She nodded and again started toward the door.
“Tragically,” Gwenvael said to her back, enjoying how she stopped and her entire body tensed.
“Tragically … what?”
“My hair is so long and unmanageable … I’d never be able to braid it properly.” He grinned. “Perhaps you can do it for me.”
“I’ll send a servant to take care of it for you.”
“But as hostess of the house …”
She turned to face him. “As hostess of the house … what?”
“Shouldn’t you tend to your guest?”
Her face showed nothing. Her demeanor didn’t change one bit. But he knew he’d gotten to her because the puppy yelped in her arms and she had to loosen her grip before he stopped squirming.
“If you insist, my lord.”
“Oh”—Gwenvael grinned—“I do insist!”
His groaning seemed awfully excessive and only added to the absurdity of her situation.
Really, she should only be doing this sort of thing for her husband or her kinsmen and only before they rode off into battle. She’d been putting warrior braids in her father’s hair for years. And then when he returned from battle, she’d spend an hour at least trying to get any remaining blood and gore out of it that his “dip” in the river had not touched.
What she should not be doing was braiding the hair of this dragon. Even more appalling, he didn’t simply want her to braid it.
After putting the puppy outside, he’d explained to her as if she were some servant girl, “First comb it for me, love. Carefully. Don’t want you to pull any hairs out, simply get out the tangles.” But he didn’t stop there. “Then three hundred strokes of the brush—each side gets a hundred and then one hundred for the back.”
After he’d explained all that, he’d relaxed in the chair with a fur casually tossed over his nak*d lap, appearing as if it could and would drop off at any second.
It briefly crossed Dagmar’s mind to use the eating knife she kept tucked in her leather girdle to cut his throat, but that would not be in the best interest of her people. And, more importantly, her. So, instead, she took the ivory comb her father brought back from one of his raids and began to carefully untangle the dragon’s hair. It reached to the floor, so this was no easy task.
Even worse, he never shut up.
Dagmar didn’t know any being on the planet could talk as much as this one dragon. He talked and talked and then talked some more.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have minded so much if he actually said something of interest. The spark of hope she’d had when he mentioned knowing Aoibhell was quickly extinguished. How had the great philosopher that Dagmar based most of her belief system on tolerated an entire dinner with this … this … dragon? He seemed only to manage inane babble about all the women he’d known, which apparently were many!
Eventually Dagmar exchanged the comb for her brush, and that’s when the groaning started and, tragically, did not stop.
“That feels wonderful,” he’d sighed out at one point. “Have you thought of doing this for a living? You’re very good.”
Dagmar kept silent and went through the first one hundred strokes. When she started on the second side, she didn’t think the dragon would notice if she’d brushed fifty times or fifteen hundred. She was wrong.
“That was only seventy-five, love,” he’d told her when she started to move to the back. “Another twenty-five and you’ll be done with that. Then you can do the back.”
Again, she considered killing him but thought better of it.
Three hundred strokes later, Dagmar slammed the brush down. Now to the task of braiding all this hair!
Dagmar began braiding it and was halfway down his back when she said, “It would help with the rest if you’d stand.”
“All right.”
He stood, and Dagmar was greeted with that nak*d ass. That magnificent nak*d ass, if she did say so herself. His front had been exquisite, but his back was … reason help her.
“Think you could wrap the fur around you completely?” She feared she may start petting his ass the way she’d petted the puppy’s head.
“I could. But isn’t your question more of a ‘do I want to’?”
“You do know that I and my eating knife have access to much back here and—”
She didn’t even have to finish before he quickly wrapped the fur completely around his hips.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said sweetly.
“Welcome,” he grumbled back.
It took her a bit, but eventually she finished braiding all that golden hair and tied a leather thong to the end. When Dagmar stood, her fingers ached from the task, and the dragon turned to find her flexing her fingers.
He reached for her hand. “Need help with that?”
“No,” she told him, pulling her hand away before he could grasp it. “There are clothes for you—in your room. Evening meal is in another hour. Until then, stay away from the dogs.”
“I will.” He took a step toward her. “This has all been very kind of you, my lady. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Another step. “Perhaps you could come to my room and help me dress.”
She pressed one finger against his chest and the dragon stopped in midstride. “What are you doing?”
His smile was shameless. “What I always do.”
“Well, don’t do it with me.”
“Are you sure? I’m known for my skills.”
“And I’m sure that’s the only skill you possess. But in the Northland, women, including the servant girls, are given proper respect. Do not think because of how their husbands may treat them that anyone, especially an outsider, may do the same.”
“I have no plans to harm you, my lady.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But don’t think because you’re a dragon my brothers will show you any fear. So if you hope for your manhood to stay intact, you’d best watch your step.”
His grin, the absolute beauty of it, lit up the room. “What are you trying to tell me, my lady?”
“I’m telling you to keep your c*ck in your pants and your hands to yourself.” She walked to the door and pulled it open, a tense Canute jumping to his large feet, ready to defend her honor. “Take it as a friendly warning.”
“Did you just tell me to keep my c*ck in my pants?”
Dagmar ignored him and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. She was halfway down the hall when she turned right around and walked back. She knocked, and the dragon opened the door.
“It’s my room you’re in,” she snarled.
His laughter made her jaw clench. “I was wondering when you were going to notice.”
Chapter 8
She had no idea what he was doing, but she was absolutely fascinated.
True, he was ignoring her, but Dagmar had long been used to that sort of treatment. What she wasn’t used to, however, was a man—or in this case a dragon male—ignoring her sisters-in-law. They weren’t all beautiful. Several had features that made Dagmar quite grateful to simply be plain. Yet what they lacked in beauty, they made up for in eagerness. And Kikka—who’d replaced Eymund’s beloved first wife when she was killed during a brazen raid by Jökull several years back—was eager and beautiful.
Yet Kikka’s generously exposed bosom, her perfectly coiffed hair, and the scent she simply drowned herself in didn’t seem to hold the dragon’s attention as well as Eymund’s habit of eating with his fingers.
“So have you been in many battles, Lord Gwenvael?” Kikka asked, making sure to lean over to give him a better view of her chest.
“A few out of necessity. But I’m not much of a swordsman.” He turned in his chair and looked at Eymund. “But you must have quite the way with the sword. So strong.”
Dagmar almost spit out her wine.
Carefully placing her chalice on the table, Dagmar glanced at her other brothers and father. They looked as uncomfortable as Eymund and as … panicked? Yes. It was definitely panic she saw among her kinsmen.
The truth of that did nothing but amaze her. They find out he’s a dragon, and they barely blink an eye. No one said a word or showed a bit of interest when he sat down uninvited at the head table with her father, her four oldest brothers, their wives, and Dagmar.
Yet the idea he may be interested more in them than in one of their women had the lot ready to bolt from the room. The dragon knew it, too. He knew exactly what he was doing and seemed to be enjoying every moment of it.
Her father caught her eye and motioned to the dragon.
She shrugged, unsure of what he wanted. Her father had never offered her to a man except as a wife, and she doubted he’d start now.
But her father scowled harder and she could only guess that he wanted her to distract the dragon’s attention from her brothers.
If she had to be bothered, she might as well make it worth her time.
“So, Lord Gwenvael … What exactly is your connection to Queen Annwyl?”
He gave her a lazy smile while continuing to stare at poor Eymund. “She’s a very good friend of mine.”
“Do you run errands thousands of leagues from your home for all your friends?”
“When they’re Annwyl. It makes sense, though, don’t you think? My kind can fly here in half the time it takes humans to ride across country on horseback.”
“Very true. And yet you say that she’s empowered you to bargain on her behalf. She’s putting a lot of trust in you, especially since an alliance was never discussed in the missive we sent her.”
“But why else would you want to see the queen herself, if not for a discussion on an alliance between the kingdoms? With all those defenses I saw on Reinholdt lands, I can’t help but think perhaps you’re in need of a good alliance.”
“And I can’t help but wonder what it is about Annwyl’s unborn children that makes them such an important target.”
“Don’t you know?”
Holding her chalice between both her hands, Dagmar rested her elbows on the table. “All I know is who wants to cut her babes from her like a festering infection. Why is a question I have been unable to get an answer on.”
He relaxed back in his chair with an air of nonchalance she didn’t buy for one second. “Why should be of no concern to you, but I’m sure there’s some … agreeable arrangement you and I can come to that would work for all involved.”
“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?”