The Dragon Who Loved Me
Page 55
Because I’m hungry for you. If there’s anything I want to eat—it’s you.” Rhona stepped back, hands on hips, and accused, “You cannibalistic bastard!”
And that was when the mare charged Rhona and shoved her into the river.
Vigholf nodded at the mare. “Thank you for that. Because I’d been moments from doing it myself.” Because no one could possibly be that oblivious. No one!
Gasping and desperately trying to push wet hair out of her eyes, Rhona got to her feet.
“What was that for?” she demanded, pul ing herself out of the river.
“Because,” Vigholf answered for both him and the mare, “sometimes you ain’t half a dimwitted twit.”
“Me?” she nearly screeched. “Me? I’m the dimwitted twit, O Great Feeder of the Horses?”
“I was trying to bond!”
“Wel , bloody good job you’re doing with that.” Rhona held her arms out at her sides. “Look at me! It’l take forever for my clothes to dry. Arrrgh!” She glared at him. “I should set you on fire!”
“I wasn’t the one who pushed you in. Although I wanted to.”
“Oh, real y? Wel , I’d like to see you try.”
And, with a shrug, Vigholf shoved Rhona back into the river. He took great satisfaction in hearing that splash.
The mare, shaking her head, walked back to the stal ion.
“She dared me,” he argued, holding his hand out for Rhona to grasp so he could help her out of the river. “I couldn’t ignore a dare.” Then again, he couldn’t ignore that fist to the jaw either. And gods-dammit that female had a mighty right hook!
“You’re just lucky,” Rhona told him as she got out of the river by herself, “that I respect your brother too much to bring him back your corpse!” Vigholf rubbed his jaw. “The punch was unnecessary,” he muttered.
“Shut up.” She walked around him. “Just . . . shut up.”
“We’re not done talking, Rhona,” he said to her back.
“What else is there to talk about? You’re an insane Lightning and that mare has no bloody loyalty. Al seems clear to me.” Fed up, frustrated, and out of ideas, Vigholf just admitted the truth.
“I want you, Rhona.”
She stripped off her soaking-wet fur cape and put it over a low-hanging branch near her bedrol . “You want me to do what?” At that point, Vigholf was at a loss. He raised his hands in defeat, his mouth open as he gawked at her.
When he didn’t reply to her stupid question, Rhona looked at him. “Why are you staring at me like . . .” She blinked. Twice. “Oh. You mean . . .” Her eyes widened. “Oh!” Narrowed. “Oh.” Shook her head, appearing a bit disgusted. “Oh.” Then she smiled a bit. “Oh.” Then she sort of slumped and sighed. “Oh.”
“What was al that?” he demanded.
“It means I’l not settle.”
Vigholf felt rage suddenly explode through his veins. She’d said something like that before, and he hadn’t much liked it then either. “And with me you’d be settling?” he bit out between clenched teeth.
“Wel , we’d both be settling, wouldn’t we?”
“What?”
“No need to bel ow. But it’s plain, yeah? I’m here. I’m unattached.” She pointed at her crotch. “I’ve got a pus—”
“Yes,” Vigholf cut in. “I’m wel aware of what you have.”
“That’s it then. You have needs. I understand that. But I’l not let some dragon f**k me because I happen to be here. Get yourself a barmaid.”
“Is that what you think?” Vigholf asked her. “That I only want you because you’re here?”
“You expect me to believe a Northlander would be seriously interested in one of us?”
“Us? You mean a Southland female? The ones you constantly accuse us of stealing?”
“No. I mean us. The scarred-up, less-than-reputable, drink-too-much, curse-too-often Cadwaladr females. The ones you lot never steal.”
“We did once. And do you know what happened?” Vigholf asked her. “While one of your bloody aunts was removing the lungs from her captors, your Uncle Bercelak was kidnapping and dismembering the eldest sons of al the Horde leaders . . . until she was returned. Soooo, stealing Cadwaladr females. Not something we do anymore.”
“Oh.” Rhona rubbed her nose, and he knew she was trying not to laugh. “Right. Heard about that. That was my Aunt—”
“Don’t care,” he admitted. “But if you want to know why my kin were specifical y not giving you a second glance—that was because I told them not to.”
“You . . . you told them not to?”
“Strongly told them not to. With great force.”
Rhona shook her head, confused. “What does that mean?”
“It means I told them to stay away from what was mine.”
Wait . . . what? “Yours?”
“Mine. I told them that if they wanted to keep their eyes in their heads and scales on their backs—they’d stay as far away from you as possible.”
“But—”
He started walking toward her. “And, as my kind often does, my younger brother tried to test me. Kept looking at you. Growling inappropriately.”
“How does one growl inappropriate—”
And that was when the mare charged Rhona and shoved her into the river.
Vigholf nodded at the mare. “Thank you for that. Because I’d been moments from doing it myself.” Because no one could possibly be that oblivious. No one!
Gasping and desperately trying to push wet hair out of her eyes, Rhona got to her feet.
“What was that for?” she demanded, pul ing herself out of the river.
“Because,” Vigholf answered for both him and the mare, “sometimes you ain’t half a dimwitted twit.”
“Me?” she nearly screeched. “Me? I’m the dimwitted twit, O Great Feeder of the Horses?”
“I was trying to bond!”
“Wel , bloody good job you’re doing with that.” Rhona held her arms out at her sides. “Look at me! It’l take forever for my clothes to dry. Arrrgh!” She glared at him. “I should set you on fire!”
“I wasn’t the one who pushed you in. Although I wanted to.”
“Oh, real y? Wel , I’d like to see you try.”
And, with a shrug, Vigholf shoved Rhona back into the river. He took great satisfaction in hearing that splash.
The mare, shaking her head, walked back to the stal ion.
“She dared me,” he argued, holding his hand out for Rhona to grasp so he could help her out of the river. “I couldn’t ignore a dare.” Then again, he couldn’t ignore that fist to the jaw either. And gods-dammit that female had a mighty right hook!
“You’re just lucky,” Rhona told him as she got out of the river by herself, “that I respect your brother too much to bring him back your corpse!” Vigholf rubbed his jaw. “The punch was unnecessary,” he muttered.
“Shut up.” She walked around him. “Just . . . shut up.”
“We’re not done talking, Rhona,” he said to her back.
“What else is there to talk about? You’re an insane Lightning and that mare has no bloody loyalty. Al seems clear to me.” Fed up, frustrated, and out of ideas, Vigholf just admitted the truth.
“I want you, Rhona.”
She stripped off her soaking-wet fur cape and put it over a low-hanging branch near her bedrol . “You want me to do what?” At that point, Vigholf was at a loss. He raised his hands in defeat, his mouth open as he gawked at her.
When he didn’t reply to her stupid question, Rhona looked at him. “Why are you staring at me like . . .” She blinked. Twice. “Oh. You mean . . .” Her eyes widened. “Oh!” Narrowed. “Oh.” Shook her head, appearing a bit disgusted. “Oh.” Then she smiled a bit. “Oh.” Then she sort of slumped and sighed. “Oh.”
“What was al that?” he demanded.
“It means I’l not settle.”
Vigholf felt rage suddenly explode through his veins. She’d said something like that before, and he hadn’t much liked it then either. “And with me you’d be settling?” he bit out between clenched teeth.
“Wel , we’d both be settling, wouldn’t we?”
“What?”
“No need to bel ow. But it’s plain, yeah? I’m here. I’m unattached.” She pointed at her crotch. “I’ve got a pus—”
“Yes,” Vigholf cut in. “I’m wel aware of what you have.”
“That’s it then. You have needs. I understand that. But I’l not let some dragon f**k me because I happen to be here. Get yourself a barmaid.”
“Is that what you think?” Vigholf asked her. “That I only want you because you’re here?”
“You expect me to believe a Northlander would be seriously interested in one of us?”
“Us? You mean a Southland female? The ones you constantly accuse us of stealing?”
“No. I mean us. The scarred-up, less-than-reputable, drink-too-much, curse-too-often Cadwaladr females. The ones you lot never steal.”
“We did once. And do you know what happened?” Vigholf asked her. “While one of your bloody aunts was removing the lungs from her captors, your Uncle Bercelak was kidnapping and dismembering the eldest sons of al the Horde leaders . . . until she was returned. Soooo, stealing Cadwaladr females. Not something we do anymore.”
“Oh.” Rhona rubbed her nose, and he knew she was trying not to laugh. “Right. Heard about that. That was my Aunt—”
“Don’t care,” he admitted. “But if you want to know why my kin were specifical y not giving you a second glance—that was because I told them not to.”
“You . . . you told them not to?”
“Strongly told them not to. With great force.”
Rhona shook her head, confused. “What does that mean?”
“It means I told them to stay away from what was mine.”
Wait . . . what? “Yours?”
“Mine. I told them that if they wanted to keep their eyes in their heads and scales on their backs—they’d stay as far away from you as possible.”
“But—”
He started walking toward her. “And, as my kind often does, my younger brother tried to test me. Kept looking at you. Growling inappropriately.”
“How does one growl inappropriate—”
