Читать книгу What A Dragon Should Know - G.A. Aiken - Страница 8

Dagmar exited the library that only she ever went into and that only she ever maintained with Canute faithfully by her side. His paws silently padded against the stone floor as he kept pace with her.

It was time for training, and she didn’t like to be late. But she wasn’t exactly shocked when her father fell into step beside her, smartly staying on the opposite side of Canute.

“Well, that went well,” he grumbled. Her father had never been one for wasted words or preamble.

“Come to gloat?” she asked.

“No. Come to find out what you’re planning.”

Dagmar kept her gaze straight ahead and her expression purposely blank. “What makes you think I’m planning anything?”

“You’re still breathing, ain’t ya? Never known a day when you ain’t planning something. Plotting is what they call it.”

For once Dagmar didn’t have to step around people as they moved through the Main Hall; people automatically moved out of the way of The Reinholdt and anyone who happened to be with him.

“I’m not planning anything,” she assured him. “But don’t be surprised when it comes back in another day or two.”

“‘It?’ Don’t you mean ‘him’?”

“It. Him. Whatever.”

“And he’ll come back to what? Tear the place down?”

“Doubtful. He won’t want to harm the one who holds the information.”

“Always so sure, you are. Always so damn sure you’re right.”

With a shrug, she left her father by the doors leaving the Main Hall. “When have I ever been wrong?” she smugly asked.

Dagmar walked through the courtyard and around to the side near one of several barracks. She passed groups of men training hard to be the warriors her father expected. The Reinholdt had no patience for weakness or complaints of injuries. You fought and you fought well every time or dying in battle would be the least of your problems.

As she walked by, like every day when she walked by, she was completely ignored. Nothing new there.

Cutting through the training grounds and past some of the barracks, Dagmar headed to the large training area that was hers and hers alone. To get to it, she had to enter the vast building constructed under her direction. It housed all The Reinholdt’s battle dogs, and she never had to limit access to only the trainers chosen by her because few of her father’s warriors were idiotic enough to enter here and risk that even one of her dogs was loose.

As soon as Dagmar entered, the dogs still in their runs began to greet her with barks and howls. Using voice commands only, she eased her dogs’ excitement and walked through the back exit and toward the training ring. Johann, her assistant, was already working the young pups that would soon be two-hundred-pound warrior dogs. He’d been a good choice on her part. Like her, Johann preferred the company of dogs to the company of humans.

“How goes it, Johann?”

“Well, my lady.”

Dagmar gave the hand signal for Canute to lie down and stay outside the ring until she returned to him. Closing and locking the gate behind her, she patiently waited for Johann to finish. He had the dogs lying down, waiting for his next signal. They wouldn’t move until instructed to do so. They were the most obedient dogs one could find in the Northlands. And also the most obedient and the most bloodthirsty because of her training methods. Only the companion animals of the Kyvich witches—giant wolflike beasts with horns—were more feared than Dagmar’s dogs. She prided herself on that fact.

As she waited on Johann, she pulled her list from her pocket and studied her remaining tasks for the day. But it wasn’t the words on the page that had her attention, it was that damn dragon.

Could that have gone any worse? She’d always doubted the Blood Queen would come herself, but Dagmar never thought the crazed monarch would send an actual dragon to represent her. Yet did she send one of the Southland Elders Brother Ragnar had told her about last time he’d visited? No! Instead she’d sent that…that…swine! He’d laughed at her. Laughed! Loudly. In front of her kinsmen.

That had been the worst part, in truth. That her brothers had heard it all—which meant her sisters-in-law had heard it all.

Johann made the dogs wait a few more seconds before he released them. When he did, they ran to Dagmar and began jumping on her, barking at her. They were chatty today. Excited. She smiled and petted them all.

She loved her dogs. With them, she never had to be anything but what she was. They never judged her or expected anything from her, and the plainness of her face meant nothing to them.

The dragon’s rudeness from earlier already forgotten, Dagmar crouched down and the dogs proceeded to lick her face and neck while trying to push each other out of the way. She was about to get them back into training formation when she heard Canute’s angry bark from the other side of the gate. He didn’t like it when she left him, but she didn’t dare bring him in the ring while the other dogs were around. But when he wouldn’t stop barking, she signaled for the other dogs to stay and walked over to the gate.

Putting her feet between the lower slats, Dagmar pulled herself up, leaned over the fence…and looked straight into gold eyes.

He was staring up at her, looking guilty, with his hand around the back of Canute’s neck.

“What are you doing to my dog?” she asked.

“Nothing?”

“Why are you saying that like a question?”

“I wasn’t?”

“Yes, you were. And unhand him.”

He had a handsome face, whoever he was. Even when he gave a little pout at her order. He looked down at the dog again and then, with a shrug, unclamped his hand. Canute charged back and started growling and barking again.

“Quiet,” she softly ordered.

Canute stopped barking, but he didn’t stop the growling.

“What do you want?” she asked the stranger, curious as to whom he was. He couldn’t be from the Northlands. His skin was too golden from exposure to the suns, and the gold hair that reached past his knees was loose and wild around his face. The Northland men didn’t wear their hair that long or free from their single braid except when they slept.

He slowly stood…and he kept standing until he towered over her more than her brothers did and that said something. Unlike their father, The Reinholdt’s sons were all tall, strapping men. But this one was unreasonably tall. And big. Large, powerful muscles rippled under his chain-mail shirt and leggings, the pale-red surcoat tight across his chest.

Oddly, he stared at her in such a way as to make her feel…but no. No man looked at Dagmar like that. Yet there was something so undeniably familiar about him—had she met him before? Long ago?

While she tried to remember where she’d seen or met him, he grinned.

And it was that grin she recognized. That damn mocking, rude grin. Even without the elongated muzzle or sharp fangs, she’d recognized that rude grin!

“You,” she said flatly.

His brow went up in surprise. “Very good. Most humans never put the two together.”

“I thought I made myself clear earlier.”

“Yes, but I have needs.”

She blinked, keeping her expression blank. He has needs? What did that even mean?

“Your needs are not my concern.”

“But are you not lady of this house?”

He did have a point. Without a new wife for her father, etiquette demanded the task fall to Dagmar.

“And as lady of the house, isn’t it your job to care for your visitor?”

“Except I asked you to leave.”

“I did leave. Then I came back. As I’m sure you knew I would.” He rested his elbow on the gate, his chin in his palm. “I’m hungry.”

The way he said that…honestly! Dagmar simply didn’t know what to make of this dragon.

He glanced over her shoulder. “Think I can have one of those?”

Dagmar looked behind her and saw her dogs snarling and snapping in their direction while poor Johann stood around, completely baffled. For once the dogs ignored his commands, and he had no idea why.

“Have one?” she asked, also baffled.

“Aye. I’m hungry and—”

Her head snapped around and she slapped her hand over his mouth. “If you say what I think you’re about to say,” she warned softly, “I’ll be forced to have you killed. So stop speaking.”

She felt it. Against her hand. That damn smile again. She ignored the feeling of another being’s flesh against her own. It had been so long that it felt disconcertingly strange to her.

She pulled her hand away and blatantly wiped her palm against her dress. “Leave.”

“Why?”

“Because the mere sight of you frightens my dogs.”

He leaned in closer to her. “And what does the mere sight of me do to you?”

She stared up at him and stated flatly, “Besides disgust me, you mean?”

His smug smile fell. “Sorry?”

“Disgust. Although you can hardly be surprised. You come to my father’s stronghold disguised as a human when in fact that’s nothing but a lie. But I wonder how many unsuspecting females fell for that insipid charm you believe yourself to have only to later realize they’d done nothing but bed a giant slimy lizard. So you, as human, disgust me.” She sneered a bit. “Now aren’t you glad you asked?”

Actually…no he wasn’t glad. How rude! She was rude! Gwenvael liked mean women, but he didn’t much like rude ones. Slimy? He was not slimy!

And if she wanted to play this way, fine.

He leaned in closer, studying her face. He could tell by the way her entire body tightened at his approach that she wasn’t remotely comfortable with him getting so close. He knew he could use that to his advantage if necessary. “What are those things on your face?”

Beyond a tiny little tic in her cheek, the rest of her face remained remarkably blank. “What exactly are you talking about?”

Gwenvael’s head tilted to the side a bit, not sure what else she thought he could mean. “The glass.” He went to poke one, but she slapped his hand away.

“They’re my spectacles.”

“Do you mean like a ‘spectacle of bad’? Or a ‘spectacle of horror’?”

“No,” she replied flatly. “They’re so I can see.”

“Are you blind?” He waved his hands in front of her face. “Can you see me?” he shouted, causing all those delicious-looking dogs to bark and snarl louder.

That constantly cold façade abruptly dropped as she again, but more viciously, slapped his hands away. “I am not blind. Nor am I deaf!”

“No need to get testy.”

“I don’t get testy.”

“Except around me.”

“Perhaps you bring out the worst in people, which is not anything one should be proud of.”

“You haven’t met my family. We’re proud of the oddest things.”

Her lip curled. “There are more of you?”

“None quite like me. I’m unbearably unique and, dare I say, adorable. But I do have kin.” He shrugged. “I’m so very sorry about earlier,” he lied. “And I’m hoping you’ll help me.”

There went that flat expression again. She had this constant expression of being unimpressed. By anything, everything. Yet he was beginning to find it kind of…cute. And annoyingly intriguing.

“I’m sure you’d rather I help you, but I delight in the fact that I won’t.”

That was her delighted expression? Eeesh.

Gwenvael pulled back a bit. “And why wouldn’t you help me even after I apologized? So sweetly too!”

“One, because you didn’t really mean that apology, and two…I really don’t like you.”

“Everyone likes me. I’m loveable. Even those who start out hating me end up liking me.”

“Then they’re fools. Because I don’t like you, and I won’t like you.”

“I’m sure you’ll change your mind.”

“I don’t change my mind.”

Gwenvael frowned a bit. “Ever?”

“Once…but then I realized I was right the first time, so I never bothered to change my mind again.”

She was not going to be easy, this one. Yet she wasn’t resisting him as much as simply not responding to him. No matter how he taunted her, she refused to rise to the occasion. He couldn’t be more irritated by that!

“Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll talk to your father then. See if he can convince you to act like a true and proper hostess.”

“You do that.”

Gwenvael continued to stand there, staring down at her, until she was forced to ask, “Well…?”

“Don’t know where he is.”

“Find him.”

“A proper hostess would show me the way.”

“A proper hostess wouldn’t have your kind in her home.”

“That was mean.”

“Yes.”

“So you’re not going to help me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I already explained this. I don’t like you. True, I don’t like most people, but I especially dislike you. I could start my own religion based on how much I dislike you.”

Out of ideas on how to handle this wench, Gwenvael went with one of his tried and true methods. He sniffed…and then he sniffed again.

The Beast blinked, her expression confused, but then her eyes widened in horror when she saw that first tear fall.

“Wait…are…are you…crying?”

It was a skill he’d taught himself when he was barely ten years old. With brothers like his, he needed it in order to get his mother to protect her favorite son as much as possible. He rarely used the technique now, but he was desperate.

“You’re so mean to me,” he complained around his tears.

“Yes, but—”

“Why won’t you help me?” he wailed.

“All right. All right.” She held her hands up. “I’ll take you to my father.”

He sniffed more tears away. “You promise?”

“Do I…” She sighed and stepped down from the fence. She didn’t jump down, nor did she step down daintily. It was a carefully, plotted step. He bet she took lots of careful steps in her life.

She came out of the gate and closed it behind her. “Canute, here.” The tasty morsel that had almost been Gwenvael’s afternoon meal immediately went to her side, his yellow dog eyes watching Gwenvael closely.

“And you,” she said to Gwenvael. “Come along.”

Gwenvael watched her walk away. Her clothes were bulky and plain. He couldn’t make out a bit of her body, and he couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like under all that. Was she thin like a rail, or did she have some curves? Were her breasts big handfuls or things to be tweaked? Was her ass flat, or would he be able to grip it tight while he rode her? Did she moan, or was she a screamer?

She stopped and glared at him over her shoulder. “Well…Are you coming?”

And she didn’t seem to appreciate it much when he started laughing at her again.

Chapter 5

As soon as they stepped within the main courtyard, Dagmar felt every eye on them. People stopped in their work; the soldiers and warriors stopped in their training. And the women…Dagmar was surprised fainting wasn’t involved. She knew she heard sighing. Deep, longing sighs. When a servant girl carrying a large basket of bread to the soldiers’ dining hall walked into a wall because she was busy staring at the dragon pretending to be human, Dagmar could only roll her eyes.

“Are those men naked?”

Dagmar squinted across the courtyard toward one of the many training rings and nodded. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Learn to fight in this cold naked, chances are you’ll be able to fight no matter what you’re wearing.”

“Are there a lot of naked fights among the Northland men? Is that something they enjoy doing?”

His teasing tone almost made her laugh. “If it is something they enjoy, I assure you not one will admit it.”

“I thought you would have asked me questions by now.”

“What would I ask you about?”

“About Queen Annwyl. About her affiliation with dragons. Or even ask me about my name.”

“It’s no concern of mine.”

“That’s a lie. And my name is Gwenvael the Handsome.”

“Fascinating. And I know my place, Lord Gwenvael. I know my role.”

“Oh, come on. You can ask me something.”

“All right.” She glanced at his chest. “That crest on your surcoat.”

“What about it?”

“I’ve read that the nation it represented was destroyed more than five hundred years ago.”

He stopped walking and scrutinized the crest. “Damn,” he said after a few moments. “I hate that.”

“Kill them yourself, did you?”

“I’m not that old, thank you very much. And I think it was one of my uncles. But it’s so awkward.”

“Is it?”

“Imagine standing there, having a very nice chat with some human royal and then he gets a good look at your crest. His face gets all pale and sweaty, and you suddenly realize—gods, I wiped out the entire male line of your family, didn’t I? That’s awkward.”

“I imagine so.”

They began to walk again, and, not remotely surprising to Dagmar, he asked, “So how did you get the name Beast?”

Dagmar stopped at the large front door that would lead into the Main Hall. She lowered her eyes, kept her voice soft. Wounded. “The wife of one of my brothers nicknamed me that because I am plain. She wanted to hurt me, and she did.”

A long and large finger slid under her chin, tipping up her face. She kept her eyes averted, did her best to look nearly destroyed by it all. She’d lost count of all the stories she’d made up over the years about how she’d obtained her nickname. She didn’t lie about it simply for amusement but because the truth was something she would never share with anyone. The guilt of her actions from that day and the subsequent outcome was still fresh even after all this time.

Yet molding the story to fit whoever asked was an indulgent form of entertainment on her part and had gained her either pity or fear, depending on what she needed. She kept the tales simple and unadorned, avoiding possible traps should her memory fail her at a later date.

“My sweet, sweet Dagmar,” he said softly, seductively. “That would have been almost perfect—if you could have just managed the tear.”

Dagmar made sure she only appeared confused, rather than annoyed. “Sorry, my lord?”

“You have to learn to cry. Otherwise the whole thing falls apart at the end. Just that single tear works wonders. Right here.” He drew his finger down her cheek and Dagmar immediately pulled her head back.

The Gold smiled. “Now that’s the real you. Look at those eyes. If they were knives, they’d cut me to ribbons.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re just a silly woman. Without a brain in your head.” He walked around her and she felt a hand swipe across her ass. She jumped, and he had the nerve to look startled. “Come on then, silly woman. Introduce me to the more important men.”

Gwenvael followed the lying Lady Dagmar—did she truly expect him to believe that story?—into the Reinholdt fortress. It wasn’t as miserable as he expected, but he’d seen uninhabited caves that were a lot more warm and friendly.

The first floor of the building was mostly one big room with a sizable pit fire in front of rows and rows of dining tables with several boars roasting over it. There was a small group of women sitting at a table chatting, and if they saw the man asleep under their table, they made no mention of him. Dogs that didn’t look at all like the ones The Beast was breeding for battle ran free around the hall, eating whatever was left on the floor.

By the time Gwenvael and Dagmar reached the center of the room, all activity stopped and every eye focused on them.

A large human carrying a pint of ale in his hand stepped in front of them, his suspicious gaze locked on Gwenvael.

“Dagmar.”

“Brother.”

“Who is this?”

“This is Lord Gwenvael. I’m taking him to see Father.”

The Northlander examined Gwenvael closely before saying, “He must be from the south. So brown.”

“I prefer golden,” Gwenvael corrected. “It’s a tragic curse really since I live in a part of the world where the two suns actually come out during the day and don’t cower behind clouds, afraid to be seen by the scary Northmen.”

When Dagmar’s brother only stared at him, Gwenvael glanced down at the female. She was smirking, and he knew he’d been right. Any intelligence in this group had gone to the woman.

“Lord Gwenvael, this is my brother and oldest son to The Reinholdt, Eymund. And I don’t think he understood your joke.”

That was sadly true. He didn’t. “Lord Eymund.”

The Northlander grunted, but kept staring. Gwenvael had no idea if this was an unspoken challenge so he said, “The men of the north are very handsome. Especially you.”

It took a while for his statement to get through the immense skull surrounding that excessively slow brain, but when it did Eymund eyed him intently.

“Uh…what?”

“If you’ll excuse us, brother”—Dagmar motioned for Gwenvael to move toward the end of the massive hall—“we’re going to see Father.”

When they reached a plain wood door, she knocked.

“In.”

She pushed the thick door open and ushered Gwenvael in, signaling for that tasty morsel of dog to stay behind. After closing the door behind them, she walked to her father’s desk. She kept her hands folded in front of her and her demeanor as nonthreatening as possible.

“Father, there’s someone here to see you.”

The Reinholdt lifted his gaze from the maps in front of him, glanced at Gwenvael, and immediately went back to his maps. “Don’t know him.”

“I know. But you’ve met him.”

“I have?”

“He’s the dragon from this morning.”

Grey eyes similar to his daughter’s slowly lifted, and the widely built man leaned over in his chair, looking around Dagmar to see Gwenvael.

“You havin’ me on?” he asked his daughter.

“Because I’m known for my rich and well-developed sense of humor?”

Actually, the dry way she said it, Gwenvael thought she was extremely funny.

“Good point,” her father said. “But still…”

“I know it’s hard to believe. But it’s him.”

The Reinholdt let out a soul-weary sigh and sat back in his chair. “Yeah, so…What’s he doin’ ’ere?”

“He asked to meet with you.”

“Last I remember, we weren’t tellin’ him nothin’.”

“True. But I had little choice but to bring him here. He asked for shelter and as an outsider alone I had to give it to him at least for the night as per Northland etiquette law, which he’s obviously studied.”

“Ya act like he’s some starving woodsman who fell at your feet. He’s a bloody dragon.”

“True. But it was hard to turn him away when he cried.”

Eyes now wide, the warlord again leaned over and gaped at Gwenvael. “Cried?” That one word dripped in distaste.

“Yes, Father. There were definite tears. A touch of sobbing.”

“I’m very sensitive,” Gwenvael tossed in.

“Sensitive?” And he said it like he’d never heard the word before. “He’s…sensitive?”

Dagmar nodded. “Very sensitive and has a tendency to cry. So…I’ll just leave you two to it.”

“Get your skinny ass back here,” the warlord harshly demanded before she’d taken more than three steps. Gwenvael didn’t immediately jump to the woman’s defense as he would with most women. His instincts told him she didn’t need his help, and he knew for a fact she wasn’t like most women.

She raised a brow at her father and he raised one right back.

“When you put it so nicely, Father…”

“Cheeky cow,” he mumbled before returning his attention back to Gwenvael. “So what do you want?”

Putting his hand over his chest, Gwenvael softly replied, “Warm food, a soft bed, and a good night’s sleep. That is all I ask.”

The warlord gave something that a few partially blind beings might consider a smile. “What ya hoping for? In the mornin’ she’ll change her mind? She won’t. Tell ya that right now.”

“Can’t you beat it out of her?”

He heard it, though she desperately tried to hide it—a little cough trying to cover a laugh.

“We don’t do that here,” The Reinholdt told him. “We leave that to you Southlanders. We prize our women in the Northlands.”

“Ohhhh! You mean like cattle!”

Her father cut her such a look that Dagmar wondered if the dragon cared for his head at all. Or did he want it mounted on her father’s bedroom wall with the two fifteen-hundred-pound bears he’d slaughtered the winter before?

“Lord Gwenvael, I’m sure you’re not trying to insult my father. Again.”

“Trying? As in effort? No.”

All right, she had to at least admit it to herself…He was funny. And had no concept of personal safety.

Not only that, but what was he doing bringing up how handsome the men in the north were—although she knew that lie for what it was—and admitting to the crying with her father right there. He was no fool, this dragon. He understood the ways of the north quite well. So what in the name of reason was he doing?

She didn’t know, but she couldn’t wait to find out.

“As it is our way, Father, we should let him stay the night.”

“Fine.”

“And can I join all of you for dinner?” the dragon kindly asked, blinking those big golden eyes.

“Dinner?” Her father looked at her. He was so confused right now, it was almost endearing.

“Aye. I’d love to chat with the great Reinholdt over dinner. As well as the delightful Lady Dagmar.”

“Well…I guess.”

“And those fine strapping, handsome sons of yours! They’re all not taken, are they?”

The snort was past her nose before she could stop it, but when she saw her father start to rise from his chair, she held up her hand.

“It’s all right, Father.” She leaned in and whispered loudly, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“You do that.”

Her father settled back in his chair, and Dagmar motioned to the door. “My Lord Gwenvael. I’ll show you to your room.”