G A Aiken Dragon Bundle

by G. A. Aiken

  Dagmar was well aware that Gwenvael the Handsome had kissed many before her. He would ease his way into her mouth the way he’d done with others. But she had no patience for this particular game of his and simply opened up. Perhaps once he got in, he’d leave her be and she could go back to finishing the message she needed sent to her father the following morning.

  Gwenvael’s tongue sunk deep into her mouth and Dagmar placed her hands against his shoulders, ready to push him away. She didn’t want to start gagging, and she was already a bit bored, and she needed to get back to her…to her…uh…

  Wait. What had she been doing before?

  At the moment, she couldn’t remember any of it, nor could she care as her fingers tightened against Gwenvael’s shoulders, his chain mail harsh against the tips.

  The dragon groaned, the sound of it rippling through her. His tongue tangled with hers and Dagmar’s body responded to it. Her nipples hardened, her thighs tensed, and the walls of her sex clenched over and over, demanding something slide inside for it to grab hold of.

  She would have been disgusted by her weakness if the dragon’s gentle teasing hadn’t also turned more urgent, more demanding. His hand slid around the back of her neck, holding her in place, the fingers squeezing and releasing the muscles there. His body moved in closer, his free hand gripping her hip.

  Dagmar had to have more. She released her grip on one shoulder and dropped her hand to his lap. She whimpered when she felt the hard cock beneath her hand. Even through the chain mail, she knew it was large and powerful. Built to make a woman promise anything if she could only play with it for a night or so. She stroked her hand against him and the dragon shuddered. She liked that, so she did it again. Now he whimpered and moaned while he still kissed her. Her hand continued to stroke him, over and over again, developing a rhythm he seemed to be enjoying immensely.

  The dragon’s human form tensed, and then suddenly he was scrambling away from her, stumbling across the small room until he landed in the only chair they had.

  He stared at her as if terrified. His eyes wide, his breath coming in short, hard pants, while his body trembled the tiniest bit.

  The way he scrutinized her made Dagmar uncomfortable and she looked away, wincing when she tried to close her hand. She glanced down and saw that the bandage on her right hand had come off. She reached for the linen wrap lying on the bed as a brisk knock on the door told her dinner had arrived.

  Gwenvael answered the door and let the servant girl in. She placed the food down, blue eyes flicking back and forth between the pair. She couldn’t seem to give them their food and get out of there fast enough.

  “Eat,” Gwenvael ordered her. “I’ll get you more ointment for your hand.”

  Before she had the chance to tell him that wasn’t necessary, he was already gone.

  “Where are you going?”

  Éibhear the Blue, youngest son to Queen Rhiannon and Bercelak the Great, cringed when he heard that voice behind him.

  That voice. That damn voice!

  “To see my father.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He stopped. “Shouldn’t you be training?”

  “I was. But my commander told me I could take off the rest of the day.”

  That was probably because no one in her unit would fight against her anymore. In less than a year, the spoiled brat had become a one-woman wrecking team.

  “Well, go find something else to do.”

  “I’d rather go see Grandfather.”

  Éibhear flinched. “Don’t call him that.”

  “Why not? He is my grandfather.”

  Exactly the problem. Iseabail, Daughter of Talaith, wasn’t blood, but she’d been accepted by his parents and siblings as Briec’s daughter. And, in the process, they’d turned her into nothing more than a spoiled little brat…and his niece.

  His annoying, spoiled, never-stopped-talking niece.

  “Your mother doesn’t want you flying.”

  “She doesn’t want me doing anything.” He could hear the frustration in her voice, understood it himself. At ninety-one winters he’d been in few battles. Most of them sudden skirmishes that had involved mostly human troops—very easily killed, those humans—and very few dragons. Like Izzy, he was ready for more. Ready to earn his name. Although he’d always enjoyed being Éibhear the Blue, he was ready to be something a little more substantial. Éibhear the Benevolent perhaps. Or Éibhear the Strong.

  He had big plans for his future, and they didn’t involve some brat who thought she was a warrior. He still couldn’t believe her unit commanders wanted to send her into combat. She’d only just turned seventeen, and, more importantly, Éibhear saw how the men in the troops—and several of the women—looked at her. She’d be at great risk out there alone, without any kin to watch out for her. To care for her. To hold her close and smell her hair and lick that delicious-looking scar on her neck…

  “Dammit!”

  “What?” She stood in front of him now, never letting him ignore her—no matter how hard he may try. No one had a right to be that pretty with a severely bruised eye and a just-healing busted nose.

  He simply needed to remember that she was his niece. Exactly right. His niece!

  His nubile, firm-breasted, perfect-ass niece!

  “What’s wrong, Éibhear?”

  “Nothing. I’ve got to go.”

  “Oh, come on.” She grabbed his arm. “Take me with you. I promise I’ll be quiet and won’t braid your hair.”

  “No.” He tried to pull his arm away, but the girl did have a grip on her. Sometimes, when he was alone, he could still feel the grip she’d had on his tail once, many months ago. It was one of those memories that woke him up in the middle of the night—sweating.

  “Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaasssssseeeee!”

  “No!” He yanked his arm away. “Go play with your friends.”

  Light brown eyes looked up at him through those damn long lashes, her full lips lifting slightly at the corners. “But…I’d rather play with you.”

  Snarling, Éibhear pushed past her, stomping off to a clearing so he could shift and take flight in peace!

  “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” she yelled after him. And he might have believed her, if only she hadn’t been laughing when she said it.

  Dagmar stretched, waking up yet again. She’d been napping off and on for the last few hours. Each time she woke up she was still alone and her body was still reacting to that kiss. If he’d come back to her, she knew she would have taken him into her bed like so many women had done before her. But so far the dragon hadn’t come back.

  No, he’d probably found someone else. Someone fuller in the hips and prettier in the face. Though that was probably best for both of them.

  Dagmar moved her right hand, waiting for the searing pain she’d been experiencing since she’d rubbed her palm on his leggings. But there was no pain. Nor was she able to move her hand very well. She blinked, bringing her hand closer to her face so she could see. It had been properly bandaged again, and she could now feel the fresh ointment underneath.

  Squinting, Dagmar looked around the room and saw Gwenvael sitting in the only chair, staring out the only window.

  “Gwenvael?”

  “It’s me. You’re safe.”

  “Are you…is everything…I was just—”

  “Go to sleep, Dagmar. I’ll wake you when the two suns rise. Until then”—the blur that was Gwenvael turned his head to look at her—“go to sleep.”

  It was something in his voice, a seriousness she’d never heard from him before, that had her nodding and turning onto her side, away from him.

  “Good night, Dagmar.”

  “Good night,” she whispered.

  Had he been with another? Her instincts told her no, but she could be wrong, trying to turn her hopes into truth. Would she blame him if he had?

  Who was she kidding? Of course she would!

/>   Damn her. Damn her and her festering feet!

  Several of the bar wenches in the pub had made it perfectly clear he’d have a warm, welcoming bed to stay in this night, if he so wished. But for some unknown reason, he’d turned them all down and returned to The Liar. She wasn’t a liar simply because she lied whenever it suited her. She was a liar because she’d been pretending she was something she was not.

  Cold? That woman was not cold, no matter what she wanted the world to believe. Dagmar Reinholdt was contained. A quiet volcano waiting to go off.

  And why should that bother him, one may ask? Because his response to her disturbed him. Between that kiss and a few strokes of her small, bandaged hand over his chain-mail leggings, he’d almost come like he’d never come before.

  Even now he could still feel her touching him. And the thought of what direct contact would do to him had caused an ugly buzzing in his head he couldn’t seem to stop.

  And that was her hand, mate. Imagine what that sweet pussy of hers would do to you.

  He needed his mind to shut up now. If he started thinking about that he’d be doomed. They both would.

  Gwenvael glared across the room at her sleeping form. Gods, what have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 11

  He knew it made no sense for them to be in a dress shop. He may have only had an hour or so of sleep, but he was clear enough on that point. This was Dagmar after all. He couldn’t imagine her willingly going into a dress shop unless her father had his war ax to her head.

  And yet here he was, wandering around a dress shop in the early morn.

  He grabbed a lovely detailed gown of bright pink and held it up for her to see. Dagmar’s horrified expression was priceless.

  “You must be joking.”

  He was. Overdone gowns would do nothing for her except make her feel uncomfortable. And it was her confidence that he found so enticing.

  “What was that message you sent off earlier?” he asked, putting the dress back and continuing to look around.

  “To my father.”

  “Sure that was wise?”

  “If he didn’t hear something soon, he would have come looking for me. It’s best to let him know that I’m not yet at Gestur’s but that I am safe. The alternative is your head looking dazzling hanging from my father’s gates.”

  He turned to face her. “Why are we here?”

  She didn’t answer him, but smiled at a shop girl who came out from the back.

  “Lady Dagmar!”

  “Hello, Saamik.”

  To Gwenvael’s surprise, the shop girl hugged Dagmar as if they were long-lost cousins.

  “You’re looking well,” Dagmar told her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I am so happy, my lady.” She gripped Dagmar’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. I have a small house now and a lady who takes care of Geoff during the day.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that.” Dagmar stepped closer. “Think we can talk for a bit? In private?”

  “Of course. Give me a few minutes.”

  The shop girl rushed off and Dagmar smirked at him.

  “A shop girl?” he murmured low, once he was closer. “You’re getting your information from a shop girl?”

  “The wives and kinswomen of very important men come in here every day. And every day they spend hours getting fitted into new gowns.” She smiled. “Wives know more than men ever think they do, Lord Gwenvael. And their servants know everything.”

  Dagmar sipped her tea and listened to Saamik closely.

  Saamik had grown up on Reinholdt lands. Her parents and their parents and their parents’s parents had all been born and raised in the same small area. Saamik had been destined for the same life, her future husband already picked out for her. When Dagmar had made the offer to get Saamik an apprenticeship at a dress shop, she never asked for anything. Never made Saamik promise anything for this gift. Instead they simply passed letters. Saamik knew how much Dagmar enjoyed gossip, and Dagmar filled Saamik in on the family and friends she had left behind.

  It all worked out well, but Dagmar felt the need now to ask specific questions and she wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that in a letter that could be read by others.

  “You were right, my lady.” Saamik stirred milk into her own tea. “Lord Jökull’s troops are expanding. He’s created truces with at least three other warlords to the west.”

  “A truce? Not an alliance?”

  “No. He’ll get no troops from them, but he won’t be fighting them either.”

  “Where is he getting his troops?”

  “Hiring them. By the boatload, I understand.”

  For once, Dagmar received no pleasure from being right. “I see.”

  “Lord Tryggvi,” young Saamik glanced at Gwenvael—again—and explained, “he’s the leader of these lands.” She let out a breath, focused on Dagmar. “His sister says he’s none too happy about all this.”

  “Would he be open to becoming allies to The Reinholdt?”

  “Perhaps. It’s hard to tell with him. He’s not a pleasant man from what I’ve seen.”

  “Who among them are?” Dagmar reached for a sweet biscuit, but her hand found only an empty space on the small table. She gazed at the dragon, amazed. “You had to take the whole plate?”

  “I wanted them.”

  “Are you a child?”

  Saamik stood. “I have more, my lady.” The girl’s warm smile doing nothing but annoy Dagmar, so she felt quite deserved of the several biscuits she took when Saamik held out the tin.

  “There’s something else…” Saamik again took her seat. “But it’s only a rumor. I know not if there’s any truth to it.”

  “There’s usually a little truth in every rumor, Saamik. You might as well tell me.”

  Saamik leaned forward, looking uncomfortable. “They say…well…They say he has a truce with dragons.”

  Dagmar snorted. Not because she didn’t believe Saamik, but because her own dragon was so startled that the biscuit he’d been eating flipped from his fingers and pinged him in the forehead.

  “I know, I know,” Saamik went on. “It sounds ridiculous. I mean, they’re animals, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Dagmar readily agreed. “Yes, they are.”

  “How does he even communicate with them? They can’t read or write. And I hear they understand our words the same way a dog does.”

  “All very true. I’m sure I could easily train one to do my bidding. Although they’re not nearly as bright as my Canute. Their brains are quite slow. So it’s very possible someone like my uncle Jökull can easily bend them to his will.”

  “Tragically, I think you’re right, my lady.”

  A soft jingle sound from the store had Saamik jumping up. “I’ll be right back. Let me see who this is.”

  “Of course.” Dagmar tapped her finger against the table. This was much worse than she thought. Much worse. Saamik had provided a good starting point for Dagmar, but she needed Brother Ragnar’s real knowledge to help her now.

  “‘Slow brains’?”

  “Well,” she answered absently, “we both know the truth of that, now don’t we?”

  He was out of his chair so fast, all Dagmar had the chance to do was squeak in surprise and protest before he yanked her out of the chair.

  “Train us like dogs, eh?”

  She batted at his hands, which seemed a waste of time, but when his fingers caught hold of her on her sides, under her arms, Dagmar let out a strangled giggle and began to fight. It wasn’t pretty.

  “Wait. Have we found a weakness on my lady?” he teased, his hands seemingly everywhere.

  “No, you have not!”

  “I think we have.” His fingers moved up and down her sides, making Dagmar squeal like a child. Although even as a child, she was never one to squeal. Or laugh. Or giggle. A chuckle now and then, but that was the most she could manage on a good day.

  It d
idn’t help that Gwenvael seemed quite entertained at the moment, swinging her around like a tiny kitten while his fingers kept up the pressure.

  He suddenly stopped and ordered, “Apologize.”

  “Never.”

  He began again, whirling her around. They were both laughing, Dagmar trying desperately to get his hands off her when she saw Saamik standing in the doorway. She knew Gwenvael saw her, too, when Dagmar’s feet suddenly landed on the floor with a thump.

  “I can come back, my lady,” Saamik said, not even bothering to hide her smile.

  “No, no. Don’t be silly.”

  “Actually,” Gwenvael cut in. “Five more minutes—ow!”

  Bercelak the Great, Consort to the Dragon Queen, Dragonwarrior Supreme of the Old Guard, Supreme Commander of the Dragon Queen’s Armies, and All Around Kicker of Ass of the Dragon Queen’s Royal Brats, landed near the blood-covered battlefield. His youngest son, Éibhear, had accompanied him and hadn’t shut up in hours.

  He loved all his offspring. He truly did. But they each had personality traits that wore the edges off his nerves on his best day. This was not one of his best days. Far from it. Running errands for his queen and love was nothing new and normally he didn’t mind.

  Yet this particular errand galled him more than any of the others because he knew it was too dangerous a move. But would she listen? Of course not. Instead she followed the dictates of her idiot hatchlings. His idiot hatchlings.

  But to involve the Cadwaladrs was foolish. Bercelak had always considered his kin a last resort.

  If one wanted to raze an entire city to the ground—followed by one of his cousins saying, “Ohhh…didn’t mean to do all that, now did I?”—then one called in the Cadwaladrs.

  Originally Rhiannon had wanted him to put out a call to all his kin, but that was simply too horrifying a prospect because he knew, without one iota of doubt, they’d come. Instead, he promised to secure his more rational sister and brother. They’d been fighting in the west for months with most of their offspring plus quite a few others of the Cadwaladr bloodline. That would be more than enough to protect one human queen and his son’s spawn.