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.”
Chapter 6
She led Gwenvael up to the second floor in another part of the building. The Main Hall may have been one mammoth room that could accommodate a small army, but behind that was an eight-story-high section that housed a substantial amount of sons, wives, and offspring.
“You’ll stay here.” Dagmar stepped into the room and waited for him to enter. “There are fresh linens, and the furs have been aired.”
He walked around the room. It could be worse, I guess.
“If you need anything—”
“A bath. Please.” Gwenvael sat down on the end of the bed. The day had caught up with him and he was tired.
“Well, there’s a lake.” She walked to the window, looked out. “And I believe it might rain tonight if you want to stand outside.”
Gwenvael dropped his head into his hands.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.