Very subtle, Fearghus.
As she neared her destination, she heard Annwyl speak and her brother . . . laugh?
Morfyd stopped. Perhaps she heard wrongly. Perhaps she’d finally gone insane. Morfyd inched closer to the chamber and waited.
“Now, I did try to set him on fire once when I was 12. But, I assure you, I felt awful about it later.”
“And how long did that awful feeling last?”
“Until he set the dogs on me.”
She heard her brother chuckle and she started at the sound.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Another? What do you want now, woman? My gold? My lair?”
“No. No. No. Nothing like that. And this might sound strange . . .”
“. . . as opposed to your horse manure story.”
“But . . .”
“But?”
“Can I touch your horns?”
Morfyd blinked and looked around, half expecting her three other brothers to be standing behind her, proving this was nothing but a joke. Could she have truly heard what she thought she’d just heard?
“I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? Because I think I just got the brain fever.”
She heard the girl give a very unladylike snort. “I’ve never touched a dragon before. Your horns look so beautiful and I would just like to—”
“All right. Stop. Before you say something that will make both of us uncomfortable.” She heard her brother move his body. Morfyd realized he was lowering himself so the girl could reach him.
Morfyd couldn’t stand not knowing. As silently as she could manage, she peeked around the corner and looked into the girl’s chamber. What she saw astounded her, simply because it was Fearghus.
The girl stood on tiptoes, Fearghus allowing Annwyl to lean against him as she reached up and ran her strong, battle-scarred hand across his horn, her tanned skin standing out against its shiny blackness. Her other hand moved down his neck and grasped the mane of black hair that flowed across it.
“I didn’t know dragons had hair. It’s like a horse’s mane.”
“It is not like a horse’s mane,” Fearghus snapped. To Morfyd’s surprise, Annwyl didn’t shy away from her brother and scurry across the room. Instead, she laughed, leaning closer against his body.“No need to get testy. I was merely implying that your kind was really meant to be beasts of burden for us humans. Just like horses. And centaurs.”
“Oh, is that all? Well, I apologize, Lady Annwyl. I thought you were saying something insulting.”
Morfyd stepped away from Annwyl’s chamber. Her brother making jokes? Well, perhaps the time had come for her to completely lose her mind, considering the family she came from. Dragons did do that sort of thing on occasion.
She looked down at the letter she had clutched in her hand. It could wait until tomorrow.
Silently she turned and went to get something soothing to drink. Or, at the very least, some hard ale. She needed something to help her sleep because the last image she’d witnessed before turning away from the chamber would have her awake and obsessing for hours. The image of Annwyl the Bloody, known terror of the Dark Plains, lovingly running her hand down Fearghus’s snout . . . and Fearghus the Destroyer letting her.
Fearghus watched Annwyl sleep. They talked long into the night. And she fell asleep lying against his side, a handful of hair wound around her fingers. When she started to slide to the floor, he picked her up, laid her out on the bed, and covered her with one of the furs.
His affection for the human grew steadily by the day. Sometimes by the minute. And it wasn’t simply her beauty, but her utter lack of fear of everything and anything except her brother. She didn’t fear dying. She didn’t fear battle. And, most importantly, she didn’t fear Fearghus. She touched him. Ran her hands across his scales and through his mane.
But it was when he covered her up with the fur and she sighed his name in her sleep, that he lost his heart.
Chapter 6
Lorcan threw the table across the room, nearly crushing one of his soldiers. He roared in rage. Seven days and they still hadn’t found the bitch girl or any of his men.
He grabbed two heavy wood chairs and flung them as well. His guards scattered, running for safety. But there was no safety from his rage. A rage rivaled by only one other.
”Find her! Find the bitch!” Several of his men stared blankly at him. “Now!” The men ran.
Lorcan leaned his burning forehead against the cool stone of his castle wall.
“My lord?” Lorcan took a deep, soothing breath and looked at his counsel. Hefaidd-Hen still remained the only one brave enough to face him during one of his rages. “Perhaps we are avoiding the obvious.”
“Which is?” Lorcan slowly turned, his anger under some control.
“Perhaps your sister has fled to Dark Glen.”
“My sister is weak and stupid, but she is not insane. No one goes into Dark Glen. Because no one ever comes back out again. She knows that well enough.”
Hefaidd-Hen turned disturbingly milky blue eyes to his master, and Lorcan shuddered inwardly. “She may not have gone there willingly, but it doesn’t mean she’s not there.”
“Then she would already be dead?”
“No. All signs tell me she still lives.”
Lorcan snorted. He should have known better than to get his hopes up.
“Then what is your counsel, wizard?”
Hefaidd-Hen smiled, if you could call it that. “Let me take some of your men and go into Dark Glen myself. I will see if I can find her.”