What a Dragon Should Know (33 page)

“Are you going to keep standing back there, hovering, or are you actually going to help us?”

It took Dagmar a good ten seconds before she realized that Briec had directed that question at her. Raising her gaze, she saw Gwenvael’s siblings all staring at her over their shoulders.

“Pardon?”

Briec, who seemed to be in a constant state of boredom, rolled his eyes. “Gwenvael said you were knowledgeable in this. Is that true or was he blowing flame up my ass?”

The visual that particular phrase gave her was
not
attractive, but she ignored it and asked, “You mean knowledge about the Minotaurs?”

“Well, that would help.” And his tone was so rife with sarcasm one would think Dagmar had known him for decades and had been annoying him all that time. “But he said you helped your father with his defenses. True or not?” he demanded.

“Briec … tone,” Talaith said from her spot across the hall, her gaze firmly on the book in front of her.

“Is it true you helped your father with the defenses of the Reinholdt lands?”

His tone hadn’t changed, but he seemed to think reworking the sentence covered that.

“Yes. I did. We worked quite closely together.” Of course, she really had to pry her way into all that and, in the end, she worked with her father at night, giving him her ideas and suggestions, often trying to make him think he came up with it all on his own. In the morning, he would give instructions to his men to build the defenses she’d designed and she doubted anyone among her father’s troops had any idea of her involvement.

“Then help or go away. I can’t stand hovering.”

“I’m still hearing tone,” Talaith said dryly, the book continuing to hold her interest.

The silver dragon’s violet-colored eyes narrowed on his mate, and he asked, “You must be hungry, my love. Shouldn’t you have a big, steaming bowl of porridge? All big, thick, and gloppy yellow, coating your tongue and throat as it slides down—”

Talaith dropped her book, put one hand over her mouth, and held the other up to silence Briec. She choked, and Dagmar remembered how Talaith had taken quite a liking to the wine the previous eve.

“You are a bastard,” Talaith finally snapped before she stood and ran out of the room, her hand firmly back over her mouth.

“That was rude, Briec,” Morfyd chastised, although Briec’s grin clearly stated he didn’t care what his sister thought. Morfyd tapped the table and said to Dagmar, “We could use any and all help at this time. Between your maps and ours, we have to admit we’re a little lost.”

Dagmar simply wasn’t used to this straightforward approach. She was used to having to ease or extort her way into most important situations that were the domain of men. Walking in and taking over wasn’t in her nature because she’d been unable to get anything done with that approach.

Yet the dragons were leaving her little choice.

She stepped toward the table and Fearghus moved his chair over a bit, giving her space. She leaned down and focused on the maps.

Well, if they wanted help …

“These maps are useless,” she stated plainly. “Minotaurs travel underground. I need a map that shows any tunnels you may have built or underground entrances. Also possible accesses from caves, and any places you think it would be easy for them to dig through.”

“I think we have something,” Éibhear offered as he jumped up and quickly left the room, surprising her with how fast he moved considering his overwhelming size.

“Could they already be here?” Briec asked.

“Doubtful. Minotaurs attack as soon as they gain entrance. They do not give warnings; you will not see them coming. They will not bargain. Ever. If they have a task, they will complete it.”

“So if we capture one …”

She shook her head at Fearghus’s question. “You’ll get nothing from a Minotaur. Like most bovines, they are unbelievably stubborn and highly dangerous. Even though their kind hasn’t been seen in the Northlands in decades, most of the Northland warlords have defenses aimed solely at protecting themselves from the Minotaurs. I know of no warlord who has a dungeon, just for that reason. It makes it too easy for them to get in.”

The dragons all passed glances before Fearghus admitted, “We have six.”

Dagmar tilted her head to the side, studying them. “You have six dungeons here? Why?”

“They were all built by Annwyl’s father. We no longer use them.”

“Ever?”

“Annwyl’s a cut-off-your-head, ask-question-later kind of leader.”

“I see. And does that philosophy include someone who’s merely, say, a petty thief?”

Fearghus and Briec stared at each other, perhaps trying to figure out the correct answer to that question.

Morfyd sighed. “You’re all idiots.” She looked at Dagmar. “No. There’s a town jail for that. Annwyl chose a magistrate to handle simple crimes. Although anyone who feels they’ve been wrongly treated can, of course, request an audience with her. Although in my opinion she chose well with the current magistrate. But for anything political or involving more than one dead body, she gets involved, and those who are found guilty, don’t leave Garbhán Isle.”

Harsh, but surprisingly fair.

Éibhear returned with several rolled maps under his arm. He placed them on the table and unrolled them. “Did you mean something more like this?”

Placing her now-cold tea down on the table, Dagmar rested her hands on the worn wood and stared at the maps. “Yes. This will do very nicely. I think I’ll be able to match these to the tunnel maps I brought with me. Thank you, Éibhear.”

He grinned, quite pleased with himself. “You’re welcome.”

“Suck up,” Briec muttered.

She studied the maps closely. How the queen had lasted this long without an attack, Dagmar would never know. There were so many weak spots, so many easy points of entry, Dagmar was shocked no one had tried before now.

“We have much work to be done here.”

Briec nodded solemnly. “And I bet you work much better on your own, don’t you?”

Morfyd slammed her hand down on the table. “Gods dammit, Briec!”

“What? I’m merely trying to be helpful.”

“No,” Dagmar replied. “You’re trying to pass the hard work off on me.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“And although I find your lack of work ethic appalling”—Dagmar let out a sigh while ignoring Fearghus’s accompanying snort—“he does have a point.” She glanced at Morfyd before focusing back on the maps. “I actually do much better on my own. So if you can just give me a few hours to—”

The scraping sound of chairs hastily pushed back against a stone floor cut off her words and Dagmar swiveled on her heel, her gaze sweeping the room. In seconds, they’d all run off. She could still hear a door slamming somewhere off in the distance as they scurried away.

“Dragons,” she hissed. “No better than rats from a sinking—”

“Good morn, my family! I—” Gwenvael stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his overly cheery greeting cut off when he realized only Dagmar and the servants remained. “Where is everyone?”

“They’ve deserted me.” Dagmar grabbed the seat Fearghus had so hastily vacated and yanked it closer. “I’m not even from here. For all they know I could be a brilliant spy, bent on destroying Annwyl’s kingdom—and yet
I’m
the one working on their defenses.”

Gwenvael stood next to her now, staring down at the maps. “Are those the most recent maps?”

She dropped into the chair and pulled it closer to the table. “Éibhear seems to think they are.”

“He’d know. He loves maps.”

Strong fingers brushed the back of her neck and Dagmar forced her body to not writhe in the chair.

“You left me this morning,” he murmured.

“I believe ‘leaving’ you would be me heading back to the Northlands. All I did this morning was travel down the stairs to enjoy first meal while it was still hot.”

“You should have woken me.”

“And why would I do that?”

In answer, he leaned down and kissed her. His mouth was gentle, the kiss playful, and his tongue stroking hers felt absolutely divine. Her body relaxed, the hand on the back of her neck keeping her head from slapping against the hard wood of the chair back.

When she was nothing more than one of her dogs’ limp rag dolls lying in a corner, he pulled slightly away. “Next time, you check with me before you leave my bed. I often have plans first thing in the morning.”

“It’s my bed, Lord Gwenvael. And who said there’d be a next time?” Her eyes locked with his. “Who said I’d ever let you back into my bed again?”

“It entertains me that you think you have a choice. Now come back upstairs. I have needs that you’re required to fulfill.”

Dagmar took a breath, appalled at how shaky it sounded going in and coming out. “I have work to do, Defiler.”

“Give me an hour upstairs and the day is yours, Beast.”

That sounded like an incredibly fair trade-off, especially when his lips kept rubbing against hers. “All right. But only one—”

“So,” a voice said from in front of them, “do you even know this one’s name? Or is all that part of the mystery?”

Dagmar only had a second to see a flash of fang and true, bright anger in Gwenvael’s gold eyes before he hid all that and turned to face the man who clearly wasn’t a man. If she hadn’t been able to tell by his size, the fact that he was an older version of Fearghus would have told her the same dragon’s tale.

“Father,” Gwenvael said, the smile on his face looking intensely unpleasant. “Don’t you look virile this morning? Is Mother chained to the wall again?”

“Don’t test me, boy.” The dragon placed big hands on narrow hips, black hair streaked with silver and grey brushed off his face. He glanced down at Dagmar. “So can this one actually read, or does she just pretend to have a brain in that head like so many of the others?”

Gwenvael’s smile didn’t falter, but Dagmar knew it took much out of him. “Is there a reason you’re here? Or were you simply in the mood to torture your offspring for old time’s sake?”

“I’m here to see Fearghus’s nightmare. Where is she?”

“I thought you’d left her chained to the wall. And shouldn’t we just call her Mum?”

That cold, black gaze latched onto Gwenvael, and Dagmar quickly stood, resting her hand on Gwenvael’s arm. “If you speak of Queen Annwyl, I’m sure I can help you find her.”

Now that cold, black gaze was on her. “Who the hell are you?”

“I am Dagmar.” She kept it simple, unwilling to give the older dragon more than that.

“I see.” He sighed in boredom. “Well, Dagmar, I’m sure your services last night were greatly appreciated, but you can return to whatever brothel he dragged you out of. There’s important work to be done, and I don’t need one of the local whores interfering.”

Gwenvael let out a startled laugh, but he recognized it as the kind one lets out when he’s realized he’s accidentally cut off his finger or set his house on fire. That startled laugh before the real horror sets in.

Dagmar stepped away from Gwenvael and he grabbed hold of her arm, but she shook him off. She walked sedately over to his father, her hands folded primly in front of her, her head scarf perfectly in place over that simple braid. She looked as he’d first seen her, back in her grey, wool dress that had been scrubbed clean the day before.

The boring, quiet, demure spinster daughter of a warlord.

But that volcano inside her simmered beneath and that’s what Bercelak the Great was not expecting. He was used to humans like Annwyl, Talaith. Fighters. Assassins. Those who went in for the direct kill.

Little did his father know, Dagmar was more lethal.

“Perhaps I should make myself clear, Lord—” She gestured with a slight dip of her head.

“Bercelak. Bercelak the Great.”

“Oh.” She stopped, sized him up carefully.
“You’re
Bercelak the Great? My tutors didn’t describe you well at all.”

“Tutors?” He glanced at Gwenvael, but if he thought he’d be getting any help from him …

“Yes. I realize I didn’t make myself clear. I am Dagmar Reinholdt. Thirteenth offspring of The Reinholdt and Only Daughter.”

His scowl deepened. “You’re the daughter of The Reinholdt?”

“Yes. I am.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see Queen Annwyl.”

“Right. Except I find you playing with my boy.”

“I don’t think Fearghus would appreciate me
playing
with Annwyl.”

Gwenvael snorted another laugh, which earned him another glare from his father.

“I have to admit,” Dagmar went on as she leisurely walked around Bercelak. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Is that right?”

“You seem much braver than I heard you were.”

Confused, Bercelak looked down at Dagmar, his gaze following her as she circled him. “What?”

“You know. How you ran away from the Battle of Ødven.”

This little barbarian truly was evil. It had been Gwenvael who had told Dagmar those stories about Bercelak on their long flight to Dark Plains. And he’d told them to her as he’d been told, showing Bercelak for the killer he was, as a warning to her to keep her distance from Bercelak the Great should she meet him.

But she’d turned all that to gain her own vengeful ends—and Gwenvael adored her for it.

“I did no such thing,” Bercelak huffed, shocked.

“Or when you were found crying and whimpering near the Mountains of Urpa.”

“That’s a damn lie!”

“Doubtful. These are common stories among my people. And tell me,” she went on, “is it true that you only survived your battle with Finnbjörn the Callous after you begged him for mercy?”

Black smoke eased from Bercelak’s human nostrils. “The only thing that protected Finnbjörn from
me
was when he returned my sister!”

She blinked up at him, her face beautifully blank. “No need to yell.”

“You vicious little—”

“Father,” Gwenvael warned.

“And you brought her here!”

Gwenvael shrugged. “I begged her to marry me in the Northlands, but she wanted to get to know me first. You know how girls are,” he finished in a conspiratorial whisper.

“What the hell are you talking about?”