But she must be mad. She should flee. Back to her men. Back to the safety of her troops and away from the dragon. She should. But she most likely would not. The question she kept asking herself, though, was why. Why wouldn’t she leave this place? Why wouldn’t she leave him?
And why did he himself seem to resist the idea any time she mentioned leaving?
Annwyl smiled as she thought about how her little space within his lair kept becoming more and more furnished.First only a bed to sleep in and table for her to eat at. After that, several stuffed chairs appeared. Then a rug. Then a tapestry. Some beautiful silver candlesticks with sweet-smelling candles.
He wanted to make her feel comfortable. At home. Surprisingly, the beast’s lair felt more like a home than any place she’d lived in since she was a child and sent to live with her father.
No. She could never repay the dragon for his kindness. As it was, what life she possessed already belonged to him. And yet she felt no fear. She should. He could ask her for anything in order to pay her blood debt to him. No, she felt something altogether different from fear. Anticipation.
Annwyl stopped, her silent revelry broken. She’d sensed the battle before she heard the clash of swords and the cries of dying men. She knew she didn’t have all her strength back yet, but she had to see. Had to know if her brother’s men had infiltrated the dragon’s glen. And if they had, she’d kill them all. She wouldn’t put the dragon at anymore risk.
She ran quickly and silently, reassured by the weight of the blade strapped to her back and the dagger sheathed at her hip. She slipped behind a boulder and watched the brutal conflict. Her brother’s men. About eight of them. All fighting one man.
The man from her dreams.
Annwyl’s chest constricted as gooseflesh broke out over her skin. She watched him with wide eyes. His face was the face she saw in her dreams almost every night while she recovered her strength. That black hair the same hair she always made sure to dig her hands into. Who the hell was this? Other than remembering him from her dreams, she still didn’t recognize him. A stranger. A large, gorgeous stranger who wore the crest of an army not seen for many years on the bright red surcoat worn over his chainmail.
Annwyl shook her head. She refused to believe that her dream had come to life and now brutally fought her brother’s men.
And fight he did. He moved fast. Faster than she’d ever seen a man move before. His skills with a blade unparalleled. He dispatched two of the men within seconds and moved onto the remaining six.
But the blade in her back distracted her from the knight. There hadn’t been eight men in the dragon’s glen . . . there had been nine.
“Lady Annwyl. When I had the men scout this area, I had no idea we would actually find you.”
Annwyl gritted her teeth. She recognized that voice. Desmond L’Udair. One of her brother’s many lieutenants and the man who once grabbed her breast during dinner. Of course, only the remaining four fingers on his right hand currently held the blade now digging into her spine.
“Lord L’Udair. I’d really hoped you died.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “So, how’s the hand?”
Some thought L’Udair handsome. But she only saw the ugly side of him. Like now, when his lips twisted into an angry snarl. He seized her by the hair and snatched her to him so her back and sword slammed against his chest.
“The question, as always, my sweet, is whether I return you to your brother with or without your head?” He held the blade of his weapon against her neck. “Or perhaps we should spend a little time together before I return you at all. I still owe you for the loss of my finger.”
“Lay with me, L’Udair, and you risk the rest of your... parts.” She smiled at him and saw his leer fade.
“What amazes me,” said a low voice in front of her, “is that you haven’t killed him yet.”
Annwyl focused on the mysterious man who had, while L’Udair made his threats, eliminated the rest of the small scouting party.
“Do you really have time for this?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re right, of course.” Annwyl unsheathed the dagger at her side and in one fluid move brought it back over her shoulder, not stopping until it tore through L’Udair’s eye. As soon as he began screaming she pulled away from him before he could finish her off with his own sword. She would have taken his head, but he died quickly and she rarely removed the heads of the dead.
Annwyl heard her dream lover move. She drew the blade strapped to her back, touching the tip against his throat as he got within arm’s reach of her. “Hold, knight.” She stared at him, taking a deep breath to still her rapidly beating heart. By the gods, he’s beautiful. And Annwyl didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Which wasn’t far. He had to be the biggest man she’d ever seen. All of it hard-packed muscle that radiated power and strength.
She tightened her grip on her sword. “I know you.”
“And I know you.”
Annwyl frowned. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You kissed me.”
“And I believe you kissed me.”
Annwyl’s rage grew, her patience for games waning greatly. “Perhaps you failed to realize that I have a blade to your throat, knight.”
“And perhaps you failed to realize”—he knocked her blade away, placing the tip of his own against her throat— “that I’m not some weak-willed toady who slaves for your brother, Annwyl the Bloody of the Dark Plains.”
Annwyl glanced down at the sword and back at the man holding it. “Who the hell are you?”
“The dragon sent me.” He lowered his blade. “And he was right. You are too slow. You’ll never defeat Lorcan.”
Her rage welled up and she slashed at him with her blade. But it wasn’t one of her well-trained maneuvers. It felt awkward and messy. He blocked her easily, slamming her to the ground.
Her teeth rattled in her head. Good thing her wound had already healed, otherwise Morfyd would be sewing it up once again.
The knight stood over her. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” She stared up at him and he smiled. “Or maybe not. Guess we’ll just have to see.”
He wandered off. Annwyl knew he expected her to follow. And, for some unknown reason, she did.
She found him by the stream that ran through the glen. It took all her strength to walk up to him. She really wanted to run back into the dragon’s lair and hide under his massive wings. She wasn’t afraid of this man. It was something else. Something far more dangerous.
As she approached, he turned and smiled. And Annwyl felt her stomach clench. Actually, the clenching might have been a bit lower.
She’d never known a man who made her so... well… nervous. And she’d lived on Garbhán Isle since the age of ten; all she’d ever known were men who made it their business to make women nervous, if not downright terrified.
“Well,” she demanded coldly.
He moved to stand in front of her, his gorgeous smile teasing her. “Desperate are we?”
Annwyl shook her head and stepped away from him. “I thought you said something about training me for battle, knight.” For the dragon. She would only do this because the dragon asked her to. And she would damn well make sure he knew it, too.
“Aye, I did, Annwyl the Bloody.”
“Do stop calling me that.”
“You should be proud of that name. From what I understand, you earned it.”
“My brother also called me dung heap. I’m sure he thought I earned that too, but I’d rather no one call me that.”
“Fair enough.”
“And do you have a name?” He opened his mouth to say something but she stopped him. “You know what? I don’t want to know.”
“Really?”
“It will make beating the hell out of you so much easier.”
She wanted to throw him off. Make him uneasy. But his smile beamed like a bright ray of sunlight in the darkened glen. “A challenge. I like that.” He growled the last sentence, and it slithered all the way down to her toes. Part of her wanted to panic over that statement, since it frightened her more than the dragon himself. But she didn’t have time. Not with the blade flashing past her head, forcing her to duck and unsheathe her own sword.
He watched her move. Drank her in. And when she took off her shirt and continued to fight in just leather leggings, boots, and the cloth that bound her br**sts down, he had to constantly remind himself of why he now helped her. To train her to be a better fighter. Nothing more or less. It was not so he could lick the tender spot between her shoulder and throat.
Annwyl, though, turned out to be a damn good fighter. Strong. Powerful. Highly aggressive. She listened to direction well and picked up combat skills quickly. But her anger definitely remained her main weakness. Anytime he blocked one of her faster blows, anytime he moved too quickly for her to make contact, and, especially, anytime he touched her, the girl flew into a rage. An all-consuming rage. And although he knew the soldiers of Lorcan’s army would easily fall to her blade, her brother was different. He knew of that man’s reputation as a warrior and, as Annwyl now stood, she didn’t stand a chance. Her fear of Lorcan would stop her from making the killing blow. Her rage would make her vulnerable. The mere thought of her getting
killed sent a cold wave of fear through him.
Yet if he could teach her to control her rage, she could turn it into her greatest ally. Use it to destroy any and all who dare challenge her.
The shifting sun and deepening shadows told him that the hour grew late. The expression on her face told him that exhaustion would claim her soon, although she’d never admit it. At least not to him. But he knew what would push her over the edge. He grabbed her ass.
Annwyl screeched and swung around. He knocked her blade from her hand and threw her on her back.
“How many times, exactly, do I have to tell you that your anger leaves you exposed and open to attack?”
She raised herself on her elbows. “You grabbed me,” she accused. “Again!”
He leaned down so they were nose to nose. “Yes I did. And I enjoyed every second of it.”
Her fist flashed out, aiming for his face. But he caught her hand, his fingers brushing across hers. “Of course, if you learned to control your rage I’d never get near you.” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently. “But until that time comes, I guess your ass belongs to me.”
She bared her teeth, and he didn’t try to hide his smile. How could he when he knew how it irritated her so? “I think we’ve practiced enough for the day. At least I have. And the dragon now has a scouting party for his dinner. But I’ll be back tomorrow. Be ready, Annwyl the Bloody. This won’t get any easier.”
Fearghus entered what he now considered her chamber, but immediately ducked the book flung at his head. Clearly she’d been waiting for him. And she was not happy.
“He’s the one supposed to be helping me?” she roared at him.