What a Dragon Should Know (55 page)

Annwyl glanced down at the sword and back at the man holding it. “Who the hell are you?”

“The dragon sent me.” He lowered his blade. “And he was right. You are too slow. You’ll never defeat Lorcan.”

Her rage welled up and she slashed at him with her blade. But it wasn’t one of her well-trained maneuvers. It felt awkward and messy. He blocked her easily, slamming her to the ground.

Her teeth rattled in her head. Good thing her wound had already healed, otherwise Morfyd would be sewing it up once again.

The knight stood over her. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” She stared up at him and he smiled. “Or maybe not. Guess we’ll just have to see.”

He wandered off. Annwyl knew he expected her to follow. And, for some unknown reason, she did.

She found him by the stream that ran through the glen. It took all her strength to walk up to him. She really wanted to run back into the dragon’s lair and hide under his massive wings. She wasn’t afraid of this man. It was something else. Something far more dangerous.

As she approached, he turned and smiled. And Annwyl felt her stomach clench. Actually, the clenching might have been a bit lower.

She’d never known a man who made her so … well … nervous. And she’d lived on Garbhán Isle since the age of ten; all she’d ever known were men who made it their business to make women nervous, if not downright terrified.

“Well,” she demanded coldly.

He moved to stand in front of her, his gorgeous smile teasing her. “Desperate are we?”

Annwyl shook her head and stepped away from him. “I thought you said something about training me for battle, knight.”
For the dragon.
She would only do this because the dragon asked her to. And she would damn well make sure he knew it, too.

“Aye, I did, Annwyl the Bloody.”

“Do stop calling me that.”

“You should be proud of that name. From what I understand, you earned it.”

“My brother also called me dung heap. I’m sure he thought I earned that too, but I’d rather no one call me that.”

“Fair enough.”

“And do you have a name?” He opened his mouth to say something but she stopped him. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”

“Really?”

“It will make beating the hell out of you so much easier.”

She wanted to throw him off. Make him uneasy. But his smile beamed like a bright ray of sunlight in the darkened glen. “A challenge. I like that.” He growled the last sentence, and it slithered all the way down to her toes. Part of her wanted to panic over that statement, since it frightened her more than the dragon himself. But she didn’t have time. Not with the blade flashing past her head, forcing her to duck and unsheathe her own sword.

He watched her move. Drank her in. And when she took off her shirt and continued to fight in just leather leggings, boots, and the cloth that bound her breasts down, he had to constantly remind himself of why he now helped her. To train her to be a better fighter. Nothing more or less. It was
not
so he could lick the tender spot between her shoulder and throat.

Annwyl, though, turned out to be a damn good fighter. Strong. Powerful. Highly aggressive. She listened to direction well and picked up combat skills quickly. But her anger definitely remained her main weakness. Anytime he blocked one of her faster blows, anytime he moved too quickly for her to make contact, and, especially, anytime he touched her, the girl flew into a rage. An all-consuming rage. And although he knew the soldiers of Lorcan’s army would easily fall to her blade, her brother was different. He knew of that man’s reputation as a warrior and, as Annwyl now stood, she didn’t stand a chance.

Her fear of Lorcan would stop her from making the killing blow. Her rage would make her vulnerable. The mere thought of her getting killed sent a cold wave of fear through him.

Yet if he could teach her to control her rage, she could turn it into her greatest ally. Use it to destroy any and all who dare challenge her.

The shifting sun and deepening shadows told him that the hour grew late. The expression on her face told him that exhaustion would claim her soon, although she’d never admit it. At least not to him. But he knew what would push her over the edge. He grabbed her ass.

Annwyl screeched and swung around. He knocked her blade from her hand and threw her on her back.

“How many times, exactly, do I have to tell you that your anger leaves you exposed and open to attack?”

She raised herself on her elbows. “You grabbed me,” she accused. “Again!”

He leaned down so they were nose to nose. “Yes I did. And I enjoyed every second of it.”

Her fist flashed out, aiming for his face. But he caught her hand, his fingers brushing across hers. “Of course, if you learned to control your rage I’d never get near you.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But until that time comes, I guess your ass belongs to me.”

She bared her teeth, and he didn’t try to hide his smile. How could he when he knew how it irritated her so? “I think we’ve practiced enough for the day. At least I have. And the dragon now has a scouting party for his dinner. But I’ll be back tomorrow. Be ready, Annwyl the Bloody. This won’t get any easier.”

For Nolwenn witch Talaith, a bad day begins with being dragged from bed by an angry mob intent on her crispy end and culminates in rescue by—wait for it—a silver-maned dragon. Existence as a hated outcast is nothing new for a woman with such powerful secrets. The dragon, though? A tad unusual. This one has a human form to die for, and knows it. According to dragon law, Talaith is now his property, for pleasure … or otherwise. But if Lord Arrogance thinks she’s the kind of damsel to acquiesce without a word, he’s in for a surprise …

Is the woman never silent? Briec the Mighty knew the moment he laid eyes on Talaith that she would be his, but he’d counted on tongue-lashings of an altogether different sort. It’s embarrassing, really, that it isn’t this outspoken female’s Magicks that have the realm’s greatest dragon in her thrall. No, Briec has been spellbound by something altogether different—and if he doesn’t tread carefully, what he doesn’t know about human women could well be the undoing of his entire race …

They dragged her from bed before the two suns even rose over the Caffyn Mountains. She fought as best she could, but the noose they’d wrapped around her throat cut off her ability to breathe, weakening her. And they bound her hands tightly with coarse rope because they feared she’d cast a spell on them. She had none to cast, but what really annoyed her was her inability to get the dagger still tied to her thigh.

Of course, only she would get an entire town to try and kill her.
Nice one, idiot.

Strong men threw the end of the rope over a sturdy branch and slowly pulled her off her feet. They didn’t want her to die too quickly. They wanted to watch her hang for awhile, and it looked like they’d prepared a pyre for a good, old-fashioned witch burning.

Lovely.

The man she called husband screamed at her. He screamed how she was a witch. How she was evil. How they all knew the truth about her and now she would pay. If she weren’t fighting for her life, she’d roll her eyes in annoyance.

But what truly galled her … what set her teeth absolutely on edge—other than choking to death—was that the goddess who sent her here all those years ago was the same one leaving her to die.

She thought the evil bitch would at least protect her until she finally accomplished what she needed her to do. What she’d been training to do since she was sixteen.

But Talaith, Daughter of Haldane, had learned long ago that no one was to be trusted. No one would ever protect her. No one would ever do anything but use her. Eventually she’d learned to trust no one but herself.

Of course a few allies might have helped you this day, Talaith.

She coughed and squirmed in her bonds, praying her neck would finally just break. She would definitely rather not die by burning. Talaith never considered flame a witch’s best friend.

As she wondered what it would take to snap her neck using her own body weight, she saw him.

He stood out like a jewel among pigs. Her arrogant, handsome knight, still in his chain mail with the bright red surcoat over it, but without the black cape he wore that shielded part of his face and hair from her sight. She wasn’t sure if it were her imagination or if her impending death had made her sight untrustworthy, but he had—
silver?
—yes. He had glossy silver hair that reached past his knees. But it wasn’t the silver hair of an old man. This beauty couldn’t be more than thirty winters. At most.

Gods, and he was a beauty. The most beautiful thing Talaith had ever seen. Well, at least she’d leave this world with something pretty for her last vision.

He walked up to one of the townsfolk and motioned toward her.

“She is a witch, m’lord!” a woman—whose child Talaith saved from a poisonous snakebite the year before—screamed. “She’s in league with demons and the dark gods.”

She wished. At least the dark gods protected their own.

The knight stared at her for several moments. If she could, she wouldn’t have been too proud to beg for mercy. But, even if she could speak, she wouldn’t bother. Those cold violet eyes of his told her it would have done no good anyway.

If only you’d fucked him like you wanted to, he might feel slightly obligated to help you. But you had to be a hard bitch.

Of course, according to her husband, she was always a hard bitch.

With a bored sigh, her knight turned and walked away, disappearing into the surrounding woods.

Typical. Even a brave knight wouldn’t help her. Every day her life grew more and more pathetic.

“Die, witch! Die!”
How lovely.
Her own “dear” husband started up that endearing chant. The bastard. She’d meet him on the other side when his time came and she’d make sure he suffered for eternity.

The noose tightened a bit and she felt more of her life slip away while they continued to pile extra wood around the stake.

Funny how one’s mind plays tricks when so close to dying.

For instance, if she didn’t know better, she’d swear that was a giant silver dragon ambling out of the forest. An enormous, amazing creature, with a silver mane of hair that gleamed in the morning sunshine and nearly swept the shaking ground at its feet. Two massive white horns sat atop its head and a long tail, with what looked to be a dagger-sharp tip, swung lazily behind him.

Silently, he stood behind the townspeople. So focused on her, they were completely unaware of his presence.
Who knew I could be so fascinating as to distract an entire town?
Of course, they could also be ignoring the dragon because it was simply a figment of her imagination. A dream of a grand rescue that would never come.

Her fantasy dragon leaned forward and nudged Julius the baker with the tip of his snout. Julius glanced behind him, nodded and turned back to her. Then he froze where he stood … just before he pissed himself. That’s when his wife glanced at him and behind him. She screamed, grabbed her son, who had been seconds away from throwing a rather large rock at Talaith, and ran. Soon after, the rest of the townsfolk caught sight of her fantasy dragon, screamed and bolted away.

She frowned. Perhaps she still had enough of her power so she could conjure the image of the beast, but somehow she doubted it.

The dragon shot out a few flames at the retreating humans, but nothing to do any real harm. Finally, it stared at her for several moments, turned and walked off.

Unbelievable. Even my rescue fantasies are disasters.

But as she wondered if her afterlife would be as pathetic as her current life, the dragon’s tail whipped out. The tip cut through the rope that hung her from the tree, and she dropped.

Expecting her ass to hit the unforgiving ground at any moment, she tensed in surprise as the tail wrapped itself around her body and held her.

Now that the noose was not so tight, her senses slowly came back to her. That’s when she realized a tail really did have her. A tail attached to an enormous dragon casually walking through the forest. She tried to move out of its grasp, but the tail pinned her arms—with her still bound wrists—against her body. And her noose still tight enough she couldn’t call for help.

Of course, who would she call? Her husband? Probably not. Lord Hamish, ruler of these lands? If she had the strength, she would have laughed at that.

No. It looked as if she was going to be the breakfast of a monster.

As the dragon made it into a clearing and suddenly took to the air—with her still wrapped up in its tail—Talaith had only one thought …

Typical.