Supernatural Bundle

by Jacquelyn Frank

  Kikka placed one smooth, unmarred hand on his forearm. “You see, Lord Gwenvael, our little Dagmar hopes the rules will change one day and she’ll be reigning warlord over everything you see here. That when our great warriors ride into battle, they’ll be chanting ‘The Beast’ and not ‘The Reinholdt.’”

  Ahhh, not blind. Stupid.

  The insipid women at the table laughed at Kikka’s joke until Kikka yelled out, pushing her chair back and stumbling away from the table.

  Eymund rolled his eyes. “What is wrong now?”

  “One of those vicious beasts of hers bit me!”

  Dagmar put her hand to her chest. “Oh, Kikka, I’m so sorry.” She glanced under the heavy wood table. “Come here, little one. Come here.” A dog large enough that Gwenvael could ride it back to Dark Plains emerged from under the table. “Now, Idu, I know you want to play with Canute, but not tonight. Go outside now.”

  The large but older dog, based on her white muzzle and the grey in her fur, eased out from under the table and sauntered out of the hall.

  “You put her under there on purpose!” Kikka accused, one of the servants wiping away the blood from her ankle.

  “And why would I do that?”

  “You know that dog hates me.”

  “The dog hates you. I see. And therefore I put her under the table to attack when you said something she didn’t like? That was the dog’s grand scheme, eh?”

  “No! I meant you…you know what I meant, dammit.”

  “Sit down,” Eymund ordered. “You’re making a bloody fool of yourself.”

  “But she—”

  “Sit!”

  Her face red from anger, her glare for Dagmar alone, Kikka pulled her chair back and sat down. She looked at Gwenvael and he knew what he saw in her eyes. A clear invitation. With the right word or look, she’d find a way to invite him to her room or to meet somewhere outside later tonight.

  In answer, Gwenvael turned in his chair and focused on Eymund again. “Since your sister can’t handle negotiations, I do hope you and I will work together on this. Very closely.”

  He so enjoyed the way the man froze any time Gwenvael did that. The human looked like that deer Gwenvael had come upon a few days ago in the forest. He wondered what would make Eymund scamper off completely.

  Dagmar pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m off to bed, Father. Lord Gwenvael.”

  “Lady Dagmar,” he said, but he kept his attention on Eymund—much to the man’s horror. “So tell me, Eymund…” Gwenvael nibbled on a crunchy piece of fruit. “What are you planning to do…after dessert?”

  Morfyd the White Witch tore off the dress she’d put on only moments before and grabbed for another. When did she get like this? This pathetic and…and…female? Honestly! Did she really need to put herself through any of this?

  She pulled the red gown on and stared at herself in the mirror. She frowned. Her…in red. Were there not laws against that?

  As she began to pull the dress off and try on another, her brother’s voice echoed in her head.

  She immediately stopped, feeling guilty as if she’d been caught red-handed, until she remembered he was in the Northlands. And, she reminded herself, he couldn’t read her thoughts. But, like most dragons, they could communicate with each other using their minds alone. A true gift…unless you were hiding something and jumpy as a sparrow.

  Are you there or not? her brother’s voice demanded.

  Don’t bark at me! She rubbed her forehead, tried to calm down a bit. What is it?

  Nothing. But I’m in the Reinholdt Fortress.

  The dungeons?

  Very funny.

  She smiled and dropped down on the edge of her bed. Actually it was very funny.

  I’m not in the dungeons. I’m in a room. Just finished dinner with the lot of them. Which was tedious, to say the least.

  And what did they tell you? What do they know?

  I’m still working on that.

  You’re still… Morfyd gritted her teeth together. What did you do?

  Nothing.

  Gwenvael!

  Would you leave it to me? Why don’t you trust me?

  Are you really asking me that? She sighed. I told her we should have never sent you.

  And thank you for the never-ending trust, sister.

  Morfyd grimaced, realizing too late she should have kept that thought to herself.

  Gwenvael, I’m sorry. Please—

  But she already knew he was no longer there.

  She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but this was Gwenvael. She and Fearghus had tried to talk Annwyl out of sending Gwenvael as her emissary, but her friend had insisted.

  Morfyd did know her brother would try, but still…This was Gwenvael!

  “Is it Gwenvael again?”

  Her body immediately tensed at the sudden intrusion until a familiar hand stroked down her back.

  “I hurt his feelings,” she said without turning around. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Lips brushed against her cheek, the back of her neck. Teeth nibbled lightly at her ear. “I know. But sometimes he does ask for it.”

  Morfyd leaned back against the human male behind her. He’d come into her room the same way for the last few months—through her window. Their days may belong to the kingdoms they served, but their nights belonged to each other.

  “He says we have no faith in him.”

  Sir Brastias, general to the entire Dark Plains armies, put his arms around Morfyd’s body and held her close, his chin resting against her shoulder. “Faith and trust must be earned, Morfyd, and your brother plays too much for that to be the case. Besides, he can’t poke at the bear and be surprised when it attacks.”

  “But he does care. In his own way. I know no one thinks he does, but he does. He really wants to help Annwyl. He’s worried about her.”

  “We all are. She’s not been looking well these last few weeks.”

  “I know. And I appreciate you making sure she’s not bothered with much.” And for keeping their relationship a wonderful secret. Morfyd wished she could say it was only her worries for Brastias’s physical health should her brothers find out that kept her from admitting the truth. But it was more than that. It was having to tell her mother that almost had her curling into a ball on her bed, afraid to move. Queen Rhiannon could be difficult at the best of times, and the gods knew she treated her sons vastly different from the way she treated her daughters.

  “I try to protect her, but sometimes she searches me out.” He smiled, a rare thing of utter beauty. She always felt like his smiles were a special gift just for her. “How much longer?”

  “I don’t know. It should be at least another two months. But even with twins…she shouldn’t be this big yet.”

  “Are you terribly worried?”

  “I’m worried.” She rested her head against his. “I’m definitely worried.”

  “You’re already doing the best that you can for her. She can’t ask for more than that. None of us can.”

  “I know.”

  “She won’t be at dinner tonight. Did anyone tell you?”

  “No.” She instantly became concerned. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. Fearghus said she just wanted to lie in tonight. It sounds like few will be down in the Great Hall.”

  “All right.”

  “So I thought you and I could have dinner up here. Have our own lie in.”

  She turned her face toward his, let the feel of his kiss move through her.

  “Were you going to wear that dress tonight at dinner?”

  Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized he’d stopped kissing her. She hated when he stopped kissing her.

  “This? Uh…I was just trying it on. I wasn’t going to wear it.”

  “Let me see.” He pulled away from her. “Go on. I want to see.”

  Feeling uncomfortable, she stood and slowly turned to face him. She should never wear red. Her mother had specifically told her she should neve
r wear red. What had she been thinking?

  “Back up a bit so I can see the whole dress.”

  She took several steps back. “Well?”

  “Nice gown. You look amazing in red.”

  “I do?”

  “Aye.” His gaze swept her from head to foot and back again. “You do.”

  Morfyd felt her confidence grow under that gaze. Blossom. “Thank you.”

  He stretched out on the bed and let out a wonderfully contented sigh, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s a tragic shame you won’t be wearing it for long, though.”

  Walking toward him, her fingers already sliding the sleeves of the dress off her shoulders, she said, “Aye, Brastias. A tragic shame.”

  Gwenvael shook his hair out of that stupid braid and began to pace his room.

  “Of course,” he muttered to himself, “don’t send Gwenvael. He’ll just muck it up. Useless, worthless Gwenvael.”

  From one of his three brothers, Morfyd’s comment could and would have been dismissed. But from either Morfyd or his younger sister, Keita, it hurt. Deeply. For them to think he didn’t take any of this seriously hurt. Annwyl meant the world to him, and he wouldn’t risk her or the twins. So why did his family not see it? Was it because he refused to face every challenge as some grim test to the death? Should he constantly glower at every living thing like Fearghus? Or show nothing but constant disdain like Briec? Or perhaps be constantly wide-eyed and openly earnest like Éibhear? Could his kin only then take him seriously? How, after all these years, could they still not see?

  And he refused to hear any longer that it was his “whoring” as his father loved to call it. None of his kin had been monks, though Morfyd was the closest to that ideal than any of the others.

  Yet when it was all said and done, it was only Annwyl, a human he hadn’t even known five years, much less two centuries or more, who seemed to understand his worth. Only she had any true faith in him.

  Because of that, she would be the reason he would not fail.

  A knock pulled him from his rather depressing thoughts—and the gods knew he hated being maudlin—and he walked across the room to open the thick, sturdy wooden door. When he thought about it, most things in the north seemed made of wood and sturdy. Even the people.

  Gwenvael blinked down at the servant girl standing in the hallway.

  “Aye?” When she frowned, he said, “Yes?”

  “I…uh…” She looked him over and shivered a bit before she boldly walked into his room. “Is there something I can help you with, love?”

  “I’m a gift,” she said, already pulling off her dress. “A gift for you, my lord.”

  Her gaze devoured him. She wanted his cock, but he wasn’t exactly surprised by that.

  “Are you now? A gift from whom?”

  “The Reinholdt, of course.”

  “I see.” Gwenvael walked across the room and leaned his back against the wall by the window, his arms crossed over his chest. “And what kind of gift are you?”

  Her dress fell to the floor, and she stood before him confident and beautifully naked.

  His body stirred, but that wasn’t surprising either. It had been awhile. Nearly a whole week! And yet—

  Gwenvael abruptly pivoted toward the window and watched as Dagmar Reinholdt slipped out of the shadows beside one of the stables, walking away from the fortress gates. She was dressed warmly in a wool cape and gloves, a satchel over her shoulder.

  Now where is she going?

  He had to admit, he found the Lady Dagmar quite diverting. At dinner she seemed confused by what he was up to, but intrigued—and thoroughly entertained. The image of a cat with hidden claws always seemed to come to mind when he saw her. Especially when he watched those cold, grey eyes look around the room, taking everything in, processing, and sorting what she saw.

  So what was a demure Only Daughter to a Northland warlord doing wandering about in the evening?

  He had to know!

  “My lord?”

  Gwenvael scowled at the girl, and she stepped back. To be honest, he’d forgotten she was in the room.

  He smoothed over the scowl with a perfectly acceptable smile. The kind he kept for elderly ladies and detestable small children. “Sorry, love. Can’t tonight.”

  “What?”

  He picked up her dress, pushed it into her arms, and as gently as possible shoved her toward the door.

  “I do, however, really appreciate you stopping by. Very nice of you.” He opened the door and pushed her out into the hall. “Tell Lord Sigmar thanks and, uh…nice tits.”

  Then he closed the door and locked it. He stripped off his clothes and walked to the window, throwing it open. By the time he slipped outside into the cold Northland night, he’d shifted to dragon, his claws digging into the stone walls. He then blended into his surroundings and went off after Dagmar Reinholdt.

  Eymund and his brothers watched as the lovely Lagertha came tumbling into the hallway from the dragon’s room, as the door was slammed shut and immediately bolted. She was naked but had her dress held up in front of her. She hadn’t been in there three minutes. That wasn’t even time enough for a good suck, in his estimation, much less a worthy fuck.

  He motioned to her, and she ran over, her face red and her body shaking.

  “That bastard tossed me out. Me!” There had been few men on Reinholdt lands who had not had their time in Lagertha’s bed. She enjoyed a good ride and made no apologies for it. When they’d pointed out the dragon as he’d been heading back to his room, she’d practically tripped over her tongue with lust, and readily agreed to be his “gift.”

  “What did he say to you? Did he give you a reason?”

  “No. He just wasn’t interested.”

  Eymund looked at his brothers and they were equally as confused. How could the bastard, even a dragon pretending to be human, not be interested in free pussy? What male wasn’t?

  “Maybe he only likes his own kind,” one of his brothers reasoned. “Can’t say I’d be too comfortable bedding one of them dragon females, though.”

  “I don’t think it’s only because he wants a dragoness,” said Valdís. “More like he only wants Eymund.”

  And that’s what worried him. Usually it was Dagmar they felt the need to protect from strangers from the outside. But for once she seemed to be at no risk at all. “I’m going to see Father,” Eymund said abruptly.

  And off they all went to the pub.

  Dagmar got herself comfortable on the roof of one of the army barracks. She had extra furs because she knew she’d get cold. Plus in her favorite satchel she had a bottle of wine, the dessert from the earlier evening’s meal, and a chalice. With everything set into place, she crossed her legs and pulled her plain but comfortably warm skirt over her knees and feet. Then she waited for the entertainment to begin.

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  Kikka tiptoed from the shadows, looking this way and that, making sure no one could see her. But she wore the expensive cape she’d insisted on buying. It was bright yellow and although dark out, there was enough light coming from the different buildings to make her stand out like a spot on one of the bloody suns.

  Foolish girl.

  Since she’d come to the Reinholdt Fortress to be Eymund’s bride, Kikka had made it her business to bring Dagmar to heel. She didn’t trust her, didn’t like her, and felt threatened by her. Fair enough, since Dagmar felt the same way about her. The difference, however, was that Kikka was stupid. Dagmar wondered if there was a brain at all in her addled little head. While Kikka tried to sweet-talk Sigmar into sending Dagmar away and seduce her husband into pushing the issue, Dagmar had a lovely and growing list of all Kikka’s lovers in the last five months, including locations, times, and positions.

  True, she could have revealed Kikka’s whoring ages ago, but why waste the power? More importantly, Kikka kept her brother happy with more brats while Sigmar worried less about the state of his sons’ marriages and more about im
portant things like Jökull.

  And, she could admit to herself, while she sat up here on the barrack roof, that Kikka did provide a form of entertainment Dagmar could not indulge in otherwise.

  She enjoyed watching. It was a flaw, but she only used it against those who would try to take what she’d fought so hard for all these years. As long as Kikka remained ineffectual, her secrets were safe with Dagmar.

  Kikka slipped into the stablemaster’s room. Horses were so important in the Northlands, so revered by the warriors that the position of stablemaster paid incredibly well and often included a house on the grounds.

  Thankfully this stablemaster’s small house included lovely windows that he never closed the small wooden doors on. When he moved toward Kikka, his intentions clear, Dagmar reached into her satchel and pulled out the specially made spectacles Brother Ragnar had given her several years ago. Unlike the ones she wore on her face, these were much larger, needing both her hands to hold them. Nor did she wear them per se, but simply held them up to her eyes, the leather they were encased in allowing her a wonderful grip. While her regular spectacles were merely to see what she should normally see in front of her, these were so she could see much farther away…and in fascinating detail.

  She grinned when she saw the stablemaster tear off Kikka’s gown. How would the girl explain the state of her dress when she returned to the fortress? And she had to know by now that Eymund would realize another gown had been “accidentally” damaged. Her brother was stingy with his coin and Kikka’s allure had worn off long ago. Much to Kikka’s growing dismay, if Dagmar was guessing right. The servants told Dagmar of nasty arguments and her brother spending more and more time in the local pubs with his comrades and kinsmen—and bar wenches.

  With Kikka’s dress and shift torn open, the stablemaster, Valtemar, bent her over his arm and feasted on her absurdly large breasts. As Dagmar watched, enjoying herself thoroughly, she still grimaced a little at his performance.

  “He is lacking technique, isn’t he?”

  Mortified and shocked all at the same time, Dagmar lowered the big spectacles to her lap and turned her head to the left. She blinked, looked behind her, then to her right.