What a Dragon Should Know (54 page)

Unfortunately when things began to turn interesting between the farmer and her ladyship and strange snorting sounds began to be used—by both—Gwenvael had completely distracted her … several times.

How was she to get anything done when he kept doing that to her?

“Don’t blame me because you can’t keep quiet.” He kissed and licked his way up her back. “I think it was that last scream that frightened them off. Now aren’t you sorry I didn’t gag you as I suggested?”

“If you gag me, I won’t be able to scream for help.”

He nipped her shoulder and dug his hand into her hair, turning her head so he could take her mouth. His kiss was long and lingering, and she relaxed into it, letting him take what he wanted from her.

Pleasure and happiness—at one time she’d never dared to hope for these. Now she had more than she knew what to do with.

He rolled her to her back, his hands sliding up her sides and to her arms. As if time didn’t matter, his kiss went on and on while his fingers gently stroked her skin. It wasn’t until her arms were pinned over her head that he pulled from their kiss and softly asked, “So what were you and Fearghus talking about earlier?”

Quickly forgetting about the Craddocks and their bitter, unhappy lives, Dagmar sighed. “Nothing much.”

He entered her slowly, Dagmar’s body arching into his while he planted tiny kisses against her jaw and throat.

“My lovely Dagmar,” he murmured. “Such an excellent little liar.”

Dagmar’s squeal of protest rang out and she kicked and tried to pull her arms away, but Gwenvael refused to release her as he mercilessly tickled her.

“Stop! Stop!”

He did. “What were you talking about?”

“Baron Lord Craddock.” She squealed again, kicked harder. “Let me go! You can’t do this to me!”

“But I am!” he gasped out. “And I have to say I do enjoy it this way. Every time I tickle you, like right … here!”

“Stop!”

“Your pussy squeezes me so hard.” He groaned. “Gods that feels good.”

“Stop! Stop!”

He took his time, but he stopped. “Tell me.”

“I’m not lying, you rude bastard. We were talking about Craddock. Rumor is he’s raising an army near the Southland coast.”

“And?”

“And what?” She squealed when he tickled her again and spit out the rest when he stopped, “All right! All right! Fearghus wants us to go and find out what really is happening on Craddock’s territory. Arrange a truce if we can, plan for war if we can’t. But with the wife’s obvious indiscretions in play, I hope a war with Craddock will be unnecessary.”

Gwenvael frowned. “Fearghus wants me to go as well?”

“He thinks we’re an excellent team. Figures I can handle the court and you can handle the merchants and get information from the working girls—which had better be all you get from them.”

Using his free hand, he touched his cheek. “And risk this pretty face by upsetting the love of my life? Never.” He chuckled when she only smirked at him. “Now … Is this the first time you two have discussed this little trip of goodwill?”

“Yes.” His fingers went at her again and she screamed, “No! No!”

“Well?”

“We talked about it two weeks ago.”

“That was around the time I was certain you and Annwyl were up to something. I’d wondered how you’d talked Fearghus into sending that little gift to your father.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

At this point she was quite aware she was goading him, but when he took her with those long powerful strokes, making her come again and again while tickling her beyond reason, she didn’t really care.

Letting out one last shudder, Gwenvael rolled off Dagmar and smiled. “Conniving cow.”

She laughed. “I was wondering why you hadn’t said anything.”

“Why would I? I love watching you work. My brothers don’t know what to make of you. And that’s just high entertainment for me.”

They looked at each other, both breathing hard, exhausted to their bones, and Gwenvael studied her. Dagmar’s hair, saturated with sweat, stuck to her forehead and her eyes blinked hard as she tried to focus on his face without her spectacles. He understood now that her mind would never stop turning, never stop planning—and she’d never be happy with a simple life at court.

“I love you, Dagmar. Every plotting, conniving inch of you.”

Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of red, but her expression didn’t change. She’d never show that he’d embarrassed her with his direct words. Words he would never speak to any other.

“And I love you,” she returned simply, the words as unadorned and perfect as she was.

Gwenvael opened his arms and Dagmar moved over, collapsing into them. He stroked his hands down her sweat-covered back, his fingers sliding against the lines of her brand. He did that often, happy and grateful that she wore his mark.

He sighed contentedly and kissed her. “Do you realize that the entire world is at our disposal, Beast?”

“Of course I realize that.” Could she sound haughtier? Then he realized that she actually could sound
much
haughtier. “But we’re not supposed to say it out loud. Instead we’re supposed to silently recognize the fact and use it to our will until we get everything we want.”

Gwenvael sat up and pulled Dagmar onto his lap. His hand cupped her cheek and chin as he looked into her eyes so she could know that every word he spoke—to her—was the absolute truth. “I have everything I want, Dagmar. Everything I could ever want.”

Her smile was pure pleasure even as her cheeks reddened more. “Then what’s the point of the game if we have everything we could want?”

Gwenvael watched as Lady Craddock stumbled from the bushes, quickly smoothing back her hair and making sure her gown was back in place. Tragically for her, the biggest mistake she’d made was
not
that she hadn’t cleaned off the mud-crusted, man-sized palm prints on the back of her dress. Nor was it her eagerness to bring war to the people she should be trying to protect. No, Lady Craddock’s biggest mistake was to focus cruel gossip on the twins. Spreading rumors and lies about the twins being unholy or the products of dark gods had drawn Dagmar’s wrath quicker than anything else could have. Now both royal husband and wife would have to pay the price. And pay they would—later.

“The point?” He kept one arm around Dagmar’s waist while he reached into the basket of food and wine Fannie had sent them off with. “The point is entertainment. And do you know what the best part of that entertainment is, my love?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me in excruciating de … what is that?”

With a wide grin, Gwenvael held up the small set of cuffs and collar he’d snuck into the basket. “What do you think?”

Outraged but laughing, Dagmar desperately tried to wiggle out of his grasp.

“The best part, my sweet Dagmar”—he pinned her to the ground and leered into her smiling face—“is that they’ll never see us coming.”

Sigmar Reinholdt stood in front of all his men, his sons right by his side.

And, no more than several hundred feet across from him, was Jökull himself. Plus the twenty thousand troops Jökull had to Sigmar’s ten thousand.

Sigmar knew they’d most likely lose today. The troops Jökull had were made up of murderers and scum. The kind of troops bought with great money, but only held as long as the money lasted. Sigmar would never lower himself to buy anyone’s loyalty. His troops would fight by his side because they were loyal to him.

His biggest worry at the moment was that Jökull’s men could get past him and get to the fortress. But he had plans for that as well. Unpleasant plans but everyone knew what was expected should the word come. They’d all rather die by their own hands, than become slaves to Jökull.

“I really thought she’d come through for us, Da,” his eldest murmured beside him.

“She tried. I know she did.” And he was grateful she wasn’t here. The thought of losing his only daughter, even by her own hand, would have distracted him from important matters right in front of him.

Jökull sat tall on his horse, looking smug and ready.

“Do you surrender, brother?” he yelled across the distance between them. As part of the Code, Jökull had to ask for surrender before any kind of massacre could take place.

“No true Reinholdt would ever surrender,” Sigmar replied … also part of the Code.

It used to always amuse him when Dagmar would complain, “That Code has to be the most contradictory load of horse crap I’ve ever read.”

“No true Reinholdt would ever think we would!” Sigmar added, his men cheering and raising their swords or shields in agreement. “Come, brother. The suns are rising. Let’s waste no more time.”

But Jökull wasn’t listening to him. He and several of his men were staring off, watching a lone rider tear down the space between the two armies. The horse was big and black, like something coughed up from the pit of one of the hells. And his rider?

A woman.

The men on both sides were so surprised, no one catcalled or spoke. They simply watched her as she raced closer to him and Jökull.

She saw the banners and pulled the beast she rode to a stop.

“You The Reinholdt?” she asked.

Sigmar had never seen a woman like her before. She wore her long hair tied back by a leather thong and had on a sleeveless chain-mail shirt, chain-mail leggings, and leather boots. She had swords strapped to her back and a shield hanging from her horse. She was scarred and branded on both her forearms, and although partially covered by her gauntlets, he could still see parts of a dragon image burned into her flesh.

And though she was armed to the teeth, she wore no full armor, nor any colors.

“I be Sigmar.”

She pulled a letter from under her saddle. “This is from your daughter.”

He took it and opened the expensive parchment. It was short but to the point.

Father—

As a Northlander, we all knew what I’d do.

Dagmar

“Who’s Jökull?” the woman asked.

“I’m Jökull, wench.” Jökull leaned over the pummel of his saddle, leering at the woman. “And who are you?”

She turned her horse and smiled at him. “I’m Annwyl.” Then with a speed Sigmar had never seen before, she ripped one of the swords from its sheath and threw it. The weapon flipped end over end until it slammed full force into the middle of Jökull’s head, yanking him back off his horse and into the men behind him.

She looked over her shoulder at Sigmar. “I can only stay today. Have to get back to my twins and my mate before he comes looking for me—which won’t be good for you. Oh! And I’m supposed to bring someone named Canute with me when I return. Dagmar said for you not to argue about it. But my troops will stay.” She nodded in the direction she’d come and he saw those troops marching over the ridge. “That’s five legions your daughter negotiated out of me. She’s good, warlord. And once we get this all cleaned up for you, she’ll be home to see you.” She smiled. “She has a very big surprise for you.” She snapped her fingers. “And I’m supposed to send a very big hello to … uh … Eymund?”

Sigmar’s eldest nodded at the woman.

“From Gwenvael.”

His son’s shoulders slumped and his brothers chuckled beside him.

Then Annwyl the Bloody, Queen of Dark Plains, faced the confused and panicked troops of Jökull.

“I want my sword back,” she announced to them, pulling her second sword from its sheath. “Now who’s gonna stop me from getting it?”

His eldest leaned in close and reminded Sigmar, “I guess Cousin Uddo was right all those years ago, eh, Da?”

“What?”

“When he’d called her Beast.” His son grinned and motioned to the mad bitch riding flat out into Jökull’s troops with her sword raised. The mad bitch his daughter had sent to them. “I think, unfortunately for poor Uncle Jökull, Uddo was bang on.”

It started slow, deep in his chest, but burst out of him. Great, powerful laughter, his troops joining in as Annwyl’s legions swarmed over Jökull’s hired troops.

“Get in there, men!” Sigmar finally ordered, swinging his ax off his shoulder. “Anyone not in our colors or Annwyl’s—dies!”

He raised his ax high, knowing there was only one war cry that would mean anything to himself or his men on this day. “For The Beast!” he bellowed.

And as one, her kinsmen yelled back,
“For The Beast!”

Did you miss the first two books in
G.A. Aiken’s fabulous dragon series?
The magic begins with
DRAGON ACTUALLY …

It’s not always easy being a female warrior with a nickname like Annwyl the Bloody. Men tend to either cower in fear—a lot—or else salute. It’s true that Annwyl has a knack for decapitating legions of her ruthless brother’s soldiers without pausing for breath. But just once it would be nice to be able to really talk to a man, the way she can talk to Fearghus the Destroyer …

Too bad that Fearghus is a dragon, of the large, scaly, and deadly type. With him, Annwyl feels safe—a far cry from the feelings aroused by the hard-bodied, arrogant knight Fearghus has arranged to help train her for battle. With her days spent fighting a man who fills her with fierce, heady desire, and her nights spent in the company of a magical creature who could smite a village just by exhaling, Annwyl is sure life couldn’t get any stranger. She’s wrong …

[And just wait until you meet the rest of the family …]

“Hold, knight.” She stared at him, taking a deep breath to still her rapidly beating heart.
By the gods, he’s beautiful.
And Annwyl didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Which wasn’t far. He had to be the biggest man she’d ever seen. All of it hard-packed muscle that radiated power and strength.

She tightened her grip on her sword. “I know you.”

“And I know you.”

Annwyl frowned. “Who are you?”

“Who are
you?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You kissed me.”

“And I believe
you
kissed me.”

Annwyl’s rage grew, her patience for games waning greatly. “Perhaps you failed to realize that I have a blade to your throat, knight.”

“And perhaps you failed to realize”—he knocked her blade away, placing the tip of his own against her throat—“that I’m not some weak-willed toady who slaves for your brother, Annwyl the Bloody of the Dark Plains.”