What a Dragon Should Know (29 page)

“She should have warned me, Jack.”

“Aye, my Lord Gwenvael. She should have.”

“She should have told me the truth about herself.”

“Very true, my lord.”

“Spinster? Spinster, my perfect ass! That woman is a volcano, Jack. Self-contained, waiting-to-go-off-and-melt-my-scales volcano. And, if I might add, a wee bit of a tease.”

“Sounds that way, my lord. Now … are you sure about this?”

“If I hope to get through dinner … I have little choice. Just do it.”

“As you wish.”

Jack stepped back and motioned to several of the male servants under his direction. One after another, they poured the ice water pulled from a deep well discovered not long after Annwyl took over Garbhán Isle.

As soon as the water hit Gwenvael’s human form, it sizzled and popped, the large chunks of ice melting completely on contact, steam rising after only a few seconds. Thankfully, however, it did its job.

Resting back in the tub, Gwenvael sighed, “Thank you, Jack.”

“You’re more than welcome, my lord. Will there be anything else?”

“A return of my sanity would be nice.”

“You’re on your own with that, my lord. I’m afraid there’s only so much a servant can do.”

Gwenvael closed his bedroom door and headed down the hallway toward the stairs. He felt calmer now. More in control. He wasn’t used to a woman who could rattle his tail. Even worse, he didn’t know he’d like it.

Nearing the stairs to take him to the Great Hall, Gwenvael almost missed it. He stopped walking, his nostrils flaring, instantly recognizing all the scents coming from one room. He took several steps back and gave one knock on the door before pushing it open.

His young cousin Branwen lay stretched out on the bed, stomach down, her gaze focused on a book. She still wore her chain-mail shirt and leggings while her worn boots stood at attention by the bed, ready to be pulled on at a moment’s notice. Like her mother, Branwen seemed more comfortable in her battle clothes than in the gowns her sisters often wore when not in the middle of combat. It reminded him of why he’d always liked Branwen.

Across the room were Izzy and Celyn. Together they held one of the battle lances developed by Gwenvael’s ancestors, the Cadwaladr Twins. The weapon could be lengthened or shortened, should a dragon decide to shift from dragon form to human or back again. The twins, like his grandfather, had spent as much time human as dragon during their warrior years and found the use of the weapon important, and to this day they were still considered two of the deadliest beings who’d ever lived.

Yet Izzy’s form would never change, so there was no real point in teaching her to use the weapon other than it allowed Celyn a chance to stand behind her with his arms around her and his hands on hers, slowly moving from battle stance to battle stance together.

In Gwenvael’s extremely educated opinion, Celyn’s pelvis snuggled just a little too close to his niece’s rear.

As he stepped into the room, Izzy’s head came up. The intense expression—or scowl, depending on who you spoke to—she always possessed when learning anything to do with war or combat, quickly changed into that welcoming smile Gwenvael simply adored. For a niece, he couldn’t have asked for better than Izzy.

“Gwenvael! You’re back!”

“Hello, my heart. Dinner will be soon. You sure you want your mum to see you looking like that?”

Izzy glanced down at her dirt-covered clothes. Spending a day playing with young dragons was hard and messy work, and clearly his Izzy had enjoyed every second of it.

“You’ve got a point. Mum’s going to be pissed as it is, eh?”

“After watching you play Run and Jump? What do you think?”

She gave him her biggest grin, which caused her adorable pug nose to crinkle, making him laugh.

Glancing down at his young female cousin, he asked, “And how are you, Branwen?”

“Starving. When do we eat?”

“Soon. You two had best get dressed, so you won’t hear complaints from your mothers.” He looked at Celyn. “Mind if I talk to you for a bit, Celyn?”

Celyn didn’t even bother trying to hide his smug grin as he pulled away from Izzy. No doubt this was not the first time a male relative of some female Celyn had set his sights on had asked to speak to him, nor would it be the last time. “Of course. See you at dinner, Cousin Izzy.” He winked at her, his smug grin in place.

Gwenvael followed the young dragon out, closing the door behind him, quite pleased to hear the hysterical feminine laughter that followed their exit. As long as Izzy didn’t take Celyn seriously, Gwenvael would have less to worry about.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a talk with the young hatching. To calmly remind him that although Izzy was not blood, she was still the niece of Gwenvael and Fearghus and the very much loved and cherished daughter of Briec.

Celyn turned to face him. “Is this the bit where you remind me little Izzy there’s kin and I should keep my distance?”

And then Gwenvael remembered. Celyn was a Cadwaladr. Explanations and calm warnings would be a waste of Gwenvael’s precious breath.

Keeping that in mind, Gwenvael grabbed his young cousin by the back of the neck and slammed him face first into the stone wall. When he pulled him back, a lovely splash of blood was left behind where Celyn’s nose had been shattered.

The hatchling almost dropped to his knees, but Gwenvael held onto the back of his neck and walked—or dragged—him toward the steps.

“I’ll make it simple for you, Celyn. You keep your hands off my niece, or you’ll be able to serve the virgin witches of the east as a eunuch. Understood?”

Celyn nodded, his hands covering his shattered nose.

“Good. Now run away.” And the hatchling did, tearing off down the hallway and disappearing from Gwenvael’s sight.

“It should be a good night,” he said with a smile.

* * *

Dagmar stopped midway down the stairs leading to the Great Hall. The room was packed, every table filled with laughing, talking, and arguing people. Platters of food were passed down from person to person, each taking what they wanted before sending it on its way. Servants bustled back and forth between bringing fresh food out and taking empty platters back. Several of the serving women poured wine and laughed right along with those at the table.

Thankfully, there was no uncomfortable grabbing, nor warnings to “mind your hands.”

“My Lady Dagmar.”

Gwenvael’s cousin Fal charged up the stairs and took her hand. “If I may escort you, my lady.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t let this lot frighten you. They’re loud but harmless.”

“Harmless unless I’m the enemy.”

“Exactly.” They reached the last step. “You can sit near me, I’d love to find out more about the Northlands.”

She’d rather eat bark, but she didn’t have a moment to come up with an excuse before Gwenvael came up behind them and grabbed Fal by the hair. With one good yank, the youngster went flying and Gwenvael took her hand. “Beast.”

“Defiler.”

He grinned and placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Come along. There’s much to observe and mock.”

She laughed. “Sounds delightful.”

Gwenvael led her to the queen’s table, but they stopped when a large wall stepped in front of them.

“Lady Dagmar, this is my baby brother, Éibhear.”

Dagmar looked up into a handsome but fierce face … until he smiled. That adorable smile took up his entire face and Dagmar was helpless to do anything but smile back.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello.” By all reason … His hair was blue. Not so black it appeared blue, but blue! She briefly wondered if Gwenvael would mind if she ran her hands through it.

“Is it true you went to the Great Library of Spikenhammer?”

“Very true.”

“I’ve always wanted to go. I’ve heard their collection of books is phenomenal.”

“It is. And your brother was thrown out for lewd behavior.”

Éibhear’s enchanting smile faded, replaced by a rather frightening frown. “Can’t take you anywhere,” he accused his brother.

“It wasn’t me,” Gwenvael lied. “She molested me in the stacks. She treats me like a whore.”

“He’s right,” she agreed, surprising the brothers. “Sold him for five copper pieces in the market, too. Thinking about buying myself a new dress with my earnings.”

“I’ll have you know,” Gwenvael said over his brother’s laugh, “I’m worth more than five copper pieces. If you’re going to sell my ass on the street, at least get my true worth!”

Izzy and Branwen quickly stepped apart as Branwen’s older brother Fal crashed past them, then stepped back together as they continued down the stairs.

“Who’s that?” Branwen asked, watching as Gwenvael led a woman toward the queen’s table with all of Gwenvael’s siblings—and Izzy’s mum. Who Izzy still wasn’t talking to!

“Must be the Northlander.”

“Cousin Gwenvael seems quite taken with her.”

“She must be smart then. He only truly likes the smart ones.”

Once off the stairs, Izzy glanced toward the main table. She knew they had a seat for her—right next to her mother.

Branwen grabbed her arm. “Come, cousin. You’ll sit with us.” The young dragoness pulled Izzy to a table. There were several seats open, but Bran still took hold of the hair of one of her sisters, and yanked her from the chair.

“Ack!
You crazed cow!”

Yelling ensued, and Izzy tried to avoid the swinging arms.

“Sit, Izzy.” Ghleanna waved her into a seat. “Sit. Ignore them two. Never know how to act right.” She sucked the marrow from a chicken bone and tossed it over her shoulder, hitting a servant in the head. “It’s embarrassing.”

Izzy had just dumped several delicious-smelling ribs onto her plate from a passing platter, when Celyn walked up and shoved his sisters aside. He’d barely sat down in the seat beside Izzy when Branwen started yelling at him while her sister was still yelling at her. A solid blast of flame from their mother put a halt to it all.

“Branwen. Here. Dera. Here. Now both of you shut up!”

Wiping soot from their faces, the sisters sat down, and Izzy turned to Celyn.

“By the gods!” she gasped when she saw him. “What happened to your face? Are you all right? I’ll see if Morfyd has something for you.”

She went to stand, but his hand on her arm kept her right where she was.

“I don’t need anything, Iz. And this”—he pointed at his swollen nose and black eyes—“was just a warning off from Gwenvael.”

“A warning off? For what?”

He grinned. Even with his face swollen, Celyn was extremely handsome—and he knew it. But Izzy still liked him. He made her laugh and showed her all the interesting weapons the dragons used. “He tried to warn me off you.”

“Me?” She couldn’t help but giggle. “Really?”

“Really. Your uncles and father are very protective of you. Briec threw me into a tree. One of those really old ones that never move. Your uncle Fearghus bit me.”

Izzy placed her hand on Celyn’s. “He …
bit
you?”

“Aye. He was on the floor and—”

“Why was he on the floor?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you think to ask?”

“No.” He pointed at his leg. “Bastard nearly tore out me calf muscle.”

Using the tips of her fingers, she toyed with one of the ribs on her plate. “And Éibhear?”

“What about him?”

“He’s an uncle. Has he violently attacked you for no good reason?”

“No. A cousin I was quite close to hasn’t said a word to me in three days.” Celyn took one of the ribs off her plate. “Not since he saw me flying you around.”

Celyn leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing into hers. “And if I may be so bold—if you want to call Éibhear your uncle that’s on you, but that would make him a very dirty, naughty uncle, because I’ve seen how he looks at you.”

Under the table, Izzy wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on the skirt of her gown. “How does he look at me?”

“The same way I do.”

Startled, Izzy quickly looked away. “I thought my father and uncles warned you off.”

“I said they tried.” He took another rib from her plate, laughing when she grabbed the other end and began to tug. “I never said they succeeded.”

When he saw Brastias lean over and whisper something to his sister, Gwenvael thought about setting the big bastard on fire.

“Stop it,” Dagmar murmured.

“Stop what?”

Dagmar laughed. “Don’t give
me
that innocent look. I invented it. And I don’t see what’s wrong with him.”

“He’s not good enough for her. She deserves—”

“Better than a human?”

“Did I say that?”

“You don’t have to.” A chalice of wine in her hand, Dagmar relaxed back in her chair while Gwenvael did the same. After the first fifteen minutes, Dagmar had held that pose most of the night. They leaned in close and chatted, her asking questions, him answering; then he would do the asking and she the answering. He loved how sly she looked as she watched everyone and listened to everything. He knew she didn’t realize it, but she’d let her guard down. The ongoing threats in Annwyl’s court among the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar royals and the Cadwaladr Clan were slight in comparison to life among the humans. His family dealt with things straight on. A fist here, a blast of flame there. It kept the general peace and didn’t kill an evening—or someone’s favorite cousin. The humans, however, were much more dangerous.

She’d probably never admit it, but she was enjoying herself. He could tell. She tugged on his shirt and he leaned back again.

“Why does sweet Éibhear look so angry? He hasn’t smiled once since we sat down.”

“He’s pretending he’s not jealous about my niece Izzy.”

“That pretty girl you pointed out to me? Talaith’s daughter?” She snorted. “Foolish, foolish boy.”

Gwenvael chuckled. “I know.”

She studied others at the table before she asked, “And do those two ever stop arguing?” He didn’t need to look to see who she spoke of, but he did anyway to find out what the argument of the evening was.

Talaith held up an apple in front of Briec, dangerously close to his nose. “This doesn’t look ripe enough. Why isn’t this ripe?”