”

“Brother Ölver was leader at the time of their destruction, my lady.” She looked so distressed that Yrjan placed his hand on top of her gloved one. “Perhaps you have the name incorrect. There are many war-god based orders and I’m sure—”

Her eyes suddenly locked on his, and Yrjan felt a fear he’d not known since he left his father’s house to join the Order.

“Do you have any of their robes or clothes? Anything they may have worn?”

“No. We assumed all that was destroyed—”

“When?” she growled.

“My lady?”

“When was the Order destroyed?”

Yrjan took a deep breath to calm his shaken nerves. “According to my readings, eighty-six to eighty-seven years ago during the winter of—”

He didn’t get to finish as her small fist struck the table and she jumped up, her chair falling to the marble floor. Many of the other Brothers rushed into the reading room and watched as the weak female paced angrily before them.

“My lady, I’m sure there’s—”

“Liar.”

Yrjan was insulted until she bellowed,
“That bastard liar!”
and he knew she was not speaking of him.

“My lady, please!”

She stormed toward the exit, and when his Brothers blocked her way, she screamed,
“Move!”

They did, scattering like ants.

Yrjan followed after her until she stormed out the main doors, slamming them behind her.

Shaking and panting, he went back to the reading room and the Brothers rushed to get him his own hot tea and some soothing herbs to calm his nerves.

Abstinence. A very good decision.

Dagmar stalked out of the Great Library. She stopped on the third step down and looked around.
Where has that idiot gone?

By reason, she was angry. Angrier than she’d ever been in her life. Angrier than she knew it possible to be.

He’d lied to her. Not for a few days or over a particular issue, but full lies for two bloody decades!

Dagmar had never felt so betrayed. So hurt. Ragnar had hurt her as no other could.

A sudden attack of pure anxiety and panic swept through her and she ran down the steps and to the side of the enormous building. Slapping her hands against the stone wall, she leaned over and brought back up all those biscuits and tea Saamik had fed her.

Her bouts of panic rarely caught her this badly. Usually she could control it with deep breathing or by focusing on something else entirely. But she couldn’t focus on anything else but this.

Who had she been dealing with all these years?

Her father’s words came back to haunt her. “Always so sure you’re right, little miss.”

She had been sure. She had trusted Ragnar with her life and the life of her kinsmen every time she allowed him into her father’s fortress.

Trembling, Dagmar rested back against the wall.

All right, she’d been a fool. She knew that now, but there was no use shaking and crying about it like a newborn pup. Ragnar must have wanted something from her; she needed to find out what.

Dagmar used a cloth from her satchel to wipe her mouth and headed back to the stairs. She sat down in the middle and waited. The dragon probably went for food. He was always hungry, it seemed. He’d be back and they could set off. Besides, a few minutes alone would help her get some control and figure out what to do next.

She’d allow absolutely no one to make a fool of her.

Dagmar sat on the steps to the Great Library until the two suns went down. Gwenvael never returned.

When she saw the same man pass her twice, she knew she could no longer sit out there in the open and decided to return to the inn they’d been to the night before.

She set off, torn between worrying something horrible happened to Gwenvael and feeling sorry for herself, positive she’d been betrayed by another male and that he’d left her. She enjoyed feeling sorry for herself much more and focused on that instead.

Because of course he left her! Kisses meant nothing to someone like him when he could have, or hire, any woman he wanted. Dagmar was sure he was in some wench’s bed, his commitment to her completely forgotten as he took the whore again and again and again.

Dagmar stopped for a moment. That was a visual she didn’t need. Especially when the “whore” abruptly turned into her.

“Get a hold of yourself, idiot.” She was in a bad situation. If he didn’t return, how was she to get to her uncle Gestur’s or home or anywhere else? And what did it mean to the alliance with Queen Annwyl? The whole thing kept getting worse and worse.

Especially when she glanced over her shoulder and saw someone back into the shadows so she wouldn’t see.

Yes. Definitely getting worse.

Taking much quicker steps, Dagmar rushed back to the Stomping Horse Inn. She stepped inside and let out a sigh of relief. The place was quite busy and she felt safer in the well-lit inn with many around her, male and female.

“My lady, you’ve returned.”

Dagmar smiled at the owner. “Yes. I was wondering if I could get a table.”

“Anything for you.” She’d tipped him well that morning and she was very glad she had. He forced a few men to move and gave their table to Dagmar. It was in the back, and she faced the door, hoping to see Gwenvael come in looking for her. The owner went out of his way to keep the local men away from her, but a few still stopped by, trying to chat her up.

Men were so strange. She knew they weren’t enamored by her looks, but the colder and more off-putting she became, the more they swarmed. Willing local women all around, but they wanted the “cold bitch,” as one dismissed male mumbled at her.

She stared hard at the door, willing it to open and bring in Gwenvael. The chair on the other side of her small table scraped against the floor as it was pulled back and Dagmar let out an annoyed sigh.

“Go away.”

“I think we need to talk.”

Dagmar felt a fresh blade through her heart as she turned and looked deep into blue eyes with silver flecks through the iris. And until her hands, bent into claws, were going for his face, she had no idea she’d react so violently. But Ragnar simply grabbed her wrists and slammed them back to the table.

“Sit down,” he calmly ordered.

“My lady?” The owner rushed over. “Are you all right?”

Ragnar raised a brow, and Dagmar forced herself to smile up at the owner. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”

He nodded at her and glared at Ragnar.

When they were again alone, she snatched her hands back and snarled, “You lying bastard.”

He wore no monk’s robes this time, no cowl, but a simple black cape with the hood pulled right to his forehead—to hide the purple hair, she supposed.

“Do you think it was so easy for me to lie to you for the last twenty years? You, who were always so kind to me?”

“Then why did you? What did you want from me?”

“What I got.”

She studied him closely. Reason help her, but he was beautiful. Those gorgeous eyes combined with sharp cheekbones, full lips, and an almost-but-not-quite-too-long nose would make any female stop and stare—and dream.

“He warned me your kind is everywhere,” she said. “But I believed a Northlander would be too honorable. Bigger fool, I.”

“If it had been safe, I would have told you the truth. Hearing stories about dragons is vastly different from realizing one is sitting across from you, drinking your wine.”

“You know it wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

“No. I see now that it wouldn’t have.” His smile was affectionate. “Not to my reasoning, Dagmar.”