What a Dragon Should Know (52 page)

She came again, her cries pouring into his mouth. He felt her clench around him and he couldn’t hold back. He came inside her, the hand gripping her hair tightening, his hips pushing against her so he knew she could feel what he’d done to her.

And what he’d done to her was made her his.

It took several minutes for him to get his breath and full control of his limbs back. When he did, he slowly pulled out of her, his cock partially hard and more than ready for another go. But he knew that Dagmar needed a short nap before they could begin again.

The snoring was kind of a dead giveaway.

Morfyd held the newest red gown up in front of her and debated if it was too much. Too bold? For her anyway? She’d begun to hate these impromptu family feasts. But this would be the first time she’d go to one and not have to hide her feelings toward Brastias from anyone. Even her mother and father.

The thought terrified her, but she was determined not to back down now. He loved her and she loved him; nothing else mattered. And she would keep telling herself that until this whole nightmare was over!

“I need your help,” Dagmar said as she walked into her room without knocking.

“What’s wrong?”

“Other than being in love with your idiot brother? Dog-slobber rash.”

“Dog slob … ?”
No. Probably best not to ask.
“Let me see.”

Dagmar stepped in front of her and Morfyd realized the Northlander had been telling the truth. She did love Gwenvael—she could see it in those cold grey eyes. Morfyd might even feel sorry for her, if Dagmar wasn’t such a plotting little cow. They were perfect together, Dagmar and Gwenvael. And even better, Dagmar was perfect for Annwyl. The human queen needed a good politician by her side, and that was Dagmar.

Morfyd laid her gown aside and leaned in closely to examine Dagmar’s rash. After a few minutes of staring, she stepped back. “Where did you get this?” And she was unable to keep the terseness out of her voice.

“A dog—”

“Don’t mess me about,” Morfyd snapped. “Did my mother give you this?” Oh, and she better not have!

“Did your mother give me a rash?” Dagmar asked dryly. “Well … We’ve never been that close, she and I.”

“It’s not a rash, and we both know it.”

Dagmar studied her for a moment. “We do?”

“It’s the Chain of Beathag.”

“Which is … what? Exactly?”

Morfyd took a step back. “You really don’t know?” Dagmar shook her head. “And my mother didn’t give it to you?” Another head shake. “Oh … oh, my.”

“How bad is it?” Dagmar asked calmly. “Am I dying?”

“What?”

“If your mother’s involved, I’m assuming I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.” She grabbed Dagmar’s arm and pulled her in front of the mirror. “This is not a rash. The red marks are from you scratching it, but the brown marks are similar to the Chain of Beathag. A gift of great power from the dragon gods. It extends the natural life of the wearer by five or six hundred years.”

“Oh.” Dagmar stared down at her chest. “That was very nice of him.”

“Of who?”

“Nannulf.”

Morfyd blinked. “The war god?
That
was the dog you were talking about?” Dagmar shrugged, nodded. “When did you see him?”

“This morning. He and Eir came to visit me.”

“Eir? Do you mean Eirianwen?” The barbarian got to call the dragon goddess of war Eir? How was that fair? “You don’t even worship the gods.”

“I know. But he’s a canine and I’m good with canines.”

Dagmar was so matter of fact about it all. Talking to gods, getting hundreds of years added on to her life, falling in love … Did anything faze this human? Did anything—
anything!
—bother her?

“Your face is getting red,” Dagmar noted.

“Yes. I’m sure it is.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” She threw up her hands. “Well … in the next ten or twenty minutes, I’ll need to go downstairs and kowtow to that bitch mother of mine in the hopes that she’ll give Brastias the Chain of Beathag so we can live happily together for the next few centuries. And you,
you
who worships no one but yourself, gets it because a dog who’s a god likes you.”

“He’s more wolf than dog.”

“Shut up!”
Morfyd covered her mouth with her hand, horrified with herself. “Oh, Dagmar. I’m sorry. Oh, that was rude. And uncalled for. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I do. It’s called parents.” She smiled and winked, making Morfyd feel worse because she was being so sweet about it all. “You really don’t think Rhiannon will give Brastias this …”

“Chain of Beathag. And she’ll give it to him,” Morfyd admitted. “I know she will. But she’ll make me crawl to get it.”

“Morfyd, after meeting your mother and getting to know her, I’m forced to agree with you.” Morfyd finally laughed. “That being said, I wouldn’t worry too much about your pride. We all tolerate things for those we love. And I’m sure your Brastias is quite worth it all.”

“He truly is.”

“Then you will endure. For we all endure when we’re in love.” She was talking about herself now. How she’d have to “endure” Gwenvael. And endure she would, Morfyd was sure of that.
Poor thing.

“But,” Dagmar went on, “before you run off to do any of that, perhaps you can give me something for the pain.”

“Pain? From the rash?”

“No. That’s merely itchy. I need something for the pain of this …”

Morfyd’s eyes widened at the sight Dagmar presented to her. The Northlander’s back to her and her dress lifted up above her waist so Morfyd could see …
everything.

“Uh … oh … Dagmar.” It was taking everything—
absolutely everything!
—not to laugh. “Um … congratulations?”

“Instead of feeding me shit and telling me it’s bread, why don’t you get some bloody ointment before I start screaming.”

“Absolutely. I’m sure I have …” She covered her mouth, choked back laughter—barely. “Something.”

Gwenvael stared down at the surcoat he’d put on over his chain mail, once again trying to remember whom he’d wiped from the face of the earth for this.

Then he realized it would be mostly family tonight, so would it really matter? He thought not and fitted his belt around his waist.

A brief knock at his door and he looked up. “Enter.”

Annwyl and Morfyd walked into the room. They stared at him, both of them looking beautiful in their gowns, Annwyl’s a deep forest green and Morfyd’s a bright and bold red.

They stood and stared at him. Perhaps it was a glare. It was something.

“What?” he asked when they didn’t say anything for entirely too long.

Annwyl put her hands on her hips. “You marked her
ass?”

* * *

Dagmar dodged Fal’s busy hands once again and cut through the crowd in the Great Hall. Yet, she couldn’t be too angry with the dragon. She’d never experienced such male interest before—it was rather intoxicating.

As was Bercelak’s wine.

Now
this
her father would consider real wine. None of that weak Southlander wine, but a hearty, rich, take-the-rust-off-your-shield wine. Between that and Morfyd’s ointment, Dagmar was feeling very little pain.

Stopping, she stared at Queen Annwyl. Desperation in her face, the queen mouthed, “Help. Me.”

Rolling her eyes, Dagmar walked over and tapped Éibhear on the shoulder. “You have to put her down now,” she explained—yet again—when he looked at her.

“I don’t want to.” He hugged Annwyl tighter, making the queen gasp. “We almost lost her. I was unhappy about that.
I hated being unhappy!”

“I know. I know. But you’re crushing her.” She pointed at the ground. “Down. You must put her down.”

With an adorable pout, the blue-haired dragon shook his head. “No.”

“All right. But I have a concern. About Izzy.”

“I already told my brothers and now I’m telling you … I don’t care about Izzy except as a niece. She’s a very spoiled, annoying niece.”

“I absolutely understand that and told the same thing to Gwenvael. But, as you know, I have twelve brothers. And when I see one of them dragging one of the servant girls off behind the stables, I worry. And when I saw Celyn doing the same thing—”

“What?”
He immediately dropped Annwyl and, thankfully, the queen had her balance back well enough to manage not falling on her ass. “Where?”

“I saw them going out that way.” She pointed toward the other end of the Great Hall. “She seemed a little unsure.”

“Damn him!” Éibhear took off after Izzy, and Dagmar motioned to one of the servants for another chalice of wine.

“Thank you.” Annwyl adjusted her dress by grabbing her breasts and moving them around, then took the chalice the servant held out for her. “I do love him but once he gets hold of you, he’s like a wild monkey.”

“I’ve noticed.”

The queen took a deep sip of her wine and asked, “And if Izzy is really behind the stables—”

“She’s over there somewhere.” She waved toward a group of giggling young females. “I will say Celyn tried, but Izzy completely blew him off.”

Laughing, the women saluted each other with their chalices and took several more sips.

Morfyd rushed up to them a few moments later. “We have a problem. And stop drinking that wine,” she snatched the chalice from Annwyl. “You’re still breastfeeding!”

“So what? The healer said I could.”

“That healer is human and humans are idiots. No offense, Dagmar.”

Dagmar shrugged and drank more of her wine.

“I’ll not have you risk my niece and nephew until they’re weaned off those udders.”

“Everyone needs to stop calling them that!”

“Now more importantly, there seems to be a rumor going around that you’re undead and unholy. Lord Craddock has been trying to stir up the other human baron lords.”

Without a word, Annwyl began to walk off and Morfyd grabbed the back of her dress, yanking the monarch to their side. “Don’t you dare go over there and tell that man you’re undead!”

“Please let me go over there and say it!
Please!”

“No. Tell her, Dagmar. Tell her it’s a horrible idea.”

“Well …”

“Well? What do you mean well?”

“My suggestion?” She motioned the two women closer with a tilt of her head. “Don’t
say
you’re the undead. That’s too obvious and can be used against you with the other monarchs. But if he
fears
you’re the undead that could definitely work to your advantage.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“I know.”

“It is,” Annwyl agreed. “But I have no idea how to do that.”

“Leave it to me.” Dagmar shot back the rest of her wine, straightened her shoulders, and tossed her hair back. “By the time I’m done, he’ll be too terrified to stir up anything with anyone.”

Gwenvael pursed his lips and thought about relieving some of the pressure, but Fearghus walking over distracted him.

“Why did Dagmar convince that idiot Craddock that Annwyl might be or might
not
be undead?” Fearghus asked while handing Gwenvael a pint.

Ruminating on that for a moment, Gwenvael finally answered, “I have no idea. But I’m absolutely positive it was done for a good reason.”

“That I know. I was simply curious.” Fearghus exhaled and went on. “I haven’t had a chance, but … when everything was going on with Annwyl and the babes, you stood by me. I wanted to thank you for that.”

“Was there ever a moment you thought I wouldn’t stand by you?”

“Actually … no. Which surprised me more.” They chuckled, and Fearghus added, “But thanks all the same, brother.”

“No thanks needed.” When there was moaning from under his foot, Gwenvael pressed down harder.

“Are you planning to let Fal up some time tonight?” Fearghus asked.

Gwenvael glared at his cousin, annoyed Fal was getting blood on his favorite pair of boots. “He was grabby hands again with my Dagmar.” Gwenvael leaned over and snarled at the dragon under his foot. “I’ve told him again and again that’s not a good idea.”

“Apparently he’s not listening.”

“He will if I snap his neck.”

“But then we’ll never hear the end of it from Mum.”

Briec found Talaith outside, past the Garbhán Isle gates. She sat on a boulder and stared up at the sky. The moon wasn’t yet full, but it still surrounded her in a soft glow.

“There you are. I was looking for you.”

“Everything all right?” she asked, still staring up at the sky.

“Well, let’s see … My brilliant and beautiful sister is suddenly in love with some lowly human. Keita isn’t speaking to anyone. Annwyl is convinced her daughter hates her while Fearghus is convinced his son is plotting to kill him while he sleeps. I found my mother and father acting like animals in the war room—yet again. But that pales in comparison to finding my father—a dragon considered one of the greatest warriors of our time, mind you—telling his grandchildren, ‘Goo, goo, gaa, gaa,’ when he thought no one was looking. And to top the evening off, Gwenvael has Claimed Dagmar as his own for eternity by marking her ass, which he keeps slapping periodically as the night goes on.”

Talaith’s head fell forward as she laughed hysterically.

“She is brilliantly livid, if I do say so myself. And if I were him, I’d be afraid to go to sleep tonight,” Briec continued.

“Your family is amazing.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

Briec sat behind her, pulling her in between his legs until she could rest her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, enjoying that there was just enough room for the both of them.

“Don’t you want to come inside and dance with me for a bit?”

“I will. Soon.”

Leaning in close, he pressed his lips to her throat. As she often did, Talaith moved her head to the side, allowing him better access. He gently nipped her skin, working his way down to her shoulder, while his hands slid down her arms. His brutal lust for her always surprised him. He’d thought it would wane over time, but it had grown steadily day by day as she had grown and changed over time, becoming more confident and comfortable in her new life.

He slid his hands down her arms and onto her thighs. She had such delightfully strong thighs, he always enjoyed running his hands over them, dragging his fingers up under her gown so he could touch her smooth skin. He brushed against the leather ties that held her sheathed dagger, his cock hardening more knowing it was there, knowing that when he took her again tonight—as he’d done for most of the afternoon—it would still be there in easy reach, making her even more deliciously dangerous.