“Yet you left her there.”
“It wasn’t so much she crossed through the Outerplains into the Northlands that bothered me. It was that she did it to see that treacherous bitch sister of mine. She only does these things to irritate me. And she could have called on her siblings to help her, but apparently she was too embarrassed for that—as well she should have been.”
“I see.”
“Now, now. Don’t look so crestfallen, my little lightning strike.” She patted his arm. “I am still quite interested in an alliance between us. Dagmar gave me your letter. Although I doubt you sent her here simply to get that message to me. So why did you?”
“Her uncle Jökull is on the move. Heading toward her father’s lands as we speak. He’s doubled his army and I knew no matter what I told her, she’d head right back there. Risking everything to—”
“You were protecting her,” she cut in, surprised.
The Lightning glanced away. She couldn’t tell if that was embarrassment or regret on his handsome face. “I know she doesn’t believe it, but she means much to me.”
Definitely regret.
Unfortunately it was too late for any of that. Rhiannon had seen her son’s face when Dagmar walked out of that tunnel alive and well. It wasn’t just relief he’d felt for the human. It was love. If it had been any of the whores she’d seen Gwenvael with over the years—dragon or human—Rhiannon would not be pleased. But Dagmar was not some mindless little slag begging for love.
That barbarian could destroy the world with her will alone—Rhiannon admired that.
“Where do we go from here, my lady?”
She headed off back to the humans’ castle. “Find me at Garbhán Isle tomorrow. We will discuss an alliance.”
“And your daughter?”
“Keep her. Let her go. Makes me no never mind. But”—she spun on her heel to look at him as she continued to walk away—“watch your back, boy. I know Olgeir quite well. He won’t happily let that prize go.”
Rhiannon left the Lightning to do as he wished and made her way back to the castle. She neared the gates when she heard her mate’s voice.
“Where the hell did you go?”
Smiling, Rhiannon faced Bercelak. He was annoyed she’d left without telling him where she was going. He was annoyed she went off into the forest alone, without him or her guards. He was annoyed to wake up and find her gone. And she’d be paying for those little transgressions for the next few hours.
She couldn’t wait.
Taking his hand, she tugged him toward the gates. “Don’t snarl so, my love. I was getting us a war.”
“You were getting us a what?”
“You heard me. I was getting us a nice, bloody war. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
Chapter 32
Dagmar awoke when she heard soft laughter from one of the other caverns. It didn’t amaze her that she heard that soft laughter in between bouts of the horrendous snoring going on next to her ear, but that she’d slept in spite of the horrendous snoring. But now that she was awake, going back to sleep with that level of noise was simply impossible. The trick was unwrapping the dragon who held on to her so tightly. Gwenvael’s arms were around her waist, his head buried against her chest, his left leg wrapped around her right, his right buried between her thighs.
She knew she should feel horribly uncomfortable buried under so much male, but she didn’t—until she couldn’t get him to move. She pushed on his shoulders, shoved at his neck, tried to tug her legs out from under his weight. Nothing seemed to work and he didn’t seem to be in any danger of snapping awake this early. Becoming desperate, Dagmar reached around his back and grabbed hold of his hair from the base of his skull. She pulled and Gwenvael angrily muttered in his sleep. She pulled again, going straight back, and, scowling but still asleep and snoring, the dragon rolled away from her.
Dagmar let out a breath and got out of bed before Gwenvael could roll back again. She found Gwenvael’s shirt tossed on the floor and slipped it on. She needed a bath, but that would have to wait a bit. Hunger was winning the race this morning.
She found Annwyl and the twins in one of the small alcoves. Dagmar couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the Blood Queen. She wore a sleeveless chain-mail shirt that brazenly revealed the brands Fearghus had given her upon Claiming, a black pair of leggings, and black leather boots. Two sheathed swords rested against the table leg closest to her.
So this is the true Blood Queen, eh?
Even with a child cradled in one arm and the other in his or her crib, rocked by Annwyl’s rather large foot, Dagmar knew this was the warrior sane men had come to fear. And with good reason.
“Good morning, Annwyl.”
Annwyl looked up and her smile was warm and welcoming.
“Dagmar. Good morn to you. Please”—she motioned to a chair—“sit.”
Dagmar did, sitting catty-corner from the queen.
Annwyl gazed down at her son, pride and joy warring on that scarred but pretty face.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” she sighed.
“He is.”
“And Fearghus tells me I owe you much, Dagmar the Clever, she of the most lethal of tongues.”
Dagmar laughed. “I like my new Southland name.”
“As well you should.” Annwyl motioned to the crib. “Mind picking her up? She’ll let me feed her, but otherwise she has no use for me.”