What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(11)

Pacing restlessly in the abandoned cave he found high in the Mountains of Sorrow—a rather fitting name at the moment—Gwenvael tore at his mind trying to figure out how to fix this.

His first thought, naturally, was to seduce the woman. She had that look of a spinster, didn’t she? A bitter, unhappy virgin who didn’t trust men enough to allow them in her bed. In the past, he’d had great success with women like that. And yet …

He sighed, rubbed his eyes.

And yet this one didn’t seem like that at all, did she?

She was plain, that was true enough. But not hideous. He didn’t feel the need to scream and run away at first sight of her. And she had those eyes—steel grey and cold as the top of this mountain. Eyes like hers could go a long way if managed correctly, but she wore a drab, grey dress that did nothing for her. No adornments on it, no low-cut bodice, teasing of her bosom. Nor was there a painfully high and prim collar up to her chin so that one demanded to know what she was hiding. The girdle was a boring brown leather, when a silver weave would have been much nicer. The eating dagger she had tucked into it was nice enough, but so? The boots on her small feet were grey fur as well. And she wore that head scarf tied over her hair as if she were about to go off and scrub a kitchen.

No, it wasn’t looks that had gained her a name like The Beast. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t such a gorgeous animal that men were devoured in her bed.

Nor was she a raving lunatic, which one would think a woman named The Beast by Northmen would be.

The coldness in those eyes ran through her entire body. Without a thought to what a powerful dragon could do if angered, she’d kept the information about Annwyl to herself. To be honest, Gwenvael wasn’t even sure the Reinholdt men knew what she held.

The Reinholdt himself seemed to be completely clueless unless he had a war ax in his hands. Surprisingly short for a Northlander, The Reinholdt made up for it with width—his shoulders and chest disturbingly large, his muscles near busting from his clothes. Yet beyond his appearance, the stumpy Northlander reminded Gwenvael a bit of his own father, Bercelak the Great. His father was never as happy as when he was killing someone or something in battle—politics absolutely bored the older Black dragon.

Gwenvael scratched his head. Yes, yes, he could read the old Reinholdt well enough. But it was the girl … dammit! She was the key. He knew it! It wasn’t merely the knowledge she had about Annwyl either. There was something else about that girl … woman … whatever. Really, if he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was a dragon with those damn cold eyes and features. She had a young face, but those eyes were filled with ageless knowledge that she used for her own selfish gains.

Not that he couldn’t admire that a bit since he did the same.

He had to go back. He knew he did. And he realized now that going back just to take her and seduce her would not work. Not with her. She wouldn’t swoon at a mere look from his human self. She wouldn’t be entranced by the extraordinary beauty of his face or the exquisiteness of his human body. Nor would she be intimidated by threats and yelling.

He’d have to go a different way, but first he’d have to get in and see her. To go back in his true form would be useless. He’d have to be human and …

Gwenvael smiled, the etiquette of the Northland rulers and its people coming back to him in a sudden flash. Yes, yes. That would work. The woman he’d faced today knew her etiquette, kept her own council, and played by the rules. At least … she did as far as everyone else was concerned.

It would only buy him a night, but that would be enough.

He’d make it enough, because he wouldn’t fail Annwyl on this. Not this. She’d nearly broken his heart when she sent him off, kissing his cheek and holding him for a long time in a hug before telling him, “Don’t listen to the others. I know you’ll be amazing in the north. Just be careful and watch your back, Gwenvael.”

That’s when Gwenvael knew she had more faith in him than any of his own blood. She was entrusting him with her life and the lives of her babes. And if he had to go so far north that he entered the forbidden Ice Lands himself, he’d do it. He wouldn’t let any harm come to Annwyl.

He walked to the mouth of the cave and stood there a moment, staring down at the countryside below, until that scent he knew so well tore into his nostrils. He should have caught it sooner, but he’d been deep in his thoughts and now he only had a moment to use the shadows around him. A gift from the blood of his loving Grandfather Ailean, Gwenvael’s scales changed colors until he became one with the cave shadows surrounding him.

Right on time too, as they came into view seconds later. Four of them, all big, bold … and purple.

Lightning dragons. Also called the Horde dragons. He’d fought their kind for the first time during a war nearly a century ago. They were barbarians but mighty warriors, and he had the permanent scars to prove it.

These days, some would say the Lightnings lived in peace with the dragons of the Southlands, but that wasn’t remotely true. There was a truce, but it was a delicate one, easily broken at any moment. All that kept a new war from starting was the fact that the Lightnings were broken up into fiefdoms, similar to the way the Northland humans were. They didn’t consider themselves monarchs but warlords. They were often so busy fighting each other, they rarely had the energy or time to take on the armies of the Southland Dragon Queen.