“I am too useful as an untouched seer. Laird Gregor refers to me as a lowly servant, though I am his ward. He shall soon need to raise my rank in the eyes of his men and visitors. I canno’ keep their hands off me much longer.”
Upon reaching the ground, she cautiously stepped along the shelf, cringing as slimy mud oozed up through her naked toes. While one hand slid along a wet wall to keep her steady, she used every other sense to guide her toward freedom.
***
Draco watched her from his perch high above the cavern floor. She chose her steps with due diligence, taking her time as she walked out of his life. A sigh slipped from between his jowls as if she took all the air with her. The inevitable outcome of their meeting did not make the loneliness clutching his heart hurt less.
I do no’ need her in my life. I do no’ need anyone.
“Lie to yourself once more. This knowledge does not make the days pass any quicker,” Draco whispered, attempting not to wake the creatures of the dark so her progress would continue unimpeded.
As she trudged toward the mouth of the cave, a melody lingered on the breeze. His gaze centered on her lovely backside and the naked calves peeking from under her raised skirts. Should a wave dare threaten her journey, his vigilance would save her from the grip of the sea.
Again.
He liked being a hero. Too bad no one had been present to witness his heroics. Too bad the old crone who cursed him without merit endured, oblivious to his actions when danger surrounded him and others. She moldered in her grave along with the rest of the villagers and her daughter, Jean.
“If only I had stood up to Lorn. I should no’ have let him take Jean from my arms simply because everyone told me he and Jean were destined to wed. Someday never came, and Agatah blamed me. Nay, the hag cursed me.”
The old witch loved her daughter. Draco understood such love, which is why he had treated her daughter with respect.
He wanted Jean from the day she stood on the tips of her toes to gather the tiny, ripe fruit of the Rowan tree. Flying wisps of dark red hair fluttered about the shapely profile of her breasts. The naked line of her outstretched calf awakened his body, transforming his man part to stone. When danger loomed soon after, both followed the other residents of the island of Eigg into the cave.
When he convinced her to sneak from the cave, they hid behind the same tree. He gallantly thought to use its wide trunk and low-hanging boughs to shield them from the world, and from his rival, Lorn MacDonald.
He never expected his cousin to slip from the cave against their elders’ orders. Thoughtless actions on all their parts unwittingly placed their clan in mortal danger while Draco kissed Jean beneath the Rowan tree. Embracing her with gentle reverence, he managed to hold at bay a yearning to press trembling hands to her breasts. The urge to mumble sweet words persevered.
Draco recalled her laughter at his words of love.
Untangling his arms from the giggling girl, he stepped backward to distance himself from her cruelty. When he tumbled over the protruding root of the Rowan tree, their tree, Jean had laughed louder.
When a falling clump of frozen berries thumped him on the head, Lorn appeared by her side and joined her in her vocal ridicule. Jean and Lorn slipped back inside the cavern with arms draped around each other. Their laughter echoed off the cavern walls of Uamh Fhraing.
Later, Draco surmised Lorn’s stupidity, mingled with a young man’s curiosity, caused him to venture to the top of the cliffs. Before he found Draco, and stole Jean away, Lorn watched their enemies leave Eigg. Only later had anyone realized their foe must have turned their retreating vessel, returning to kill their clan.
Draco’s embarrassment blinded him. He stormed away, never witnessing danger approaching with each stroke of the Macleod’s oars. Instead, he pondered their differences. Lorn sported a man’s muscular build, a booming voice, and a vicious streak, far too many obstacles for a sixteen-year-old to conquer. Even for love.
Love? Had I loved Jean?
Shaking Jean’s image from his bitter thoughts, Draco remembered he meekly conceded the victory to his cousin, and then wandered toward town. Unaware danger loomed as the enemy craft landed near the villagers’ hiding spot, he collapsed atop the hillock and cried beside his mother’s grave.
The enemy, meanwhile, landed on shore. Evidently, they covered the cave’s entrance and ceiling vent with timbers and thatch before igniting the fires. Thick smoke swept into the cave and choked the life from everyone he knew.
“I must no’ dwell on people long dead.”
“Then ye are doomed to live a long life filled with misery and pain. Ye shall pay fer my bonnie Jean’s death, and fer mine. Until ye learn humility and genuine kindness toward others less able to fend for themselves, ye will no’ break the curse.”
The well-known voice of the witch, Agatah, echoed off the wet cavern walls, but ‘twas merely a memory. It momentarily pulled his attention from Brianna. Where had Brianna headed? Did she run straight toward the crude city of tents, lashed one upon another, which sprung up near a wide stretch of beach? Had she made it back safely?
With a powerful beat of his wings, he launched his body toward the muddy ground below his perch, and landed with ease. His eyes widened as he scanned the bright entrance of the cave. While his talons sank into the mud, the boom of angry waves surged with a loud whoosh and receded with a whimper.
As his gaze followed her footprints in the mud, he inhaled her scent and exhaled smoke through both whiskered nostrils. Remnants of her essence, where her delicate fingertips once scraped along the cavern wall, shimmered in the low light. When he recalled the taste of her lips and the flush of her skin, pleasure shot straight to his groin.
“Silly dragon.” The unwelcome voice oozed venom.
Sharp fangs pricked the corners of his lips. A growl rose, his body tensed, and he closed his eyes. His ears rang with the echoes of a long dead witch who spent her afterlife haunting his every move.
“Yet I do no’ deserve such attention. I did no’ kill Jean. I did no’ kill my people.” His low, unintelligible growl filled the silence.
No answer, as usual.
Fine.
The witch looked down upon him, but chose to ignore his words. He swore his innocence upon his mother’s grave, yet the ghost had laid the curse upon his neck. He had loved Jean, or so he thought, but jealous rage had never surfaced the day Lorn claimed her. Instead, he brushed the berries from his hair, dusted off his breeches, and walked away. When he found a charred stick and a few pieces of parchment, he soothed his pain by drawing. When Jean’s image sprung to life on the page, he realized he had never given her a reason not to follow Lorn into that cave.
Jean chose to leave him lying on the ground, so he simply walked away. He never dreamed he would face her death and the eventual overtaking of their island by a murderous band of Macleods.
The first time his body transformed, Draco prayed for death as his mind grasped the horror of Agatah’s curse. He flew from Eigg, out over the open ocean. He opted to die, so he simply neglected to eat or drink, but, instead, pain slashed through his hideous body, revealing how well the witch cursed his life. He could suffer the pangs of starvation but could not die from a lack of sustenance. And so, he existed.
The moment he had sensed intruders on his adopted island, Draco investigated. He found a crude village of dozens of tents propped upon tall poles, standing with open sides facing away from the sea. Then he spied their vessel. The galley must have carried the humans to his home. A small party, he assumed they planned to leave after decimating the fowl and wild boar that claimed this island as sanctuary.
These hunters were of no interest to a cursed dragon. Accustomed to his forced solitude, Draco simply wanted them gone. If they overstayed their welcome, he might hurry things along by eating someone.
Nay, the death should appear an accident or the humans might decide to hunt me.
Draco thought of his own laird, who lay long dead
inside so-called “Massacre Cave” not far from this very coastline. He found the solitude a difficult problem at first. Acceptance wove its way into his life, but still he prayed for salvation from the curse of hearing the cries of his people in his sleep.
When would the intruders leave these shores? When he remembered the woman, Draco’s body tightened.
“Brianna.” Draco stepped out into the last remainders of the day, shook his wings, and thought about Brianna. Accustomed to loneliness after the massacre, he chose self-exile on the uninhabited island of Staffa.
She had arrived with the hunting party. He found her soaked frock farther in the cavern. She dressed like a servant. He rubbed one shaky claw over a trembling thigh as he recalled her thoughts about the men who made up the group. Would she leave with them? Worse, would she warm their beds?
Her thoughts proved she loathed their touch, yet she melted under his bold caress. She worried about her safety among her own people, yet moaned with pleasure against a stranger’s mouth. Had he simply caught her unaware, or, had lips on lips and skin on skin fanned the flames lying beneath the surface?
Draco fought the overpowering urge to race after her to ensure her safety, but something she let slip made him pause. She called herself the ward of the laird of the Macleod. Macleod was the name of the enemy who murdered his clan on Eigg.
How many years had passed since Jean took her last breath and the witch Jean called mother cursed him with evil? Ten? Twenty? He simply lost track of time, along with any urge to do good deeds. All he wanted was to die.
Until I met Brianna.
CHAPTER 6
Brianna headed back to camp. She placed each foot squarely in the middle of each crumbling step cut into the side of the cliff. She held her load of driftwood to her back with the borrowed shawl as she climbed higher.
Borrowed? Did she plan to return to the creepy cave and the mysterious Draco? And, what about the creature? At a fleeting memory of talons clutching her about the waist, revulsion made her wish to brave the warriors around the fire, rather than go back.
Reaching the top of the cliff, she stepped onto solid ground and dropped her goods to the sandy edge. Situated high above the wide strip of beach, Brianna cupped a hand to her forehead and peered out over the sea. Whatever forces caused the beach to disappear this morning had dissipated under the brilliant radiance of the afternoon sun.
When I neglected a wariness of the sea, it trapped me with the likes of Draco.
Tides, storms, wind, and seasons brought various changes. A person’s very life might depend on vigilance. At this, she most certainly failed.
With gentle pressure, she rubbed two fingers across her bruised lips. The sensation of his mouth, when it captured hers in a kiss, brought forth a pathetic sigh. His mouth tasted more exotic than any her imagination could have conjured.
His smell lingered in the folds of her gown, more than the heady scent of the sea itself. The warmth of his fingertips sliding over her wrist felt nothing like the nails that clawed and groped at her breast.
Such a contradiction. Even now, away from his commanding presence, and standing in sunlight, goose bumps rose under her skin.
“Don’t be a silly child. ‘Tis the wind that chills ye.” She bent to wipe excess mud and sand from her bare feet with the shawl. She slipped her feet inside the pretty shoes. Her fingers released the hem and her skirt fluttered to her feet.
Brianna gathered up her burden of damp firewood. The path to the hunting camp lay ahead, devoid of man or beast. Could she slip through the kitchen to her corner room before anyone spotted her in such formal togs?
“No such luck.” Brianna sighed. Cook—had she ever shared her real name?—stood with hands on hips. A grimace twisted the older woman’s features into a fearsome battlement Brianna must breach. How would she explain her appearance?
But, when Cook made no mention of her strange, new clothing, Brianna covered a smile with her hand. Instead, a noise issuing from inside the great tent captured her attention.
“Where be ye all day? The master be yellin’ at the top of his lungs for ye. I did my best to appease the man and them others with food and ale, but ye better find yer way to the hall before the laird sends one of them brutes a huntin’ ye.”
“Yes, mum. Here is some wood for ye. I want this piece, though.”
“Whatever for?”
“It looks like a dragon.”
“A what?”
“A dragon. A water horse? Ne’er ye mind. I will see to Gregor and his gentlemen in a moment. Shall I help ye serve more ale?”
“Up to ye. Ye be the one needing to step outta their reach. No’ me.” Cook returned to her work. A blob of dough rested on the floured surface of a chipped slab of wood, which perched on barrels of salted herring.
Cook’s fists disappeared within the clump of flour, yeast, and eggs. She pushed, pulled, and beat the mass. Stacked crates of kale, cabbage, carrots, and beets surrounded her workspace. Her gray hair, pulled back into a long plait, sparkled like silver and matched the brilliance of her eyes. A more than adequate bosom topped a thin waist. Cook’s still-attractive, luminescent skin belied her advanced years.
Brianna sprinted to her sanctuary off the kitchen, one of many smaller tents divided by pallets piled with wool blankets, plaids, and scraps of leather. As she stripped off her lovely gown, the scent of Cook’s foodstuffs reminded her of other delicious odors.
Leather, smoke, and Draco.
She dropped her new slippers on her ale cask table. She missed her mirror. The cracked, gilt-framed oval and feather bed graced her room at the Macleod’s keep back in Glenelg. She had been surprised yesterday when a sailor tossed a feather mattress in her corner. Nia, with her mysterious ways, made a sailor pack two small feather beds. Brianna wondered if Nia had rewarded him with a welcome to share hers.
Shaking her head, while a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, she wiggled into a serviceable frock. Exhaling, she recalled her vow to offer her body only in love. Nia made no such vow. Let the girl earn her coins and gifts.
I shall no’ let any man…
How soon she forgot! She allowed a man, a perfect stranger, to get too close. Thoughts of Draco sent a flash of heat through her veins to settle between her legs. Her sore fingers tingled as she laced the bodice of her work frock, more with pleasure than pain. None must discover she spent the day with a strange man. Gregor would assume the worst and if she lost value in his eyes, he would toss her out with nary a coin to her name.
She hurried back to the kitchen, following the smells wafting from Cook’s outdoor fire pit. A carcass cooked on a spit over snapping tinder and sputtering coals. Buffeted by a light breeze and dripping fat, the flames spat and crackled. When she padded closer, the yeasty fragrance of crusty bannock loaves, browning in the coals, filled her nostrils.
Cook thrust a platter filled with tankards of ale into her empty hands. Brianna’s eyebrows rose. As she padded toward the dining tent, she checked the height of her bodice. She saw no sense in showing more skin than necessary.
Will the hunters be too far in their cups to take nay for an answer?
She swept inside ready to run the gauntlet. She refused to meet their eyes and instead concentrated on the teeth imbedded in her lower lip. The sting gave her courage, and the taste of blood reminded her to stay vigilant if she wanted to keep her innocence intact.
“Where have ye been?”
Her guardian’s booming voice shook the tent poles. Brianna’s gaze flickered about the room from the shock of his tone. The other men snickered.
A fake smile lifted the dry corners of her mouth. The acrid smells of unwashed bodies mixed with the pungent stink of their bloodstained plaids. The repulsive odors nearly drove her back outside, but a hand snatched at her dress.
She stumbled.
“Give us a wee kiss,” demanded one drunken hunter.
Gregor’s loud grunt caught the man’s attention, and the hand disappeared. She strod
e to Gregor’s side and passed him a full tankard along with the most demure smile she could summon.
“My thanks, sir.”
“And I asked ye a question, lass.”
“I went for a walk on the beach.”
“My men ne’er saw ye by the galley.”
“Nay, sir. I gathered firewood for Cook. On such a barren island, driftwood seemed the only choice so I explored southward and found a natural stair in the cliff.”
All sound in the great tent went quiet. A dozen pair of eyes stared in her direction. She glanced around, startled to be the center of attention.
“Have ye no’ heard tell of the beastie? ‘Tis no’ safe to travel that end of the cliffs.” Her guardian grabbed one wrist and pulled her down onto his lap.
Brianna held her tongue. She would not make them privy to her own confrontation with the beast. If the hunting party searched in the area mentioned, they might come across Draco and she would have more to account for than almost losing her life.
“Tell me of this beastie,” she asked.
Numerous voices spoke at once, but Gregor’s hand slashed the air and stilled them all. One by one, he let the men speak, and their stories ranged from a kelpie seeking a place to birth her young, to a bloodsucking bat of gigantic proportions who claimed the lives of shipwrecked sailors.
Brianna held her tongue and feigned interest until the voices dwindled. She begged to go help Cook as she collected empty tankards without offering any refills. In the safety of the makeshift kitchen, Cook washed utensils in a barrel of water.
“Can I fetch more water for ye?” Brianna asked. She placed the overloaded tray of tankards down with a bang. Cook wiped her brow and nodded pointing to empty skins.
“Follow the cliff past the beach, where it rises up again. There be a stream feeding a waterfall.”
Grateful for any excuse to enjoy the fresh air, Brianna took off under a darkening sky. In its lazy descent, the sun painted wispy clouds rose and indigo, over the calm ocean. As she neared the wetlands surrounding the stream’s ragged course, the perfume of wild thyme and flowering brookweed scented the air.
Dragon Bites Page 4
