Dragon's Maid

by Kimberly A Rogers

  Dragon’s Maid

  Love’s Enchanted Tales

  Book Nine

  Kimberly A. Rogers

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people or entities, living or dead, business establishments, locals, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Kimberly A. Rogers

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews, without the prior permission of the author and copyright holder.

  Cover design by Rachel Rossano

  http://rossanodesigns.weebly.com

  Dedication

  To the kind hearted,

  for you are braver than you know.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Note from the Author

  Love’s Enchanted Tales

  You May Also Like . . .

  Also by Kimberly A. Rogers

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you as always to my family who support my efforts.

  I also want to thank my early readers who have been cheering for this story since I first started working on it. Thank you ladies!

  Additional shout out to Rachel Rossano for creating another magnificent cover!

  Finally, thank you to my Lord and Savior without whom I am nothing.

  Chapter One

  Damaris sank her fingers into the rich loamy soil, relishing the feel of its warmth. She noted the texture, assuring herself it was neither too sandy nor coated in clay or in danger of drying out, before allowing a handful to fall back to the ground. The thorns caught at her tied sleeves and brushed against the exposed skin of her forearms, but none bit her.

  Brushing the excess soil from her hands, Damaris straightened from her crouch and looked over the rest of the garden. Silver rosebuds were just beginning to appear. Slower than last season’s blooms and . . . Her gaze flicked toward the scattered patches of rose bushes she had pruned down to their bases in a desperate attempt to save them for next year. If only Baba were here, he would know exactly what to do to keep their roses from dying. It was why he’d been so successful as a silver rose merchant, why the flower traders in the cities had clamored to buy silver roses grown in Dumi Desrosiers’ gardens.

  Continuing to check the soil, Damaris tried to lose her thoughts in the familiarity of working the rose crop. Winter had been harsher than usual, even for their valley tucked in the northern mountains of Cian Gwenith, almost too harsh to preserve their roses. A fact that would have overwhelmed her, with the speed of a drake pouncing on anyone unfortunate enough to be its prey, had she allowed it.

  Then with her father . . . Damaris stopped and closed her eyes as she took a long slow deep breath and then another and another until the burning at the back of her eyes receded. Crying among the roses was no longer a luxury she could afford. Not when she needed to focus on saving them. She ran her fingers over one little bud that was showing more silver than the rest of its fellows. The mere hint of silver was striking and promised to grow more so as she gently cupped it between her brown fingers.

  A small smile curved her lips as she remembered the sound of Baba’s voice as he whispered about how higher contrast between colors only enhanced the beauty of each. This rose would contrast beautifully with the green of its leaves. Perhaps, she would sell its clippings wrapped in a dark green cloth instead of burlap or mere ribbons. If it survived long enough to reach its full bloom . . . Her smile dropped at the thought.

  She shook her head causing a few tight curls to fall into her eyes. She swiped at the hair with her wrist, attempting to avoid smudging dirt across her forehead. Returning from the gardens with any smudges or lingering soil and leaves was one of the swifter ways to draw Philippa’s ire. Her lips twisted in a rueful smile as she admitted it was far more difficult to gain her stepmother’s approval on anything than to find herself once more targeted by the older woman’s increasing anger.

  Then she clicked her tongue and murmured to herself, “Do not be unkind, Damaris Desrosiers. We all grieve in different ways.”

  She ran her fingers over the budding rose once more before she whispered even more quietly, “I miss you, Baba.”

  Shaking her head again, Damaris tried to lose herself to the familiar work. She grabbed the shears from her basket and worked to clip any shoots that had failed to sprout buds. Baba’s illness and then funerary arrangements had depleted their household funds more than she liked. She needed to ensure they had their best crop of silver roses to see them through the next year. Damaris’ hand shook a little before she steadied herself. It would work, Shaddai willing. There were only three of them since they had released all the servants save for Philippa’s maid and the cook. And, Ella was small for a fourteen year old . . .

  Damaris frowned at the thought of her stepsister, the girl’s fair complexion was too prone to painful burns beneath the sun to permit her to help with outside chores, and she was simply too small to contribute much to the household chores no matter how she tried. It would take little to push the girl’s small frame to frailty if they suffered much hardship as far as rations.

  She clipped another shoot, her mind turning over the problems they still faced. Yet, she kept coming back to only two solutions. Either she would manage to bring the roses to market in the summer and fall or she would be left with no choice save to use her dowry and perhaps even sell the manor to keep them from starving next winter. Of course, for either solution to work, she would need to find a way to persuade Philippa not to spend what was left of their household funds on the expensive fabrics and impractical clothing the older woman so loved purchasing.

  Her clipping slowed as she considered what else there was to do. They had a few treasures or baubles remaining. Items her father had brought back from his trips to the southern cities and Belfarad when he delivered roses to various nobles. The ones who could afford the cost of transporting the famously rare silver roses of Cian Gwenith from their natural groves in the northern valleys. And, she still had some of her mother’s jewelry although its Kushite designs would be easier to sell in the south of Cian Gwenith and in Belfarad.

  If she could persuade Philippa to clear out her and Ella’s wardrobes of at least half the gowns too rich and fancy for the mountains, it would go far in easing the strain. Another rueful smile curved her lips as she continued pruning. Philippa would be more likely to release Cook from their service than to give up any of her fine gowns. Or she would have another fit of high dudgeon and break something they might need to sell later. There had to be a way to better prepare for winter.

  “Damaris! Damaris, where are you?”

  She jumped at the call, and then hissed through her teeth as she scratched herself on the thorns.

  “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you, even the stables!” Ella’s flushed countenance and bright eyes certainly attested to the fact that the younger girl had been dashing about like a panicked rabbit. Her blue eyes darted down and widened as the flush drained from her cheeks, leaving her ashen, as she squeaked, “You’re hurt!”

  Damaris quickly
blotted the blood away with the underside of her sleeves, awkwardly wiping her hand against her elbow, as she reached out to steady Ella. “Nothing more than a bite from the roses. Now, why are you dashing about like a chicken fleeing Cook?”

  Ella chortled, a surprisingly throaty sound out of a girl who looked as though a strong gust of wind could sweep her away. Still, Damaris was relieved to see some color return to her cheeks. Having Ella faint in the roses would mean experiencing rather unnecessary dramatics from Philippa for the rest of the sennight, and they were only two days into it. Ella offered a wide grin before she peeked over her shoulder and then turned back to Damaris and said in a rush, “Mother wants to see you. She’s been calling for you.”

  She managed to keep the confusion from marring her expression by a hair’s breadth. Her eyes flicked to the manor before settling on Ella once more. It was rarely a good thing when Philippa was . . . calling for her. “Why did you come? We both know she would never send you on such an errand.”

  “Oh.” Ella’s expression grew a touch mischievous as she added, “Well, Mother doesn’t like to be hoarse afterwards, and I wanted to preserve her voice as any dutiful daughter would.”

  Damaris’ lips curled in a faint smile. “If she ever heard you use that tone, little miss, you would find yourself locked in the tower like all the poor maids from your stories.”

  Ella giggled as she reached to loop her arm through Damaris’ before she pulled back with a chagrined expression wrinkling her slightly upturned nose. “You’d best wash up before Mother sees you, though. She has a visitor.”

  The word nearly made Damaris stumble before she corrected herself. Ella was already skipping back toward the manor, utterly unaware of her reaction, and she was glad for it. Visitors could mean anything from the friends of Philippa, though they had long ago ceased coming up from the cities to her well-aired dismay, to debt collectors. The latter was what Damaris feared. She had been certain she’d collected and paid all of their debts. Philippa had sworn that everything was in the box on Baba’s desk. Yet . . .

  A small drop of doubt spread through her like rot through the roots of a garden. Her hands curled into fists, partially hidden by the folds of her apron and simple tan skirts of her overdress. She forced them to relax and uncurl by the time she reached the well at the front of the garden. Drawing up a fresh bucket, she quickly splashed away the remnants of soil clinging to her hands and forearms before swiping at a few smudges on her face. Then she patted at her hair, attempting to tame the thick tight curls into behaving since she didn’t have time to adjust the bun she had pulled them into that morning.

  “Damaris, are you all right?”

  She nodded as she began untying her sleeves, allowing the linen to fall down to her wrists once more. “Of course. There’s nothing to fret over, Ella.”

  There was a silence, and she glanced over to see Ella watching her with a furrowed brow and the tip of her tongue sticking out. Ella’s look of concentration remained as amusing as it had been when she was seven. Before she could ask what her little sister was thinking, however, Ella abruptly said, “I think she’s found a suitor for you.”

  Damaris’ fingers faltered a moment before she lowered her gaze to the laces holding her other sleeve up. “Why?”

  “I heard your name and something about a dowry mentioned.” Ella’s blue eyes widened earnestly as she asked, “Don’t you want to marry, Damaris?”

  “Someday.” She paused and shook out her sleeve before adding, “I am only turned sixteen. It’s another year before I am truly eligible for marriage.” Noble born girls were more likely to be betrothed at 16, and at times wed. Something that had grown more common in the years of civil war and the immediate aftermath, though she’d heard that was no longer the case in recent years unless a parent chose to allow the arrangement. As a merchant’s daughter, she had another year before any man would look at her . . . or so she prayed.

  “A long betrothal would be lovely,” the younger girl sighed. “He could court you and bring you gifts.”

  “What sort of gifts?”

  “Jewelry naturally,” Ella replied lightly.

  Damaris couldn’t help a soft laugh. “What would I do with such finery?” Her gaze strayed to the roses around the well, these would bloom in shades of red and pink and yellow and white. “I’d rather be gifted a rose.”

  “What about a rose garden?” her sister asked with a knowing grin.

  Unable to resist her infectious grin, Damaris laid a hand over her heart and raised the other to her forehead. “I should be bound to him forever since he knows the truest way to my heart.”

  She joined in Ella’s laughter, then shooed the younger girl ahead of her. “We’d best hurry before your mother has a true fit over my tardiness. And, don’t worry about suitors.”

  “I am not the least worried,” Ella replied brightly as she resumed skipping. “I shall marry a prince who is as handsome as he is kind and brave.”

  “A prince? What happened to a knight?”

  “A prince would make Mother happier.” Ella waved over her shoulder and dashed toward the manor. “Come on then!”

  Damaris hurried after her, but didn’t attempt to run. She couldn’t appear before Philippa out of breath any more than she could appear covered in any trace of dirt from the garden. She stopped outside the kitchen door to slip off the clogs that protected her leather shoes from the dirt and mulch, then ran her hands over her dress once more. The plain tan kirtle lacked sleeves, allowing the linen sleeves of her chemise to show. The simple look was another one that Philippa did not much like when she saw Damaris. However, leaving her waiting even further would not be worth the effort of running to change into one of her better gowns. A feeling that was confirmed when Cook nodded toward the interior of the manor from where she stood over Ella who now sat on a stool drinking from a cup. There was worry in the older woman’s dark brown eyes as she murmured, “Best hurry in. The mistress is nearly as shrill as a cockatrice on her last call.”

  Nodding her thanks, Damaris hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall until she reached the stairs leading up to her stepmother’s sitting room. She could hear the faint murmur of voices that went abruptly silent when she knocked lightly on the door before opening it and stepping inside.

  “Finally! Where have you been? Not shirking your duties, girl.” The sharp words contrasted with the elegance of the speaker’s attire and posture. Rich dark blue wool of her bliaut contrasted with the white fur lining her open hanging sleeves. The same smooth black hair she shared with her daughter was gathered in intricate knotted braids though she covered her head with a sheer veil attached to a silver embroidered blue ribbon instead of wearing a wimple. Hooded blue eyes sparked with annoyance and even distaste as they took in Damaris’ far simpler attire.

  Damaris forced herself to maintain a pleasant expression as she nodded to her stepmother. “No, Stepmother. I was in the gardens and didn’t hear you.” The next words already tasted bitter, yet she needed to say them to keep Philippa placated. She dipped her head once more as she added, “Please forgive my tardiness.”

  “A compliant girl, is she?” a new voice intruded, making Damaris’ blood run cold. She slowly turned her head to meet the eyes of a man who watched her like a hungry wolf. Howell. The clothing merchant came closer, his bright green surcoat putting her in mind of the venomous horned vipers that hid in rocks or even in the trees lining the lower mountain paths. He circled her, looking her over as though she were a pony or ewe brought to market. “Is she Kushite by sire alone or also the dam?”

  “Both her parents were of Kush from what her sire claimed,” Philippa said with chilling calm.

  The change in tone was enough to make Damaris’ skin crawl. She bit back a hot retort to the insulting nature of the conversation and focused on her stepmother. The woman’s narrow chin was lifted high though her eyes were hooded. Philippa kept her gaze on the circling merchant, looking almost . . . eager and a touch despera
te. What had she done?

  Howell moved in front of her, cutting off her view of her stepmother. He leaned in toward her, carrying the sour smell of boiled cabbages with him, then dared to reach out and touch her hair.

  Damaris slapped his hand away, narrowing her eyes at him, as she hissed, “You forget yourself, Howell. I am not yours to touch.”

  Howell took a small step back before he recovered. His eyes hardened as his lip curled in a sneer. “You shall soon learn to control that tongue of yours, girl.” He looked over at Philippa and gave a curt nod. “Despite obvious flaws, I shall accept your offer, Lady Tremblay.”

  The usual cut of hearing Philippa use her first husband’s name was lost beneath a wave of unease that rolled over Damaris. An offer from the clothing merchant . . . Howell didn’t make offers or bargains. It was why she’d always been wary of how often he stopped to persuade Philippa to purchase new and expensive fabrics. Something he was unfortunately talented in achieving. She darted a glance at her stepmother. “What offer?” When the woman didn’t respond immediately, she pressed again. “Stepmother, what offer is this? What have you done?”

  “I have saved myself and my daughter.” Philippa’s lips thinned and her nostrils flared as she added through clenched teeth, “I told you never to call me that. You are no daughter of mine, perhaps not even Dumi’s daughter. Perhaps, he merely picked you up in the aftermath of one of his . . . trips. However, I remain your guardian. Therefore, I am left to rid myself of your burden before you drag us into poverty.”

  Howell shoved a bundle of cloth into Damaris’ arms. “Change, girl.”

  She stared down at the unmistakable pale blue robe and cowl of the indentured. Her mind went blank and the words she wanted to say melted on her tongue. How could she be given these to wear? She was a freewoman, and she had signed nothing . . . but guardianship . . . Damaris yanked her head up to glare at Philippa. “I am turned sixteen and no longer bound to your guardianship. You cannot sign any documents on my behalf as of five weeks past.”