What a Dragon Should Know (44 page)

“You keep staring at my brother like that and I’m sending Annwyl after you.”

Startled, Dagmar’s spine snapped straight and she gave Gwenvael her haughtiest look. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m not wearing my spectacles, so I can’t see anyway.”

“Ohhh. That’s what that was. It wasn’t you staring longingly at the spot where that deep, low voice told you ‘Thank you, Daughter of The Reinholdt … for everything.’ ”

“I hate you,” she managed before she started laughing.

Gwenvael rested his hands on the bed, braced on either side of her legs. As he moved forward he teased in a high-pitched voice, “Oh, Fearghus! I’ll happily help you because you’re so big and strong!”

He kept moving forward, forcing her back, even as she pushed at his shoulders. “Stop it! I did not say that, nor do I sound like that.”

“I’ll save you
any
day, little Dagmar.”

“You’re just jealous,” she shot back.

“I am.” He caught her off guard with the quick reply. “I don’t want you looking at anyone like that but me.”

He stretched out on top of her, bracing his weight on his right forearm while his left hand brushed against her cheek. His teasing expression turned serious and he studied her face so intently, she became uneasy.

“What?”

“I’ve never been so scared for anyone before in my life, Dagmar. Not like that. But I knew, I had no doubt, that you’d give us time to get to you. I knew you’d never go down without a fight.”

She didn’t doubt his words for a moment. She knew they were as truthful and unadorned as what she’d recounted for him and his brother.

“I …” she swallowed, unable to fight the emotions surging through her at that moment. “I think I need to have a slight breakdown right now.”

“Feel free.” He kissed her forehead and pulled her close to his body, rolling to his back so she could lie on top of him. “You’ve had a very long day, Lady Dagmar.”

She rested her chin on his chest. “I truly have, Lord Gwenvael. I truly have.”

He found her by the lake, as he knew he would. They’d fallen in love here, made love here, argued here, and even trained for battle together here. Whenever Annwyl needed time away from her day-to-day responsibilities as the Queen of Dark Plains, Fearghus brought her here. It was here she felt safe and sane and loved.

The fact that she’d returned here now gave him hope he hadn’t lost her completely.

Still naked and covered in blood, she stood at the edge of the lake, peering into the water. She didn’t move as he approached, although he sensed she knew he was there.

“Annwyl?”

She glanced at him, saw the babes, and turned away. “Why did you bring them here? They need their mother.”

He kept his voice even, controlled. “Because they’re hungry.”

“I can’t help them.”

“Then who can?”

“I have no idea, but it’s not my problem.”

Fearghus began to speak but realized the next words out of his mouth were probably the wrong ones. Slow and easy, he needed to remember that.

Deciding to settle the babes first, he walked over to a pile of furs he kept by the lake and spread the softest one out. Crouching down, he placed the twins on their stomachs, across the fur. It amazed him how healthy and well developed they already were. How beautiful.

He covered them with a much smaller fur and smiled when the boy rolled to his back as his sister did and grabbed hold of the fur, pulling it up until it covered his sister’s face. She slapped the fur aside, then slapped her brother. The crack of her small hand against her brother’s face made Fearghus wince and the boy cry.

“If you cry every time one of your kin hits you,” Fearghus murmured, “you’re doomed before you’ve even begun.”

“What’s wrong?” Annwyl demanded from behind him. “Why is he crying?”

“His sister hit him, but he needs to toughen up.”

Annwyl’s fist slammed into his shoulder and he was grateful he wasn’t really human. Shattered shoulders were almost impossible to repair, even for a healer as good as his sister.

“What kind of response is that? What kind of man are you?” Annwyl snarled at him.

Still crouching, he looked at her over his shoulder. He took a breath, trying desperately to maintain his temper. “I’m not a man, Annwyl. I never have been. And you know this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She motioned to their still-crying son. “Pick him up. He wants you to pick him up.”

“No. He wants
you
to pick him up. He wants his mother.”

“I’m not—”

Fearghus stood and the words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, “Stop pissing about and pick him up.”

Those green eyes turned dark and her glare dangerously nasty. “Go to hell.”

Fearghus stepped into her body, scowling down into her face. “I said … pick him up.” He waited one beat … then two, before he yelled,
“Now!”

Her fist flew out, slamming into the side of his jaw, the power of it sending him stumbling back while colors burst behind his eyes. And since he’d taught Annwyl to punch like that, he had no one to blame but himself.

She swung her fist at him again, but he caught her hands this time, yanking her close by her arms.

“Pick him up,” he snarled in her face, unclear as to why he wanted to force this down her throat.

“No!” Then she brought her head forward, slamming it into his chin.

“Dammit!” Fearghus shoved Annwyl away and she hit the ground, rolled, and was on her feet in seconds.

They stared at each other, both panting.

Fearghus pointed at the boy. “Pick him up.”

Annwyl dragged her tongue across her top lip and said, “No.” Then she was moving, stalking across the cave floor to the weapons they kept piled in several corners. Fearghus went to the pile closest to him, snatching up a spear with a steel staff and turning just as two blades swung down on him. Grasping the spear in both hands, he blocked the weapons and shoved Annwyl away. She took quick steps back and spun on her heel, swinging the weapons up and behind her. Fearghus again blocked both weapons, turned the spear, and twisted until Annwyl fell on her ass.

He leered down at her. “Just where I’ve always liked you, Annwyl the Bloody. On the ground, at my feet.”

Her cry of rage ricocheted off the walls and Fearghus barely moved before the swords cut through the air where his legs had been.

Fearghus brought the spear over his head and down, using enough force to spear a man clean through. But Annwyl was already on her feet, the swords slamming into the side of the spear. The power of the move spun Fearghus around. When he faced her again, he smashed his weapon against her ass.

The momentum sent Annwyl into the cave wall, the impact dazing her for a moment. Fearghus threw the spear to the ground and stalked over to his mate. He grabbed the swords from her hands and tossed them back on the pile; then he grabbed her around the waist.

“Let me go!”

“Talaith said I need to take this slow.” He lifted her struggling body off the ground. “To give you time. Unfortunately for you, Lady Annwyl, I don’t have that kind of patience. As you well know, I never have.”

“Put me down!”

“What it all comes down to is what I want. And I want my mate back. And gods be damned, Annwyl the Bloody,
I will have her!”

* * *

One second she was fighting with some handsome bastard who looked remotely familiar, and the next thing she knew she was airborne, flying face first into the clean, cool water.

As she went under, her arms swinging wildly to try to right herself, images inundated her. Images and thoughts and … and … memories.

Clawing her way back to the top, Annwyl burst through the surface. She wiped hair and water from her eyes, trying to find—

“There you are, you whiny sow.” He leered at her, looking smug and self-righteous. “You going to feed these brats of yours, or am I going to throw you in a few more times?”

Annwyl scowled at the dragon she was cursed to love for eternity. “You. Big.
Bastard!”

He grinned, his body crouched by the lake’s edge as he watched her swim closer. “Now is that any way for you to talk to your mate? The dragon you love above all others?”

“Love you? I’d be better off loving one of those Minotaurs!”

Annwyl reached the edge of the lake, but before she could take hold of the edge, Fearghus slammed his hand against her forehead. “You’re not nearly clean enough. You still have Minotaur all over you.”

Then he shoved her under the water.

Now past all reason, Annwyl reached up and grabbed hold of Fearghus’s arm. Using both hands, she yanked the big bastard into the water with her. She swam back to the surface and took deep breaths, making sure to keep her eyes on Fearghus.

He came up laughing. “What did you do that for?”

“I hate you!”

“Liar!” He swam to her side and shoved her under the water a few more times, his hands scrubbing her hair and body until he’d gotten most of the blood and Minotaur gore off.

“There!” he said, when she’d finally gotten away from him. “Much better.”

“What is
wrong
with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” His hand slipped behind the back of her neck and tugged her closer. “I almost lost you, Annwyl. I almost lost the only female I’ll ever love. That’s what’s wrong with me.”

“That’s all very sweet, but shouldn’t you be a bit nicer to me then? A few flowers, maybe a candlelight dinner?” Her teeth clenched and she spit out, “Is it beyond your capabilities to be a little bit romantic?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I give up.” She swam back to the lake’s edge, Fearghus right behind her. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

He grabbed hold of her and turned her to face him. “You put up with me because you love me. And I love you, Annwyl.”

Then he was kissing her, his hands digging into her wet hair, holding her steady as he plundered her mouth with his own. This she knew. This she’d craved.

She’d been there. On the other side. But not where anyone expected her to go. It hadn’t been her ancestors who’d met her when she arrived. It had been Fearghus’s. She’d had her ass pinched by Ailean the Wicked and a discussion on books with Baudwin the Wise, Fearghus’s great-grandfather. And as wonderful as it had all been, sitting on that soft grass, that one sun shining over their heads, surrounded by trees and many lakes, she’d still missed her Fearghus.

When Shalin, Ailean’s mate and Fearghus’s grandmother, saw Annwyl gazing off, she put her arm around her waist and said, “Don’t worry. It’s not over for you. She’s coming for you.” Annwyl had no idea who the pretty dragoness meant, but then she was being pulled, yanked from one world into another. Into blood and pain and misery.

Until Annwyl had that sword in her hand—then all had been right.

But with Fearghus at her side … now all was perfect.

He pulled his mouth away, but kept his forehead pressed against hers, his hands holding her steady. They gazed long and hard at each other. There were words they could say, but none were needed. Not for them.

Then, together, they both turned their heads toward the cave floor. When Annwyl looked at the baby boy it was Fearghus’s eyes that glared at her under all that brown hair with gold streaks.

The boy focused on both of them while his sister crawled toward the closest weapons.

And until Annwyl left this world—for the second time, anyway—she’d never know what disturbed her more at the moment. The fact that her three-day-old children could already crawl, that her daughter went right for the battle ax, or that her son planted his hands down on the lake’s edge, leaned into her, and screamed.

Fearghus floated beside her, his body rubbing against hers. “He
really
wants you to pick him up.”

Annwyl nodded. “I’m sensing that.”

Dagmar sat on the tree stump by the small stream. It was getting late, the two suns just beginning to set. But this was Dark Glen, according to Gwenvael, and aptly named because the surrounding trees were so dense it felt late at night rather than early in the evening.

It didn’t matter, though. Not at the moment. Not when she was clean, her hair gently scrubbed of all blood and gore by Gwenvael. He’d seemed to enjoy washing her from head to toe. He’d seemed to be relieved simply to have her by his side.

Whether he was or not, Dagmar knew she was relieved to have him. As soon as she’d heard his voice, felt his presence, she’d known she was safe. He made her feel safe without making her feel trapped; she adored that.

Not surprisingly, Annwyl and Fearghus had not returned to them. Dagmar had been a little worried when she heard the distinct sounds of battle—swords clanging, battle cries, a lot of yelling—but Gwenvael didn’t even seem to notice, busy tending to the few wounds she had. Nothing serious. Mostly scratches here and there, but he’d treated each one like a sword wound.

She glanced down at the cotton shirt she wore. Her dress was hopelessly soiled and she had no real desire to ever put it back on. She had found one of Annwyl’s rare gowns, but it kept falling off her shoulders and baring her breasts. Although Gwenvael seemed to appreciate that, Dagmar had been in no mood to give Fearghus any additional entertainment when he returned. So she’d settled on Gwenvael’s shirt. It was simple and cotton, reaching down to her knees. Never before had she worn so little and been out in full view of anyone who could wander into this glen.

She smiled softly, glad her spectacles hadn’t been broken so that she could see everything around her. The old and beautiful trees, the small stream, the lovely flowers, the running deer … being chased by Gwenvael.

He flew low, tearing after the large buck. He got in close and bumped the animal with his snout. The deer flipped forward and into a tree, stunning itself. Gwenvael picked it up between his fangs and crushed it. Then he spit it out on the ground and followed that with a ball of fire, engulfing the deer’s body.

Gwenvael landed, sitting back on his haunches, his tail swinging out behind him.

“Hungry?” he asked.

Dagmar pulled off her spectacles, carefully folding them and putting them into a small protective box Gwenvael found for her in the cave. “I think I’ll stick with the fruit and cheese.”