by Siobhan Muir
Not a Dragon’s Standard Virgin
Sacrificial virgins are so sixteenth century, but unless Isabelle finds a man to take her innocence, she’ll likely be next.
For Isabelle Andersen, being a virgin in a dragon-plagued Scottish village is dangerous. Potentially the next dragon sacrifice, Isabelle’s only solution is to lose her innocence, and fast. All she needs is one handsome stranger she can coax into bed, but Lochmore Cott doesn’t get much in the way of visitors.
Jonarrion Swiftwind has sworn off virgins. The last time he took one to his bed, his family paid the price for his lust at the hands of her demon-possessed father. He’s made it his mission to destroy all demons. Nothing distracts him from killing this demon until lovely Isabelle offers him tea. And her virginity.
Just one night of passion makes Jon realize he doesn’t want to let the independent beauty go. But will Isabelle accept him when she discovers the only real dragon in her village…is him?
Genre: Fantasy, Historical, Shape-shifter
Length: 63,207 words
NOT A DRAGON’S STANDARD VIRGIN
Siobhan Muir
EROTIC ROMANCE
Siren Publishing, Inc.
www.SirenPublishing.com
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IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
NOT A DRAGON’S STANDARD VIRGIN
Copyright © 2013 by Siobhan Muir
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62242-863-2
First E-book Publication: April 2013
Cover design by Harris Channing
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
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DEDICATION
For my daughters. May you have the courage to do what’s right regardless of what others tell you is right.
NOT A DRAGON’S STANDARD VIRGIN
SIOBHAN MUIR
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
Quit eyein’ me, you craven bastards!
Isabelle Andersen tried to keep her temper from boiling over as she wiped down the counter and the flagons in front of her. The men in the Council of Elders of Lochmore Cott huddled in the back corner of her father’s tavern, furthest from the fireplace, as if it could disguise them from the rest of the patrons of the Careless Wench. But their attempts to hide themselves, and their furtive glances at her, infuriated her less than the discussion she knew they held. Virgin Sacrifice.
The elders always discussed which girl would be the most eligible for the Virgin Sacrifice to the Dragon of Cameron’s Loch in her father’s tavern. The dragon had terrorized their village off and on for decades, but it had become more voracious than usual during the harvest, burning crops and slaughtering livestock.
So what did the blighters do about it? Did they hire a knight to kill it? Did they try to hunt it down and destroy it themselves? Nay, they chose young, healthy, virgin lasses to appease it. They’d already sacrificed five women that year alone, and the dragon continued its reign of terror to the outer hamlets of the village.
Isabelle caught another furtive glance from a man listening to her father. Bloody hell. Was he convincing them to dismiss her, or encouraging them to take her?
“Och!” She angrily threw down the dish towel. “I’m not going to wait for the ninnies to decide my fate. I wouldn’t make much of a sacrifice anyway. No one cares for my presence here.”
She turned from the bar and stormed into the back room to retrieve her thick woolen shawl. Though spring encroached, Father Winter hadn’t given up His grip on the land, and the wind whistled down from the mountains east of the village with a vengeance. She wrapped her shawl tightly around her head and shoulders and stepped out into the windy night.
Her skirts billowed in the wind trying to snatch her shawl from her grasp, but she held tight and let it push her toward her favorite place outside the village. A little knob of a hill overlooking the Loch held wind-sculpted trees barely taller than her own five-feet-eight inches of height. They stood resolutely against the raging northern winds funneled down through the valley containing Cameron’s Loch. She loved the little copse of trees for their protection from both the winds and the prying eyes of the village.
Her gaze settled on the Loch, and she shivered in the damp air. The Loch’s surface roiled from the wind as moonlight frosted the waves in the breaks between the scuttling clouds overhead. She wished the wind could blow all her worries away, but she couldn’t shake the feeling her time in the village was limited.
Would it be such a bad thing?
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, and Isabelle paused. If it came to being sacrificed to the dragon, then yes, it was bad. But what if another solution became available? The only requirement needed for the Virgin Sacrifice was virginity. If she didn’t want to die at the hands of the village elders, she need only lose her innocence.
Of course, that presented a whole new set of problems. Instead of just being a strange and intractable virgin daughter of the tavern keeper, she’d be a strange, intractable hussy.
Isabelle snorted. From one curse to the next, with no middle ground. Either I’m dragon bait, or I’m a whore.
But the idea bou
nced around her head as the trees creaked and groaned in protest of the winds. Isabelle barely felt the shifting air as her eyes unfocused with her churning thoughts. Her father wouldn’t be pleased, but she’d never been in his good graces, even when a child. He’d often accused her of being another man’s bastard, particularly when she grew to stand at least a hand taller than either of her sisters.
She’d been considered a late bloomer at twenty-four years of age, damn near ancient, but Isabelle now filled out her blouse, corset bodice, and skirts well enough to entice any man.
Unfortunately, the village men viewed her as cursed because she’d taken so long to mature. The women whispered rumors of Fae ancestry, begotten by one of the ancient elves, a race of ageless people who matured late and kept their youth until one single year before death. And Joseph Andersen only encouraged such thinking.
Tears squeezed out of her eyes, and she tightened her shawl again, wishing she could shove aside the insults as easily as dirt with a broom. She didn’t know why she’d been born so different, but she still wanted love and marriage like the other lasses in Lochmore Cott.
But Isabelle’s brash and forthright personality unsettled men, young and old, for miles around. No one had come forward to ask for her hand, despite the dowry of inheriting the tavern. She’d remained a virgin and dutiful daughter, but she’d overheard the men talking about her when they thought her absent. Most of them called her pleasing to the eyes, but only so long as she kept her mouth shut. One word, and out came what they called the Yowling Cat, with her strange ideas of things. Isabelle tried to hold her tongue as much as possible, but she didn’t tolerate insults about her mother, and she’d bloody well let anyone know it.
So I’m not like my sisters, but that doesn’t mean I cannot find a man to bed me. But who?
It’d have to be someone who didn’t know her, who wasn’t from the village or any of the hamlets near it. Someone who hadn’t heard the rumors about her or her mother. Working at her father’s tavern might help her. All those who came to Lochmore Cott stopped at the Careless Wench for a meal and drink. If there were any new travelers in town, she’d see them at the tavern.
Am I really making the right decision? Cold dread hit her as the wind sent frozen tendrils down her back. Is there no man who will ask for my hand?
Her father’s desperation to find her a husband grew stronger by the day, and no one had stepped forward to offer for her. Many men in the village saw her as a nuisance and troublemaker, and they didn’t want her near their womenfolk in case she’d infect them with whatever “ailed” her.
Why couldn’t I be more like prim and proper Mary, or sweet little Sarah?
Mary had married into another clan, and Sarah’s bans had been posted for Thomas MacArthur in Westerdale. Both had escaped the stupid tradition of the Virgin Sacrifice of Lochmore Cott.
Which leaves only me.
Isabelle had no intention of dying for the village, especially now with her mother gone. She may not have agreed to how women should behave, but she certainly didn’t want to die for her opinion. Sometimes she hated her village, but it was home and what she knew best. Her sister remained at the tavern while she waited for Thomas to gather his bride price, and Isabelle loved her. Sarah was the only one in the family besides their mother who’d accepted Isabelle for herself.
So, if I don’t wish to die in the Virgin Sacrifice, I shall have to lose my virginity.
Isabelle looked out onto the Loch and sent a prayer out to her mother in the wind.
“Forgive me, Mama. I know you wanted me to be a good girl, but I just can’t let myself die for a village that scorns me. I would rather be a ruined woman alive than a good virgin girl dead.”
The wind softened for a few moments, and moonlight broke through the scudding clouds, as if her mother had heard her prayer and offered her own blessings. Isabelle squared her shoulders and nodded sharply. Now she just had to find a stranger to whom to offer her virginity. She’d choose the most handsome stranger she could. Why bother with an ugly, dirty fool when she had the freedom to choose? On the morrow, she’d begin her search for the perfect man.
With her decision made, she turned and strode purposefully back to the village.
Chapter Two
Jonarrion Swiftwind took a deep breath of the early spring wind and caught the rancidness of a demon’s decay, just as he’d suspected. The stories coming out of this part of the human country of Scotland had suggested demon activity, but the scent on the wind confirmed it. He narrowed his eyes and grimaced a silent snarl as he resumed his walking pace down the road toward the little village of Lochmore Cott.
Bloody bastard is here, all right. I’ll have to permanently relocate him.
Feral excitement shot through his veins. He looked forward to the fight. Trudging through the frozen lands of the Scottish clans had never been his favorite activity. Daft Scots are crazy to live where it’s so damn cold. The Irish are far more sensible.
Jonarrion reached the bend in the road leading away from the Loch and slowed, scenting something sweet on the wind. He raised his gaze to a hillock above the Loch and scanned the trees, searching for the beguiling scent. When he saw the lass, he stumbled to a stop, transfixed.
She was lovely and ethereal, like the Fae, though she had an earthiness grounding her. Deep auburn hair escaped the tight hold of the shawl wrapped around her head, and pale skin glowed gently in the fitful light of the moon. She stood taller than most lassies he’d seen, and generous curves filled out her clothes.
That lass would pleasure any male, and carry his progeny without trouble. Jonarrion’s cock responded by hardening to the thought of sliding into her heat. He could picture her glossy auburn hair draping across the bedding while he pounded into her.
A panicked warning screamed through his mind, and his blood froze despite the girl’s beauty in the moonlight. His cockstand shriveled like a kick in the balls. It’d been fifty years since he’d last slept with an unbedded human female, with disastrous results.
Aye, now your sister-by-law is dead, your brother is a widower, and you roam the world, killing demons and seeking forgiveness. How is that working for you? He never stayed anywhere too long, and no matter how much he wished for a family of his own, he couldn’t allow himself such pleasure when he’d destroyed his brother’s happiness. He’d reached seven hundred years now, and he had a job to do here at the village of Lochmore Cott. Family fantasies were just that. Fantasies.
Jonarrion shook his head, trying to clear it of memories. He watched the redheaded lass square her shoulders and nod sharply as the moon sent one last shaft of light to illuminate her. She became a glorious angel, her beauty a gift from the Goddess for the work he’d done. The light disappeared, and she vanished into obscurity over the edge of the hill toward the village of Lochmore Cott.
Ah well, you knew you couldn’t have her. He sighed and resumed walking again along the road. Perhaps he’d see her while he stayed in the village, looking his fill from afar. He knew it was all he could do, because any girl with such beauty and obvious breeding had a family looking out for her. And they’d never give such a girl to a dragon. He chuckled ruefully.
Jonarrion wrapped his Dublin plaid, a special blend of pale turquoise, oxblood, and crimson, with a single strand of yellow for his family, around his head and shoulders to keep out the wind. The weight of his bastard sword thumped gently against his back as he walked. He adjusted the thick leather belt, securing it to his hips so it wouldn’t rub against his subsiding cockstand.
Seven hundred years old and the bloody thing still has a mind of its own. He pushed his six-foot-three-inch frame against the wind and hoped the village boasted a decent inn. He could use a warm bed and a hot meal, not to mention a bath. His last bed had been the heather for which the Scottish Highlands were famous, and it had left him smelling like a windswept moor.
If he had luck on his side, he’d see the Fae-like girl once more. Even if not, she’d certainly featur
e in his dreams that night.
* * * *
Isabelle damn near dropped the pottery flagon she’d cleaned when the stranger stepped inside her father’s tavern.
Glory be! I have never seen such a beautiful man.
He stood tall, even taller than Angus MacLeod, the blacksmith’s son who stood at exactly six feet. Dark-brown hair hung, braided at his temples, with the rest pulled back to the base of his neck with a leather thong. Brilliant blue eyes the color of lupine flowers looked out beneath dark, arching brows and long lashes. His neatly trimmed beard framed a generous mouth beneath a slightly flattened nose that looked as if it had been damaged in a fight and healed incorrectly.
Isabelle trembled with his intangible power, reveling in the sight of his masculine beauty. His rugged features made him look mysterious and dangerous, sending a feminine pulse straight to her womb. If ever a man existed to whom her virginity should be given, this was him.
Oh, aye, and now all you have to do is ask him. Her gaze swept down his body as he pulled his plaid off his head and surveyed the great room. William MacLeod, the only elder still left in the Careless Wench, stood talking with her father, and the stranger strode toward them with the sinuous grace of a warrior. He reminded Isabelle of the stories she’d heard about William Wallace of old. The sword sticking up over his left shoulder and the chainmail shirt confirmed it, but so did the way he moved.
She sighed a little as he gave her a view of his broad back, and she had the odd urge to see if it was as heavily muscled and powerful as she guessed.
