What a Dragon Should Know
Page 23
“You and I? No, no.” Dagmar gave a small, false laugh and placed her chalice back on the table. For a moment, a splendid moment, all he felt from her as they talked was heat and sex. This one loved the game as much as he, but these barbarians held her back. A shame, really. For he wondered what she would really do if given free rein. “I would never handle negotiations of such great importance.”
“What’s this, sister-in-law?” the one who must have bathed in whatever sickening scent she used—Kikka, was it?—cut in. “Are you not the politician of your father’s lands?”
Dagmar didn’t move, her expression never changed, and she did nothing that suggested the woman’s words hit a nerve. But for Gwenvael those cold, grey eyes always gave Lady Dagmar away.
Did these females not know the dangerous animal they played with? Did they really not see it? Or did their jealousy of her make them blind to the risks they took?
Kikka placed one smooth, unmarred hand on his forearm. “You see, Lord Gwenvael, our little Dagmar hopes the rules will change one day and she’ll be reigning warlord over everything you see here. That when our great warriors ride into battle, they’ll be chanting ‘The Beast’ and not ‘The Reinholdt.’ ”
Ahhh, not blind. Stupid.
The insipid women at the table laughed at Kikka’s joke until Kikka yelled out, pushing her chair back and stumbling away from the table.
Eymund rolled his eyes. “What is wrong now?”
“One of those vicious beasts of hers bit me!”
Dagmar put her hand to her chest. “Oh, Kikka, I’m so sorry.” She glanced under the heavy wood table. “Come here, little one. Come here.” A dog large enough that Gwenvael could ride it back to Dark Plains emerged from under the table. “Now, Idu, I know you want to play with Canute, but not tonight. Go outside now.”
The large but older dog, based on her white muzzle and the grey in her fur, eased out from under the table and sauntered out of the hall.
“You put her under there on purpose!” Kikka accused, one of the servants wiping away the blood from her ankle.
“And why would I do that?”
“You know that dog hates me.”
“The dog hates you. I see. And therefore I put her under the table to attack when you said something she didn’t like? That was the dog’s grand scheme, eh?”
“No! I meant you … you know what I meant, dammit.”
“Sit down,” Eymund ordered. “You’re making a bloody fool of yourself.”
“But she—”
“Sit!”
Her face red from anger, her glare for Dagmar alone, Kikka pulled her chair back and sat down. She looked at Gwenvael and he knew what he saw in her eyes. A clear invitation. With the right word or look, she’d find a way to invite him to her room or to meet somewhere outside later tonight.
In answer, Gwenvael turned in his chair and focused on Eymund again. “Since your sister can’t handle negotiations, I do hope you and I will work together on this. Very closely.”
He so enjoyed the way the man froze any time Gwenvael did that. The human looked like that deer Gwenvael had come upon a few days ago in the forest. He wondered what would make Eymund scamper off completely.
Dagmar pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m off to bed, Father. Lord Gwenvael.”
“Lady Dagmar,” he said, but he kept his attention on Eymund—much to the man’s horror. “So tell me, Eymund …” Gwenvael nibbled on a crunchy piece of fruit. “What are you planning to do … after dessert?”
Morfyd the White Witch tore off the dress she’d put on only moments before and grabbed for another. When did she get like this? This pathetic and … and … female? Honestly! Did she really need to put herself through any of this?
She pulled the red gown on and stared at herself in the mirror. She frowned. Her … in red. Were there not laws against that?
As she began to pull the dress off and try on another, her brother’s voice echoed in her head.
She immediately stopped, feeling guilty as if she’d been caught red-handed, until she remembered he was in the Northlands. And, she reminded herself, he couldn’t read her thoughts. But, like most dragons, they could communicate with each other using their minds alone. A true gift … unless you were hiding something and jumpy as a sparrow.
Are you there or not? her brother’s voice demanded.
Don’t bark at me! She rubbed her forehead, tried to calm down a bit. What is it?
Nothing. But I’m in the Reinholdt Fortress.
The dungeons?
Very funny.
She smiled and dropped down on the edge of her bed. Actually it was very funny.
I’m not in the dungeons. I’m in a room. Just finished dinner with the lot of them. Which was tedious, to say the least.
And what did they tell you? What do they know?
I’m still working on that.
You’re still … Morfyd gritted her teeth together. What did you do?
Nothing.
Gwenvael!
Would you leave it to me? Why don’t you trust me?
Are you really asking me that? She sighed. I told her we should have never sent you.
And thank you for the never-ending trust, sister.
Morfyd grimaced, realizing too late she should have kept that thought to herself.
Gwenvael, I’m sorry. Please—
But she already knew he was no longer there.
She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but this was Gwenvael. She and Fearghus had tried to talk Annwyl out of sending Gwenvael as her emissary, but her friend had insisted.
“What’s this, sister-in-law?” the one who must have bathed in whatever sickening scent she used—Kikka, was it?—cut in. “Are you not the politician of your father’s lands?”
Dagmar didn’t move, her expression never changed, and she did nothing that suggested the woman’s words hit a nerve. But for Gwenvael those cold, grey eyes always gave Lady Dagmar away.
Did these females not know the dangerous animal they played with? Did they really not see it? Or did their jealousy of her make them blind to the risks they took?
Kikka placed one smooth, unmarred hand on his forearm. “You see, Lord Gwenvael, our little Dagmar hopes the rules will change one day and she’ll be reigning warlord over everything you see here. That when our great warriors ride into battle, they’ll be chanting ‘The Beast’ and not ‘The Reinholdt.’ ”
Ahhh, not blind. Stupid.
The insipid women at the table laughed at Kikka’s joke until Kikka yelled out, pushing her chair back and stumbling away from the table.
Eymund rolled his eyes. “What is wrong now?”
“One of those vicious beasts of hers bit me!”
Dagmar put her hand to her chest. “Oh, Kikka, I’m so sorry.” She glanced under the heavy wood table. “Come here, little one. Come here.” A dog large enough that Gwenvael could ride it back to Dark Plains emerged from under the table. “Now, Idu, I know you want to play with Canute, but not tonight. Go outside now.”
The large but older dog, based on her white muzzle and the grey in her fur, eased out from under the table and sauntered out of the hall.
“You put her under there on purpose!” Kikka accused, one of the servants wiping away the blood from her ankle.
“And why would I do that?”
“You know that dog hates me.”
“The dog hates you. I see. And therefore I put her under the table to attack when you said something she didn’t like? That was the dog’s grand scheme, eh?”
“No! I meant you … you know what I meant, dammit.”
“Sit down,” Eymund ordered. “You’re making a bloody fool of yourself.”
“But she—”
“Sit!”
Her face red from anger, her glare for Dagmar alone, Kikka pulled her chair back and sat down. She looked at Gwenvael and he knew what he saw in her eyes. A clear invitation. With the right word or look, she’d find a way to invite him to her room or to meet somewhere outside later tonight.
In answer, Gwenvael turned in his chair and focused on Eymund again. “Since your sister can’t handle negotiations, I do hope you and I will work together on this. Very closely.”
He so enjoyed the way the man froze any time Gwenvael did that. The human looked like that deer Gwenvael had come upon a few days ago in the forest. He wondered what would make Eymund scamper off completely.
Dagmar pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m off to bed, Father. Lord Gwenvael.”
“Lady Dagmar,” he said, but he kept his attention on Eymund—much to the man’s horror. “So tell me, Eymund …” Gwenvael nibbled on a crunchy piece of fruit. “What are you planning to do … after dessert?”
Morfyd the White Witch tore off the dress she’d put on only moments before and grabbed for another. When did she get like this? This pathetic and … and … female? Honestly! Did she really need to put herself through any of this?
She pulled the red gown on and stared at herself in the mirror. She frowned. Her … in red. Were there not laws against that?
As she began to pull the dress off and try on another, her brother’s voice echoed in her head.
She immediately stopped, feeling guilty as if she’d been caught red-handed, until she remembered he was in the Northlands. And, she reminded herself, he couldn’t read her thoughts. But, like most dragons, they could communicate with each other using their minds alone. A true gift … unless you were hiding something and jumpy as a sparrow.
Are you there or not? her brother’s voice demanded.
Don’t bark at me! She rubbed her forehead, tried to calm down a bit. What is it?
Nothing. But I’m in the Reinholdt Fortress.
The dungeons?
Very funny.
She smiled and dropped down on the edge of her bed. Actually it was very funny.
I’m not in the dungeons. I’m in a room. Just finished dinner with the lot of them. Which was tedious, to say the least.
And what did they tell you? What do they know?
I’m still working on that.
You’re still … Morfyd gritted her teeth together. What did you do?
Nothing.
Gwenvael!
Would you leave it to me? Why don’t you trust me?
Are you really asking me that? She sighed. I told her we should have never sent you.
And thank you for the never-ending trust, sister.
Morfyd grimaced, realizing too late she should have kept that thought to herself.
Gwenvael, I’m sorry. Please—
But she already knew he was no longer there.
She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but this was Gwenvael. She and Fearghus had tried to talk Annwyl out of sending Gwenvael as her emissary, but her friend had insisted.
