What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(71)

“What kind of language is that from my sister?” He wagged his finger at her. “It’s that Brastias. A bad influence. I know something’s going on there. I’ll find out.”

“Don’t try to turn this on me. You like a girl.”

“I do not.”

“You do. You like her.”

“Shut up.”

Laughing, Morfyd pushed away from the table and stood. “This is a great day in Dark Plains! I must trumpet it from the rooftops!”

“You’ll do no such thing. And does no one care that I had a near-death experience with Lightnings?”

“No!” his sister crowed, still laughing as she left the room.

“Your betrayal will not be forgotten!” he cried dramatically.

The statement would have meant more, however, if someone was there to witness it.

Chapter 18

Dagmar couldn’t believe the room the servants led her to, with the queen and Lady Morfyd following behind—laughing hysterically. She had no clear idea what they found so amusing, but she was used to the ways of bitchy women. She’d lived with a group of them for years. Yet for her people and her father, she’d suck it up and pretend that she was no better than they were.

The room she was to use as her own for the next few days was enormous, with a huge bed, a table that could be used as a desk or for eating, a pit fire built right into the wall, several plush chairs of different styles, several straight-back chairs, a big standing chest filled with drawers that could hold anything she may have, a large claw-footed tub she couldn’t wait to make use of, and a standing washbasin.

“This is wonderful,” she said, pivoting in a circle. When she’d spun completely around, she found Lady Morfyd whispering to the queen and the queen leaning against the wall so she could be held upright while Her Majesty howled in laughter.

This was almost as bad as her first meeting with Gwenvael.

“We’re done, Lady Annwyl,” one of the servants said.

“Good. Have food sent up and—” She took a long look at Dagmar before adding, “Fannie.”

“Right away.”

The servant left and Morfyd helped Annwyl to one of the chairs. Once the queen sat down, she said, “I have to say, Lady Dagmar, and I mean this very deeply … I love you.”

Now Dagmar was beginning to panic. “Uh … my lady—”

“The bit with the forefingers. I thought he was going to break a blood vessel.”

The laughter started all over again, so badly that Morfyd had to sit on the floor and Annwyl kept trying to stop.

“We’ve got to stop, I’m about to have an accident.”

“But the look on his face!”

“That was the best part!” Then Annwyl started laughing all over again.

That’s when Dagmar understood. They weren’t laughing at her. Not at all.

There was a knock on the door, and a woman at least a decade older than Dagmar stepped in. “My lady? You asked for me?”

“Aye, Fannie.” Annwyl wiped tears from her face and took a breath. At least now she was no longer crying from sadness. “This is Lady Dagmar Reinholdt. While she’s here, I want you to help her with what she needs.”

“Of course.”

Annwyl relaxed back in her chair. “Tell her what you need.”

Dagmar had no idea what to ask for. Ask for too much or the wrong thing and she could alienate Annwyl. And considering the monarch nearly snapped Dagmar’s neck for using her proper title, this was a far bigger risk than she’d imagined.

Dagmar stared at the kind-faced servant, and Fannie leaned back a bit so she could examine Dagmar closely.

“Water for a bath, fresh clothes, and I believe food is already being sent up,” Fannie suggested.

Dagmar nodded in agreement. “That’s fine.”

“Wait.” Annwyl pointed at her. “I thought you told Gwenvael you had bags. Should I send someone to—”

Wincing, Dagmar shook her head. “Uh … I was … I was just being rude. I don’t have any bags.”

The four women glanced back and forth among them, and then, the laughter started all over again. Only this time Dagmar happily joined in.

Gwenvael walked into the queen’s bedchamber. Fearghus sat at a desk, writing. Éibhear on the floor with a book in his lap.

“Does no one care that I’m not dead?”

Éibhear looked up and smiled. “I care.”

“You don’t count.”

Fearghus spoke to Gwenvael without pausing in his self-important scribbles. “Why are the servants telling me you brought back a trophy from the north?”

“She’s not a trophy.” He sat down on the bed. “She’s more a toy for my amusement.”

Éibhear snickered until Fearghus glared at him.

The eldest of the siblings placed down his quill and turned in his chair to focus on Gwenvael. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but what the hell is going on?”

“You’re right. You’re going to regret asking.”

The door opened and Briec walked in. He saw Gwenvael and slammed the door behind him. “Thanks for the warning about Izzy, you idiot.”

“I did warn you, but you were too busy doing the Briec-Talaith form of o**l s*x to hear me.”