“Oh, come on now!”
“I remember someone who looked like you. A sister, I believe. But it’s been so bloody long since I’ve seen or heard from her—not even a letter,” he said to Ren. “That I wouldn’t know what she looked like these days.”
So he was going to play that little game, was he? Well, he could play it alone! “If you’re going to be that way about it, I’m leaving!” Keita turned, ready for her grand exit, which would involve a great deal of flouncing off before shifting and majestically flying away into the two suns, but the black eyes she now faced scowled down at her so hard, she immediately stopped in her storming-off tracks. “Oh…Fearghus.”
Arms folded over his chest, legs braced apart, her eldest brother said nothing.
“You look well,” she tried again.
And, though she hadn’t thought it possible, his scowl increased tenfold.
Deciding not to push her luck, Keita used what would not work on Gwenvael or Morfyd. She let the first tears fall. “Are you angry at me too?” she whispered, and, instantly, Fearghus pulled her into his arms.
“Come now. Don’t cry.”
Keita turned her head slightly and gave Gwenvael a good sneer.
Gwenvael rolled his eyes and demanded, “How come my tears don’t work with you lot?”
“Because,” Fearghus shot back, “your lying tears always involve mucus. So I’m too disgusted to care.”
Another voice said from behind Fearghus, “Forgiven her already?”
“She started crying. What was I to do?”
Keita took a step back from one brother and looked up at another. The silver-haired Briec. He’d be harder than Fearghus.
“Two years,” Briec accused. “Two years and no bloody word.”
“I sent gifts,” she offered. “And my love.”
When this one’s scowl got worse, she pressed herself closer to Fearghus.
Ragnar sipped his hot tea and watched Dagmar search the cabinets of her tiny kitchen for more cookies than the few that were currently on the plate.
“I can’t believe he ate all the other cookies,” she complained while searching. “I can’t believe how selfish he is! Who eats like that?” Eating the last cookie on the plate, Ragnar replied, “Dragons.”
“Reason preserve me.” She slammed another cabinet door and walked over to the large and sturdy bed. She knelt beside it and pulled a small trunk from underneath. After using a key that hung from a set attached to her girdle, she opened the trunk and pulled out a tin. Locking and returning the trunk to its place under the bed, Dagmar walked back to the table and opened the tin, offering him more cookies.
“I trust that dragon with my life and the life of my kin,” she said. “But I’ll never trust him with my food.” She glanced down at the purebred dog who’d followed her around the tiny room, his long and thick whiplike tail threatening to knock over everything in his wake. “Or Canute,” she added.
“I’d never trust him—or his brothers—with my Canute.”
“I probably wouldn’t trust his youngest sister either,” Ragnar added, thinking of that guard dog in Bampour’s dungeon. “As a precaution.” Ragnar took a handful of cookies. Dagmar sat opposite him, her dog settling at her side so that he faced the door but could still keep his eye on Ragnar. The woman did know how to earn loyalty.
Never one to waste time on niceties when unnecessary, Dagmar got right to it. “What brings you back into the Southlands, Lord Ragnar?” He remembered when she’d called him “Brother Ragnar.” When she’d believed him to be a human monk. At the time, he had honestly thought she could never understand or handle who he truly was. He’d been wrong. He still felt regret for that mistake. Immense regret.
“Escorting Keita and…uh…the boy.”
Dagmar nibbled on a cookie. She probably limited herself to one or two a day at the most, used to the rules of economy that the Northland humans believed in rather than the excesses of the South. The Hordes had similar ideals—but not when it came to food. “What boy?”
“The blue one.”
Her smile was quick and warm. “Éibhear’s home?” Ragnar studied the warlord’s daughter before he relaxed back in his chair. He appreciated the fact that the furniture had been built for dragons in human form. Nothing more embarrassing than leaning back in a chair and having the damn thing break on you. “What is it about him that makes all you females eager to see him?”
“Blue hair?”
“Mine’s purple.”
Grey eyes that had always reminded him of the finest steel peered at him through spectacles he’d made for her many years ago. “A bit jealous, my lord?”
Ragnar couldn’t help but pout a little. “No.”
“I can’t believe you’re yelling at me!” Keita wailed. “Do I mean nothing to you? ”
“Don’t try that with me, Mistress Mayhem. You were the one who cut off contact with us. You were the one who blamed us for getting caught unaware in Northern territories,” Briec reminded her.
“I never blamed you,” she insisted. “Who said I did?” But as soon as she asked the question, her eyes narrowed, and she accused, “Mother.”
“Don’t blame her. She didn’t tell you to cut off contact with us.”
“I had some things to take care of,” she argued.
“So you run off with that”—Briec sniffed in Ren’s direction—“foreigner?”
“Oy! Be nice to the foreigner!” Gwenvael cut in. “Him I know.”
“What’s going on?” a voice asked from the castle steps, and Briec immediately rolled his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh.
“Nothing to worry yourself about, my precious sweet tart,” he replied.
A brown hand caught Keita’s arm and dragged her out of the big-brother pile she’d been trapped in.
“Talaith!” Keita cheered, hugging the acid-tongued witch tight. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you, sister.” They pulled away from each other, and Talaith gave Keita an astonishing smile that lit up her whole face until she faced her mate and that smile quickly turned to a scowl that even a demon spawn would fear.
“I thought we discussed and agreed,” Talaith bit out between clenched teeth, “that when we saw Keita again, none of you were to pounce and yell at her. Instead, we were all to have a nice, friendly, family chat to discuss and resolve any issues.”
“There was no discussion,” Briec said. “You, heart of my heart, just talked, talked, talked like you always do and I ignored, ignored, ignored, like I always do. Did you really think I heard or bothered to listen to a word you actually said on something regarding my baby sister?” A damning finger pointed at Briec. “If I thought, for one moment, that either of your daughters would forgive me, I’d cut off your tongue and wear it around my neck as an amulet to ward off your idiocy!”
“Isn’t your one, constantly yammering tongue enough for even you to handle, Lady Never Quiet?”
“Not when a day doesn’t pass that you don’t torture me with your insanity, Lord Stick Up His Ass!”
Keita stepped between the bellowing couple. “Must you two do this out here?” she asked desperately. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The servants are watching.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Keita and Gwenvael burst out laughing, earning themselves several sighs of disgust.
“Battle Lord?” Ragnar asked again. “She made you Battle Lord?”
“Annwyl made me Chief Battle Lord. All Battle Lords of Dark Plains report to me.” Dagmar sipped her tea. “Your mouth is open, my lord.”
“I…uh…” Ragnar put his tea down…and closed his mouth. “I must admit. I saw this house and thought that you’d been forced here. Of no further use to the Mad Queen of Garbhán Isle and the Fire Breathers who rule with her.”
“I guess there’s always that risk with Annwyl, but she likes me.”
“And fears you as well?”
“Why would she fear me? As long as she does what I tell her without question there is nothing to fear.”
“I don’t know if you’re joking.”
“Oh,” she said. “That’s unfortunate.”
To think, for a few brief minutes Ragnar had worried that Dagmar had been tossed aside as many brilliant females often were, but he should have known better. If there was one survivor he knew, it was Dagmar Reinholdt.
The Thirteenth Offspring of the Reinholdt, Only Daughter of the Reinholdt, and now shockingly powerful Battle Lord of Annwyl the Bloody, Mad Queen of Dark Plains. He should have known Dagmar would never allow herself to be tossed aside by anyone. He should have known.
“And you enjoy what you do?”
“Quite a lot.”
“So then…you’re happy?”
She pursed her lips, hands wrapped around her cup of tea, her gaze on the ceiling.
Finally, Ragnar added, “Happy for a Northlander.”
“Oh! Oh, then yes. Quite happy.”
“I’m just glad you’re home,” Fearghus said, kissing the top of Keita’s head and hugging her close again.
“And I’m glad to be back. I’ve missed almost all of you.” Fearghus laughed. “And you say that I hold a grudge.”
“You do hold a grudge—as does your mate.”
“Annwyl?” Fearghus leaned back a bit. “What did she do?”
“Nearly took the head of Lord Vigholf and crushed the leg of poor Lord Meinhard.”
Fearghus pulled her to his chest again. “That’s…that’s too bad. I’ll talk to her about that later when I see her.” It was too quiet.
Keita pushed away from Fearghus and found all her kin—and Ren!—laughing. Silently, but still! “This is not funny!”
“Yes!” Briec crowed, ending their silence. “It is!”
“Do you know the jig I had to do to calm the situation? We can’t afford to make them enemies because you can’t control your mate, Fearghus.”
“Control Annwyl? I don’t try to control her, baby sister. I unleash her on the world like a devastating storm from the sea.”
“Here they come,” Gwenvael noted, shaking his head. “And just look who leads them.”
Briec sniffed. “I see two years has not given that idiot more sense.”
“They’re his friends now, I’m sure.” Fearghus sighed, looking and sounding more like their father every day.
But Keita wouldn’t stand for it. Always picking on little Éibhear! It was unforgivable!
Keita stood before her three brothers, hands on her hips. “Listen well to me, you uncaring lizards. You be nice to our brother! All he’s talked about the entire trip was seeing all of you, and you will make him feel welcome or I will do all in my power to make you suffer in ways that even the gods will fear.”