And if Rhi hadn’t caught Talaith’s arm and held her, Talaith was positive she would have ripped the smug bastard’s nose off!
“My brother did what?”
“What part of that statement did you not understand?” Dagmar demanded of her mate’s Dragonwitch sister, Morfyd.
“But . . . but why?”
Dagmar sighed. “Apparently young Albrecht gave Rhi flowers. I think he’s smitten.”
Morfyd fell silent, eyes briefly gazing off, before she replied, “Well . . . that was clearly a bad idea. He’s not all that handsome.”
“Morfyd!”
She refocused back on Dagmar. “Don’t yell at me.”
“Don’t make me! Rhi is a lovely girl. Boys will be showing interest. That doesn’t mean your brothers can go around burning them all.”
“Of course not. But still . . . my father—”
“Is not known for his rational thought when it comes to his daughters. It’s why I’ve never questioned the decision to name your Brastias general commander of Annwyl’s armies. The mere fact he’s survived this long with your brothers and father in close proximity says much about the man’s survival skills. That being said, Rhi will continue to grow only more beautiful as the years go by and I cannot afford to have this reign known for its dragons burning every young man that comes near her.”
“This reign? Don’t you mean Annwyl’s reign?”
“Morfyd!”
The Dragonwitch held up her hands. “Calm yourself. I’ll have him healed by nightfall. I don’t see why you’re so upset,” she muttered as she headed toward the guest house. “I was only saying that Briec wasn’t necessarily irrational during all—”
And that was when Dagmar stopped listening. Instead, she rubbed her now throbbing head and tried to think of how the rest of her day was going to go. But as she stood there, fingers against her temples, she knew someone was standing behind her. She wasn’t always so observant, but like the time she’d been out alone in the woods surrounding her father’s lands and she’d sensed a hungry wolf watching her from a nearby boulder, Dagmar always knew when a predator was close.
Slowly, she turned, and looked up at her nephew, the son of Annwyl and Fearghus.
“Talan.”
He smiled. Gods. Such a handsome boy. Unbelievably handsome. With his father’s eyes and his mother’s face, streaked brown hair reaching massive shoulders and as tall as his Uncle Gwenvael’s human form. But, like his twin sister, there was something about Talan. . . .
“Auntie Dagmar.”
Although it had been disturbing that the twins spoke so little as children, Dagmar could say that when they did begin to say more . . . it wasn’t any less unsettling.
Of course when they’d just stand there and stare . . . things weren’t much better.
“Is there something you want, Talan?”
“There’s a caravan of rough-looking, grunting males. I’m assuming they’re your kin since they’re not dragons.”
Dagmar snorted a little. “Yes. That does sound like my kin.”
“They’re heading through the gates now. Should I send someone to deal with them?”
“No. I’ll go.”
He nodded, but his gaze lifted, locking on something behind her. Dagmar looked over her shoulder and clenched her fists in order to keep from snarling.
“They’ve been chummy lately,” she blandly remarked, trying not to sound concerned.
Talan shrugged and walked off, reminding her that the twins only seemed to speak when they felt like it.
Although she knew she had to get to the main gate, Dagmar stood her ground until her niece and Talan’s twin sister, Talwyn, nodded at the woman she was walking with and headed over to Dagmar.
“Auntie Dagmar.”
“Talwyn.” Her niece, like Talan, was tall and beautiful, with pitch-black hair and her mother’s green eyes. But she constantly hid that beauty under hair she rarely combed, dirt she rarely bothered to wipe off, and a perpetual glare that could scare hell’s demons.
Dagmar glanced over at the woman walking away. But she wasn’t just a woman, was she? No. She was a Kyvich from the Ice Lands. One of the warrior witches who was so powerful and feared that even the gods called on them only when absolutely necessary. Nearly sixteen years ago, they’d come to Garbhán Isle to protect the twins while their mother was off in the west waging war against the Sovereigns. At the time, Dagmar had been grateful, but she’d also been wary because the Kyvich were rarely born into their rank.... They were taken from their mothers, usually before they were even two winters old. But, on rare occasions, they had been known to take older girls. Although Talwyn was now eighteen winters, she also had a mighty strength. Her fighting skills unmatched by anyone except the most seasoned warriors. Meaning she was exactly the kind of warrior the Kyvich would want.
So seeing that the Kyvich were lurking around her niece made Dagmar feel nothing but discomfort.
“Did Commander Ásta have anything interesting to say?” she asked Talwyn.
“No.”
Dagmar, as always, waited for more, but after all these years, one would think she’d know better.
“Talwyn,” Dagmar finally said, “should I be concern—”
“Aren’t the barbarian horde at the gates?” her niece cut in.
Unwilling to delve into how Talwyn knew that the Reinholdts had arrived without actually seeing them, Dagmar asked, “Can’t you just call them family?”
Talwyn looked at her through the mass of black hair that constantly fell into her eyes and bluntly admitted, “Not and mean it.”
Snorting a little before she could stop herself, Dagmar nodded. “Fair enough.”
Without another word—she talked less than her brother—Talwyn headed to the training ring for more weapons practice than anyone would ever need, and with a heavy sigh, Dagmar headed to the front gate.
Although Dagmar and Gwenvael visited her aging father as often as she could manage, even bringing Talaith and Annwyl with them on occasion, she’d never had any of her family here at Garbhán Isle.
But her father had written her himself. Well . . . he’d dictated a letter himself to the assistant she’d handpicked for him. And her father had made this request. How could she turn him down?
She couldn’t. So she had to suck this up, as Talaith had told her.
Dagmar headed toward the courtyard, getting there just as the sons of her brothers arrived on their large Northland stallions. The oldest, Alppi, eldest son of Dagmar’s eldest brother, Eymund, dismounted his horse and stood before Dagmar. He nodded his head . . . then stared at her, frowning just like her brother often did when he was confused.
“Aunt Dagmar . . .” His frown worsened. “I . . .”
“You . . . what?”
“Thought you’d be old by now,” Alppi’s younger brother informed her. “But you look the same . . . don’tcha?”
Dagmar wouldn’t bother explaining the gift of long life similar to that of a dragon’s, which had been bestowed upon her by the Dragon Queen when she’d committed herself to the queen’s son Gwenvael. Instead, she simply replied, “I’ll look like this long after all of you are dust and forgotten.”
Her nephew stared at her a little longer before Alppi shrugged and said, “Yeah, whatever. Got anything to eat?”
She pointed toward the guards’ mess, not even considering sending any of them to the Great Hall, where, most horrifying of all, they might catch sight of sweet and unattached Rhi. The vision of the bodies of her many nephews, burned beyond recognition, being returned to her brothers woke her up some nights.
The rest of her nephews dismounted their horses and followed Alppi. All except one, who seemed to be struggling with the concept of removing himself from the back of his steed.
Dagmar walked around until she stood next to the boy and his horse.
“Hello, Frederik.” Frederik Reinholdt, eighth-born son of her brother Fridmar. And, as her father had less than kindly said in his letter, “Resident family idiot.”
The fourteen-year-old boy glanced at her, nodded. “Aunt Dagmar.”
“Need some help?”
“No, no. I’m fine.”
She didn’t really believe him, so she motioned over one of the squires who’d come to take care of her nephews’ horses. But as the squire moved in to assist, Dagmar had to take a quick step back just as Frederik slipped from the horse and hit the ground hard.
“Ow,” she heard him mumble.
And Dagmar barely kept in a long, pained sigh. Gods, what had she agreed to?
Chapter 6
“You have to go.”
“I can’t. I’ve made a—”
“Out,” Izzy ordered.
Éibhear shrugged. “Make me.”
“Make you?”
Gods, she sounded annoyed. Not that he blamed her. But her annoyance combined with the scent of blood, dirt, and death that she was covered in, was rather enticing.
Iseabail the Dangerous was definitely not the girl he’d left behind all those years ago. Tall and powerfully built, her bare arms showed the hard years of life in the human queen’s army, from her strong, well-defined muscular physique to the scars he could see on any exposed skin. But her beauty—that had not changed. Instead it had merely sharpened, becoming even more powerful.
Even now, pissed as she was, all he could see were large, light brown eyes glaring down at him, while shoulder-length, wavy light brown hair framed a sculpted face, cheekbones sharp, dimples temporarily missing because she wasn’t smiling. Her lips were full and rather—if he did say so himself—pouty; and her once-sharp nose was no longer as sharp now that, he’d guess, it had been broken. Perhaps more than once. But that bit of imperfection only made her more beautiful, as far as Éibhear was concerned.
“Éibhear—”
“I’m not leaving.”
Izzy grabbed one of his hands from behind his head and pulled. She kept pulling too, while Éibhear lay there and let her.
“Gods be damned! You weigh as much as my bloody horse!”
“Only when I’m human.”
Snarling, she tossed his arm back at him and he barely managed not to hit himself in the face.
“Out!”
“I’m with you until this is over, Princess.”
“It’s General, you big bastard.”
“Calling me mean names will not change anything either.”
“I should just slit your throat and be done with it.”
“But then I’ll shift back to dragon and ruin your bed.”
Her eyes crossed and she turned from him just as the tent flap was pulled back. One of her soldiers walked in, but he stopped when he saw Éibhear lounging there.
“Should I come back?” he asked.
“Only if you want to lose a body part.” She glanced at the human. “Did you find Dai?”
“He was with Macsen, as you said.”
She faced the man. “Where’s Macsen?”