How to Drive a Dragon Crazy (Dragon Kin #6)(27)

Still . . . it had been ten years. He was no longer the hatchling they’d adored, nor the unhappy adolescent they’d had little patience for. Instead, he was Éibhear the Contemptible, Squad Leader of the Mì-runach; Hated Southlander of the Ice Land Dragons; and Destroyer of Sixteen Ice Land Dragon Tribes—a number that outranked all other Mì-runach.

When he realized none of that would matter to his siblings, he briefly debated following his mates to the pub. But Éibhear knew he couldn’t avoid this forever. Avoid them forever.

So he tapped the sides of his horse with his heels and the animal moved forward, taking Éibhear home—and to whatever awaited him there.

Dagmar went out of her way not to react when she heard Briec the Mighty imperiously inform his daughter that he was “allowing” her to spend an afternoon with Lord Pombray’s son. Instead she kept her head down and her smile to herself.

Although she greatly doubted the relationship between the boy and Rhi would go beyond some innocent flirtation, she knew it was important for Rhi to get away from her overprotective father, uncles, and cousins for a bit. Dagmar didn’t want the same life for Briec’s daughter that she’d had. Having to lie, connive, and quietly make things happen in the background while the men took all the credit was no life for any female. And now that Dagmar had gone years being trusted with the security of these lands and the politics of the Southlanders, she couldn’t imagine going back to the life she’d lived in the north.

This was especially true when she saw her brother’s son wander into the Great Hall. Poor, confused idiot. He’d been here for several days and yet he seemed baffled by everything. People talked to him and he stared at them mindlessly. She even noticed that Frederik’s brothers and cousins paid little attention to the boy. Clearly the men of her family had already given up on him. They weren’t comfortable with men as smart as Dagmar—and yes, she knew she was smart . . . definitely smarter than any male in her family—but they had no use for males too stupid for basic conversation who were also completely unable to handle a sword or mace or any other weapon. And the boy couldn’t handle any weapon. He was as bad as Dagmar, and that said much.

Which was why she knew that her nephews would ask her to keep Frederik for a while. Reason forbid the big bastards should try to deal with the tragic idiot themselves. Instead they’d try to pawn him off on someone else. Well, Dagmar had no intention of letting that happen this time. She refused to play these ridiculous games with her family. Still, for now, she’d have to tolerate the boy. It was the least she could do for him.

Biting back a sigh, Dagmar motioned him over, but he only frowned. So, she snapped, “Frederik.”

He made his way over to her, but slammed his leg into the table before he sat down in the chair next to her. She was convinced the boy must be covered in bruises from all the things he walked into during the day.

“Morning, Auntie Dagmar.”

“Morning, Frederik. Do you like your room?” she asked, falling back on the boring patter she used with most royals.

“Yes, yes. It’s very nice.”

“Good.”

When she couldn’t think of anything else to say to the boy, she went back to reading her missives from several of the ports Annwyl’s troops controlled and trying to block out Rhi’s excited babble. Shame Keita wasn’t around. She’d love all this discussion over gowns and what one girl should wear to walk into town and go shopping with one boy.

“Nothing revealing,” her father warned.

“Daddy,” Rhi chastised.

“Do you want the boy to live to see the birth of his children with some other boring human female, or do you want to be crying at his funeral pyre? Your choice.”

“Daddy!”

Dagmar was shaking her head and quietly chuckling when she sensed them nearby.

She lifted her head and found Talan sitting on her right, eating the buttered bread she’d had on a plate beside all her papers. Talwyn sat cattycorner from Frederik—who still hadn’t noticed anything—her feet on the worn wood, her bright green eyes watching Rhi and Briec at the other end of the table.

“Mornin’, Aunt Dagmar,” Talan murmured around her food. Only eighteen and his voice was no more than a low rumble of sound. It had been that way since he was twelve. Something that still disturbed her a bit.

“Talan.”

“Anything interesting in there?” he asked, trying to see the documents she was reviewing.

Dagmar placed her arm over the parchment, stared her nephew directly in those black eyes. “Nothing for you to see, I assure you.”

His grin was disturbingly wicked for someone so young. A smile that his sister only had when weapons were involved.

“What’s all this about?” Talwyn asked, motioning down the table with her apple.

“Rhi is going to be spending the day with young Albrecht.”

“What?” Talwyn looked at Rhi. “Oy!”

Rhi let out a breath and Dagmar knew the girl was steeling herself. The connection between the twins and Rhi was unbelievably strong. But the arguing . . .

Gods. The arguing.

She slowly faced her cousin. “Aye?”

“What’s this about the Pombray brat?”

“This has nothing to do with you, Talwyn. Stay out of it.”