“Where’s the rest of the body? You know I need the fingers and tongue as wel !” Rhona smirked at Vigholf. “I’m heading back tomorrow,” she said, walking off.
He watched her, unable to figure her out. She could be such a babysitter, caring for everyone, and the next a cold, uncaring, “I’m only fol owing orders, sir” soldier.
“Lord Vigholf?”
Vigholf turned his focus to the ground and smiled. “Lady Dagmar.”
Dagmar Reinholdt. The Northland woman his brother Ragnar had taken under his wing, educating her and making her as devious as Ragnar could be. At the time Vigholf didn’t know why. He’d found nothing very interesting about Dagmar Reinholdt with her plain face and smal body. But he thought perhaps Ragnar wanted her as a pet. Not for sexual reasons—she was much too young for any of that and Vigholf wouldn’t have al owed it—but for general amusement. Like a puppy or a kitten. Yet Ragnar had paid too much attention to her education, her health, and the inadequacies of her eventual—and worthless—husbands.
Over the last few years, though, Vigholf had come to understand what had drawn his brother to the child and then the woman and why the Northland men—hard, brutal men rarely scared or intimidated by anything—had without humor or irony cal ed her The Beast. Because Dagmar Reinholdt was bril iant. A strategist and politician, she wore reason and logic as her armor, playing her political games with the highest-ranking monarchs and, it was rumored, the gods. Her mind was such a vicious and deadly thing that Vigholf now realized it was better to have Dagmar Reinholdt on their side rather than against it.
“You must be starving, my lord.”
“I am, but I’d like to see my mother first.”
“She’s been staying at Devenal t Mountain with the other Northland dragon females. I’ve sent word, so your mother wil be escorted here soon.
Until then”—she motioned to the castle—“let’s get you fed.”
Vigholf knew that tone. He heard it from Ragnar al the time. “I don’t have much choice in this, do I, my lady?” Her smile was smal —and cold. “No, my lord. You don’t.”
Naked and in human form by the lake where her kin had made camp, Rhona studied the many scars littering her body. “I’m like a bleedin’ pin cushion,” she muttered.
“Rhona?”
Rhona turned, smiled. “Hel o, Talaith.”
“Think we can talk?” her cousin Briec’s beautiful mate asked, and Rhona could hear the concern in the woman’s voice. The stress. Not surprising.
Most of them gone for five years, with no visits from her daughter for the entire time and none from Briec after the first two.
Rhona looked down at herself. “Got any clean clothes I can wear? Mine are al a bit stinky at the moment.” Talaith laughed a little. “Maybe in Annwyl’s closet.”
“That’l do.” She started to head away from the camp, but Talaith caught her arm, pul ed her back.
“Here.” Talaith took off the fur cape she wore and wrapped it around Rhona’s nak*d body. “At least until we get inside. For the sake of the servants.”
“Such a prude,” Rhona teased.
“I’m worried,” Talaith admitted when they were away from Rhona’s kin but not quite at the castle gates. “I haven’t heard from Briec in several days.”
“You’ve heard from Briec?” Usual y only immediate blood relations could contact each other directly and at long distances. Unless, of course, they were . . .
“Witch,” Talaith reminded Rhona. One of those Desert Land witches, mortal enemies of the Kyvich, Rhona had heard. So having the scantily clad, tattooed females around must be especial y hard for Talaith. “Learning to contact my mate was one of the easier things I’ve had to relearn since the return of my powers. And with a little more effort and a lot less complaining, Briec could be an amazing mage, so it’s been quite easy. I don’t hear from him every day, but he’s never gone this long. . . .”
“When I left al was wel . We’re at a standstil .” Although Rhona was wel aware al that could change in a moment. But what was the point of worrying her?
“Can you check with your mum?” Talaith asked.
Rhona stopped walking, tightened the fur around her body. “Uh . . .”
“Uh? Uh what?”
“No one’s supposed to know I’m here.”
“Why the hel s not?”
“Keita—”
“Och! That female!” Talaith raised her hand to silence Rhona’s immediate defense of her cousin. “What is she up to now?”
“Maybe you should ask—”
“Forget it.” Talaith caught Rhona’s hand, pul ing her along with a surprising amount of strength. Then again, Rhona did often forget that Talaith was once an assassin. A very good one.
With a little snarl, Talaith said, “Let’s find that damn female.”
“How is everything going?” Dagmar asked while Vigholf tucked into a heaping bowl of delicious-smel ing beef stew.
“Fine.”
The bowl suddenly disappeared, his spoon dangling in midair.
“You’d get between a dragon and his food?” Vigholf asked, only half seriously.
“When he insists on answering my question like a true Northland male—yes.” She lifted the bowl, holding it in both hands. The scent of it wafted to his nose and Vigholf couldn’t help but growl a little. “But unlike most of my countrymen, you can and do create and execute ful and complete sentences. So I ask again . . . how is everything going?”
“I see my brother has taught you very wel .” Honestly, during the last five years, Vigholf had been forced to stretch his opinion on what was right for females to be involved in and what was not.
“Yes. Your brother did train me wel ,” she replied. “And he told me I could trust you as I trust him.” Those words meant much to Vigholf because his brother would have never said them to Dagmar unless he’d meant it. “You can, my lady.”
“Dagmar. Please.”
“First off, Dagmar, your mate is wel . Mean. But wel .”
“Mean?” She placed the bowl of food back in front of him. “Are you sure you have the right—”
“Gwenvael the Ruiner, yes?”
She nodded, eyes wide behind those spectacles his brother had made for her many years ago.
“He is quite . . . loyal to you, I’m afraid,” Vigholf explained. “And has been for the last five years. But for someone like him that is not easy.
Especial y since, like his brothers, he has not returned here for the last three years. He’s turned impatient, mean, and nasty; and he takes it out on the rest of us—and the enemy. The Irons cal him Gwenvael the Defiler.”
The woman burst into laughter, something Vigholf never thought he’d hear from the dour little human. She stuttered to a stop. “Sorry. Private joke.
And . . . uh . . . why do they cal him that?”
“He has a tendency to dismember the bodies. Sometimes while the owner of that body stil breathes. I told you . . . he’s become quite mean without you.”
“I see.”
“As to the war itself . . .” Vigholf sighed. “That’s a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.” Rhona pul ed on a sleeveless chain-mail shirt, brown leather leggings, and knee-high black leather boots. Thankful y, Annwyl was close to Rhona’s size. The height of the boots covered up that the leggings were a tad short, and the fact that the human queen had larger tits gave Rhona more room in the shirt for her bigger shoulders.
And while Rhona pul ed on the queen’s clothes, the queen’s sisters-by-mating argued like two angry harpies.
“How could you not tel them?” Talaith demanded of Keita. “You should have told Briec and Fearghus.”
“And give Vateria exactly what she wanted? You seem to forget, sister, that I am a Protector of the Throne.”
“Blah, blah, blah!”
“I made the decision to tel my brothers nothing, but I’m here to protect my nieces and nephew myself with the help of Ren. So please . . . get over it already!” Keita looked at Rhona in the mirror. “And you should have kept your gods-damn mouth shut.”
“I’m off duty, cousin, which by Cadwaladr law means I can beat you ugly.” Talaith blinked. “There’s Cadwaladr laws?”
“When necessary,” Rhona said, and picked up her sword and the remnants of her beloved spear. “You two argue this out. I’m off to find my father.”
“You’re leaving?” Keita demanded.
Rhona faced her cousin. “You asked me to escort you and Ren here safely. You’re now here safely. What you do from here is up to you.” She walked to the bedroom door. “I’m off at dawn,” she told them and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Talaith watched her mate’s cousin leave the room. “Is she al right?”
“She’s Rhona.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it says—she’s Rhona. Now let’s get something to eat. I’m starving for real food.” Talaith locked her gaze back on Keita. “Don’t try to change the subject—Ren’s not taking my daughter anybloody-where.” Keita pressed her fingers to her temples. “If you’d only listen—”
“No. She and her cousins are perfectly safe here, Keita. I’l not risk sending them to a country I know nothing about with Ren. Or anyone that’s not me, Briec, or Izzy.”
“But—”
“No. And that’s the end of it. And just so we’re clear, don’t think for a second you’l get the twins past the Kyvich. I know that coven. They’l hunt Ren down and rip the scales from his hide. So if I were you, sister, I’d let this go.” Dagmar and Vigholf walked into the Great Hal from the kitchen. “When are you leaving?” Dagmar asked.
“Tomorrow, I think. I’m traveling with Rhona and if I don’t keep an eye on her, she’l scurry off without permission.” Dagmar stopped and looked up at him. Vigholf was as handsome as his brother, but in a different way. Maybe it was the scar across his jaw.
Because nothing about him looked as innocent as Ragnar the Cunning. “Keep an eye on her?”
“Someone has to.”
“You do know she’s a—”
“A Cadwaladr. Yes. I’m quite aware of her blood ties since everyone keeps reminding me,” he finished on a mutter. Although Dagmar only thought of Vigholf as her friend’s brother, she stil felt the need to make it perfectly clear to him how things were with many Southland females.
“I wouldn’t crowd, my lord. I’ve found the females of this clan and this territory hate that.”
“I’m not crowding. I’m . . . helping.”
“I’m a Northlander, too, Vigholf. I know how the males of my country ‘help’ females. It can be smothering for some of us. I don’t know Rhona wel , but if she’s like the rest of her kin . . .”