Last Dragon Standing (Dragon Kin #4)(63)

Arms folded over his chest, legs braced apart, her eldest brother said nothing.

“You look well,” she tried again.

And, though she hadn’t thought it possible, his scowl increased tenfold.

Deciding not to push her luck, Keita used what would not work on Gwenvael or Morfyd. She let the first tears fall. “Are you angry at me too?” she whispered, and, instantly, Fearghus pulled her into his arms.

“Come now. Don’t cry.”

Keita turned her head slightly and gave Gwenvael a good sneer.

Gwenvael rolled his eyes and demanded, “How come my tears don’t work with you lot?”

“Because,” Fearghus shot back, “your lying tears always involve mucus. So I’m too disgusted to care.”

Another voice said from behind Fearghus, “Forgiven her already?”

“She started crying. What was I to do?”

Keita took a step back from one brother and looked up at another. The silver-haired Briec. He’d be harder than Fearghus.

“Two years,” Briec accused. “Two years and no bloody word.”

“I sent gifts,” she offered. “And my love.”

When this one’s scowl got worse, she pressed herself closer to Fearghus.

Ragnar sipped his hot tea and watched Dagmar search the cabinets of her tiny kitchen for more cookies than the few that were currently on the plate.

“I can’t believe he ate all the other cookies,” she complained while searching. “I can’t believe how selfish he is! Who eats like that?” Eating the last cookie on the plate, Ragnar replied, “Dragons.”

“Reason preserve me.” She slammed another cabinet door and walked over to the large and sturdy bed. She knelt beside it and pulled a small trunk from underneath. After using a key that hung from a set attached to her girdle, she opened the trunk and pulled out a tin. Locking and returning the trunk to its place under the bed, Dagmar walked back to the table and opened the tin, offering him more cookies.

“I trust that dragon with my life and the life of my kin,” she said. “But I’ll never trust him with my food.” She glanced down at the purebred dog who’d followed her around the tiny room, his long and thick whiplike tail threatening to knock over everything in his wake. “Or Canute,” she added.

“I’d never trust him—or his brothers—with my Canute.”

“I probably wouldn’t trust his youngest sister either,” Ragnar added, thinking of that guard dog in Bampour’s dungeon. “As a precaution.” Ragnar took a handful of cookies. Dagmar sat opposite him, her dog settling at her side so that he faced the door but could still keep his eye on Ragnar. The woman did know how to earn loyalty.

Never one to waste time on niceties when unnecessary, Dagmar got right to it. “What brings you back into the Southlands, Lord Ragnar?” He remembered when she’d called him “Brother Ragnar.” When she’d believed him to be a human monk. At the time, he had honestly thought she could never understand or handle who he truly was. He’d been wrong. He still felt regret for that mistake. Immense regret.

“Escorting Keita and…uh…the boy.”

Dagmar nibbled on a cookie. She probably limited herself to one or two a day at the most, used to the rules of economy that the Northland humans believed in rather than the excesses of the South. The Hordes had similar ideals—but not when it came to food. “What boy?”

“The blue one.”

Her smile was quick and warm. “Éibhear’s home?” Ragnar studied the warlord’s daughter before he relaxed back in his chair. He appreciated the fact that the furniture had been built for dragons in human form. Nothing more embarrassing than leaning back in a chair and having the damn thing break on you. “What is it about him that makes all you females eager to see him?”

“Blue hair?”

“Mine’s purple.”

Grey eyes that had always reminded him of the finest steel peered at him through spectacles he’d made for her many years ago. “A bit jealous, my lord?”

Ragnar couldn’t help but pout a little. “No.”

“I can’t believe you’re yelling at me!” Keita wailed. “Do I mean nothing to you? ”

“Don’t try that with me, Mistress Mayhem. You were the one who cut off contact with us. You were the one who blamed us for getting caught unaware in Northern territories,” Briec reminded her.

“I never blamed you,” she insisted. “Who said I did?” But as soon as she asked the question, her eyes narrowed, and she accused, “Mother.”

“Don’t blame her. She didn’t tell you to cut off contact with us.”

“I had some things to take care of,” she argued.

“So you run off with that”—Briec sniffed in Ren’s direction—“foreigner?”

“Oy! Be nice to the foreigner!” Gwenvael cut in. “Him I know.”

“What’s going on?” a voice asked from the castle steps, and Briec immediately rolled his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Nothing to worry yourself about, my precious sweet tart,” he replied.

A brown hand caught Keita’s arm and dragged her out of the big-brother pile she’d been trapped in.