“I was in fear for my life and trapped by Lord Low-Brow over there.” She shrugged. “I just…reacted.”
“Liar.”
“Oh, whatever. The important question is did you like my speech?” He helped her to her feet. “A little wordy. The looking up at the sky with the tear-filled eyes was a nice touch, though.”
“I thought so. I’ll have to use that again.” The rest of her chains hit the ground, and the foreigner walked around the group and retrieved his clothes a few feet away.
While Vigholf and Meinhard watched the foreigner closely, their weapons still drawn, Ragnar focused on the princess. She glared first. He glared in return. There might have also been some sneering. Then she suddenly charged past him and into the arms of the big blue ox standing behind him.
“Keita!”
Her baby brother lifted Keita into his arms and swung her around.
Keita marveled at how much he’d grown. At this point, he might be even bigger than their father…and-grand-father. He was massive! And that was as human. She couldn’t wait to see what he looked like when he shifted.
Keita wrapped her arms around her brother’s neck and squeezed him tight. “I’m so happy to see you, Éibhear!”
“And I you. Has it been two years?”
“Oh, yes.” She kissed his cheek and hugged him again. “Too long!
Now put me down. I want to get a good look at you.” He placed her on the ground, and Keita stepped back. Actually, she took several steps back so she could see all of him.
“By the gods of mayhem, Éibhear. Look at the size of you!”
“It’s not that bad,” he said self-consciously. “I haven’t grown any in a few months.”
She didn’t know how to tell him he probably wasn’t done growing yet, so she decided not to tell him at all. He’d figure it out when he needed new leggings.
“You look as handsome as ever,” she told him instead, enjoying his shy smile. Ahh, she’d missed him so. The youngest of her siblings, Éibhear was the one she mothered. Some days she couldn’t do enough for him, and she enjoyed being that way because he never took it for granted. Fearghus and Briec, her oldest siblings, were the classic big brothers. Always protective and caring, they watched out for her when they could. And then there was Gwenvael. She was closest to Gwenvael in age and in temperament. Gwenvael was more like a best friend than a brother; the two of them getting into lots of trouble as they’d matured in their mother’s court.
But that was more than a century ago and times had changed.
Just like the size of Éibhear’s neck. Gods! Look at that thing.
“So what brings you here, brother?”
“Can we have this discussion some other time?” asked that voice.
That voice she’d worked for several days—maybe even a whole week!—to get out of her head. That voice that made her want to tear its owner’s face off with her talons—preferably while singing something jaunty.
“You can go,” she told that voice without looking at that voice’s owner. “But as you can see, I’m in the middle of a conversation.”
“We need to move out. Now.”
He spoke to her like one of his barbarian Dragonwarriors. Without a bit of reverence for the fact that she was of royal blood and, more importantly, not afraid to tear his face off while singing something jaunty!
Keita, feeling particularly difficult this day, pointedly ignored the rude bastard, but then she heard another voice.
“Please, my lady. We should leave before those human soldiers manage to find their manhood and return.”
Ahhh. The brother. She remembered the brother. And the cousin.
She’d forgotten they’d been standing right there beside her for several minutes.
Two years ago, Keita had easily charmed the two barbarians and their younger kin while they’d traveled from the Northlands to the South. Only the barbarian bastard had managed to ignore her. Something that bothered her much more than it should have.
Curling her lips into an appropriate—and quite seductive—smile, Keita turned and faced the other two Lightnings.
“By the gods,” she said, her hands to her chest. “It is you!” She quickly recalled their names and tried to place which was which. Not easy when they both looked quite similar. Both had purple hair braided into a single plait that reached to the middle of their backs, both were wide of shoulder and long of height, both had scars. So, how did she tell them apart before…?
“Vigholf!” She hugged the one with the grey eyes and the brutal scar across his jaw. “Meinhard!” She then hugged the one with the green eyes and the brutal scar that cut from his hairline to below his eye. “How wonderful it is to see you both again.”
She grabbed a hand from each and held them tightly. “I hope you’ve both been doing wonderfully.”
“We have, my lady, thank you,” Vigholf said. He’d always been the more confident one when it came to speaking. Meinhard always looked cornered when she asked him a direct question, before muttering a response.
Although she’d found in time that Meinhard said much with his eyes without speaking a word. A lovely trait—rare with most males.
“And I see you’ve been taking excellent care of my brother. Thank you both for that. I don’t know what I’d do if something horrible happened to him.”
“Meinhard’s my mentor,” Éibhear filled in.
“And I know my brother’s learned so much from you, dear Meinhard.” She gave her most dazzling smile, and poor Meinhard appeared ready to crumple at her feet.
That’s before the rude one stepped between them, prying her hands from his kin.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” she asked him.
“Moving this along.”
“Well, if you’d bothered to ask me nicely—oh!” she gasped when he again lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder like so much trash. “How dare you!”
“Move out!” he ordered.
“Are you going to let him do this?” she demanded of Ren. For many, many years they’d been traveling companions and dearest friends. He made her laugh the way Gwenvael always did but, unlike her dear brother, Ren was much more reliable. Gwenvael was a lot of things, but unfortunately, she could never call him reliable.
“He seems quite determined,” Ren explained, his lips curled into a small smile. “Can’t you just relax until he’s done?”
“I want you never again to ask that question of any female for as long as you live, Ren of the Chosen!” she ordered.
Yet with no one willing to help her, Keita was forced to settle down and wait this out. Although she did use every opportunity to bring up her foot so she kicked Ragnar the Bastard in the nose with her heel.
If nothing else, she did find that quite entertaining.
Chapter Three
Fearghus the Destroyer, First Born to the Dragon Queen, Heir to the Dragon Queen’s Throne, Consort to Annwyl the Bloody, Father to the Demon Twins of Dark Plains, and suspicious, jealous male of Queen Annwyl’s court sat on the stairs leading to the Great Hall of his mate’s castle and watched Annwyl walk from behind one of the guard houses. Behind her trailed the two dogs given to her by her chief battle lord, Dagmar Reinholdt.
Fearghus didn’t mind the two dogs, though they did make him hungry. But Annwyl adored the beasts nearly as much as she adored her horse and Fearghus wasn’t in the mood to fight with her if she found him using one of the dog’s leg bones to remove the other bits from between Fearghus’s fangs.
Eyes narrowing, Fearghus studied his mate. Although Annwyl had always trained hard since he’d met her, she’d been training even harder since a few months after their twins had been born. He knew what drove her, too.
Fear. Not fear for herself, but fear for the safety of their twins. Fear that she couldn’t protect them. He didn’t know why she’d think that. She’d slaughtered an entire herd of Minotaur to protect their babes. But she seemed to think worse than Minotaurs was heading their way. That whatever this worse thing was, it—or they—was coming after the babes.
And maybe she was right. Although not quite two winters old, the twins were feared by many. Demons, abominations, unholy—all words used to describe the amazing creatures upstairs with their latest nanny. A position they couldn’t seem to keep filled for long periods of time. He’d known his offspring would be different. But not this different. Not this dangerous. And gods, for something so small, they were dangerous.
Picking sticks off the ground, Annwyl held them out for her dogs and then played tug with the beasts until they reached the Great Hall steps.
“Oy. Wench,” Fearghus said by way of greeting.
Annwyl looked up at him with those green eyes that still made his heart stumble a bit in his chest.
“Oy. Knight.”
“Where you’ve been?”
“Training.”
He could see that. Her body was covered in sweat, fresh bruises, and new nicks and cuts.
“Training with…?”
She shrugged, glanced down at her dogs, which were still fighting her for the sticks. “A few of the men.”
And he knew she lied.
“How did it go?” he asked, rather than accuse her of something he couldn’t yet prove.
“It went well.” He could see the truth in that. She was getting stronger every day. More powerful. Her muscles were well-defined, and her body bore no fat. Her own men feared her strength, which was why he knew she hadn’t been training with them. And his kin feared her as well. Dragons known for fighting anyone at any time gave Fearghus’s mate the widest berth possible when she searched for a sparring partner. But someone was helping her. Someone she wouldn’t tell him about.
“Brastias and Dagmar are looking for you,” he said
“Oh.” Annwyl blinked a few times and said, “I should check on the babes first, though, eh? I’ll track down Brastias and Dagmar later.” There’d been a time when Annwyl would track down Brastias first.
She’d search out fights, battles, wars, anything that hinted at a little bloodshed. But that had been before the twins. Now, she avoided her army’s general and her chief battle lord as if they brought news of the latest fashions from town. The twins, however, were merely the excuse the queen used to avoid what was closing in around her.
Yet how much longer did she think she could continue to do that? She was queen, one of the most powerful queens in a millennium, and there were many who relied on her. True, she could be like some monarchs—his mother included—who sent out troops and supplies while staying safely in their fortress homes. That, however, was not Annwyl. That would never be Annwyl. And watching her live like this was tearing him apart.
Annwyl made a strange clicking sound with her tongue, and the dogs released their sticks and charged up the stairs and into the Great Hall.
Annwyl followed behind them, stopping beside Fearghus.
“You all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine.” Paranoid, distrustful, and worried about you—but fine.