Dragon Bites

by Badger, Nancy Lee

  “Up and raring to go, I see, Mr. Hawthorn. I’ll be bringing yer plate in a jiff.”

  Rory poured a cup of black coffee and settled into a seat with a view of the stairs. He made a bet with himself that both Kendra and Suzie would sleep in, thus affording him a reprieve as a tourist guide. Or, maybe they would appear dressed completely unprepared for the tricky Scottish weather.

  Why had he offered to accompany them to the castle? It had sounded like a great idea when he saw the gleam in Nessía’s eyes the moment the girls started to talk to him. In the light of day, his insistence seemed silly. Had he wanted to make Nessía jealous? A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he squirmed in his chair.

  Noise on the stairs made him set his coffee cup down and stare. The two American women giggled all the way down. Rory cringed. He hoped the other guests were heavy sleepers.

  “What is all that racket?” Mr. Neeps barreled into the room from the kitchen.

  “Oops. We’re in trouble, Suzie-Q,” Kendra said, slapping a hand over her mouth.

  “Sorry. We are just so excited to be spending the day with…Rory.” Suzie flashed a smile at him, and ignored the innkeeper. Mrs. Neeps entered and placed Rory’s plate in front of him.

  “Will you look at that,” Suzie said as she stared at his plate. “Fat-laden sausages, carb-filled potatoes, and something I can’t name. I can’t eat any of that.”

  Mrs. Neeps tapped her toe and crossed both arms over her chest. “I’ve scones, cheese, and fruit salad. Will that do?”

  Both women giggled and nodded, and Rory watched the poor innkeepers toddle back into the kitchen.

  “Coffee?” he offered, pushing from his chair and heading to the urn on the sideboard. Their company was unwanted, but he prided himself on his manners. If only Nessía sat beside him, then he would thoroughly enjoy his breakfast. Maybe they would order breakfast in bed. Definitely more palatable. From where had that thought come?

  And, what the hell am I going to do about it?

  CHAPTER 3

  Nessía swept the pub’s entranceway. The swish, swish of the broom was a calm influence on her troubled mind. She had other things on her mind. Like Rory’s kiss. Damn, but the man tasted good. She failed to understand why she allowed a perfect stranger to do such an intimate thing. A very perfect stranger. It had taken Monty several days before he had spoken to her, and weeks more to coax her beneath him.

  The double doors, braced open to let in the morning breeze off the loch, allowed clean air to blow through the smoky pub, freshening it before the menfolk tainted it again with their haggis, tobacco, and blood sausage. The heavy mist had already burned away.

  She returned the broom to the supply closet, and poured a glass of water. Returning to the door, she sat beside the table nearest it, and inhaled. The moss along the rocky beach, where the steep grassy hills met the calm ripples of the loch’s shore, filled her with a familiar yearning to go for a swim.

  Not today, old girl.

  Nessía slowly swallowed half a glassful of water, then returned to the bar. She tidied up what she had neglected the previous night. Customers, never expected until the noon meal, meant she had the time. Because she had not cleaned the place as thoroughly as normal, sleep eluded her last night. Had simple guilt over a few dirty tankards affected her sleep, or had dreams filled with the handsome face of Rory Hawthorn been the culprit?

  A delicious, familiar scent drifted in on the breeze…followed by the sickly odor of stale perfume.

  “The Americans.” The three people walked past the pub with their small backpacks. They reminded her of two-legged draft animals. The women wore something flat on their feet, no visible socks, and shorts that reached only to mid-thigh.

  Disgraceful. I hope they freeze off their private parts.

  Rory, the most sensibly dressed of the trio, talked to the women. They did not glance toward the pub’s open doors. Why should they? She hoped Urquhart’s crumbling walls suffered a natural earthquake, and flattened the trio by noontime.

  What could they possibly have in common? And, what is he telling them? The girls looked a little bored, and the redhead struggled with her tiny pack. Rory, of course, stopped walking long enough to reach over and remove it from her back, then slide it over his shoulder.

  Nessía leaned forward and willed her human ears to listen, hoping her dragon sense of hearing worked as well on land as underwater.

  “Rory, you’re mistaken. We’ll be fine,” the little redhead cooed.

  “Bikini tops, short shorts, and flip flops are not appropriate. Don’t get me wrong,” Rory smiled, “I like the view, but don’t bitch when the wind blows through the castle and freezes your asses off.”

  Nessía covered her mouth to hide her smile…just in case Rory looked her way. Do I want him looking my way? The thought intrigued her, yet she knew nothing could come of it. He was transient. A foreigner, here to hike, play, and enjoy the area. A handsome visitor who planned to waste his time checking out the earthquake conundrum. Then he would head home and disappear forever.

  She had set her sights on finding a local man whose love could lift the curse. Nessía knew such a plan was the only way to spend the rest of her life as a normal human female. To accomplish this, she needed someone other than a handsome American male on vacation.

  I will never leave Loch Ness.

  ***

  Rory’s steps slowed as he returned to the village after a day spent hiking around Urquhart Castle. He soon reached the pub overlooking Loch Ness. Since he’d poured his shivering, tired, partly sunburned companions into a cab hours earlier, he was in no mood to return to the inn. His ears still ached from their whining.

  He had originally planned to scout the lower cliffs beyond the castle, but the noisy girls kept peppering him with questions about the Highlands, the men who lived in the area and the location of the closest bar with men under the age of thirty.

  “Time to eat out.” He hefted his daypack on his shoulder and glanced up at the pub’s sign. He forgot to ask what Biadhadn nan Cearc meant. Rory pushed through the pub’s double doors. Heat washed over him. The huge fireplace in the corner pumped waves of prickly heat across the busy dining room. He hadn’t noticed it the day before. He stomped his feet. His boots and socks were wet since he’d tumbled into the shallows when Kendra slipped.

  “Stupid flip flops.”

  “Come again?”

  Nessía stood at his elbow and held a tray of dirty glasses on a small, round tray. One golden brown eyebrow arched as if awaiting an answer. Loose tendrils of silky hair fluttered beside her right cheek, and her eyes sparkled. She smelled great. Inhaling deeply, the corners of his mouth pulled up in what surely must look like a goofy grin.

  She laughed.

  “I need a drink. And dinner,” he said.

  “Well, sit yourself down and tell me what ye be a ‘craving.”

  At the sexy timbre of her voice, a certain body part surged to life. He dropped his pack and fell into a chair beside a small table. Quickly covering his lap with a ragged linen napkin, he glanced around for a menu. None. She pointed to a hand-written sign over the bar.

  “Shepherd’s pie and an ale, please.”

  She sauntered away. Nessía stirred his body and filled his head with the startling image of her hair, as it fanned out over his pillow. The Scottish peasant skirt, and the apron she’d tied tightly around her slim waist, displayed her generous curves.

  His mouth watered.

  Rory spread his legs and squirmed in his seat. His neck grew hot while his pulse drummed a staccato beat. To calm his reaction, he concentrated on curling his damp toes inside his wet socks. Uncomfortable as he watched Nessía, he couldn’t push away the raw desire he felt for her.

  Kendra and Suzie were beautiful women, as well, yet more scantily clad than Nessía. With their coy glances, sweet whispers, and touches, they broadcast their need for male companionship loud and clear. So, why wasn’t he attracted to either of them?
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  “No matter,” he whispered, then quieted when a couple of old-timers stared at him. He forced a bland smile and sat back against the hard chair. Steam rose from his boots as the fire’s heat wafted over him. Though his body ached, his eyelids drooped. Weariness threatened to pull him into a comfortable nap. He’d scampered over rocks and crags as well as climbed around the many levels of the castle and dreamed of Nessía.

  Rory’s stomach muscles clenched and all thoughts of rest flew aside when footsteps signaled someone approaching. He snapped open his eyes, and gazed at the buxom beauty heading his way.

  ***

  Nessía tripped over the hem of her dress and a steaming plate of food and a mug of foamy ale went flying. A cry of surprise filled the suddenly silent pub interior. The American with the broad shoulders and muscular calves, whose stare had startled her, jumped from his chair. He stood, still staring, covered in food.

  Mac appeared at her side.

  “What ye trying to do, lass? Drown the man?”

  Nessía couldn’t sputter one word in reply. Heat rose along her neck and cheeks. Embarrassed at her clumsiness and, knowing she had been watching his eyes when she should have been watching her feet, she backed away.

  “Fetch this feller a fresh meal. And bring some of my best whisky.”

  Nessía turned and stumbled toward the kitchen.

  “And bring a new tablecloth and some towels, ye clumsy wench!”

  Nessía’s eyes burned, humbled by a mere human for her ineptness. “I heard ye, Mac,” she snapped, intimating she wasn’t upset. A lie, of course, but a dragon never shows its weaker side.

  And I have a weakness for sea-green eyes.

  Unable to sweep aside her feelings much longer, she had to come up with a plan to keep her distance. And soon. If the American arrived at Loch Ness to fulfill her destiny and lift the curse, things could be different. Now that he probably thought her only a clumsy barmaid, he would leave and never return.

  Why does this simple thought make my chest hurt?

  Nessía gathered the new tablecloth, towels, two shot glasses, and a bottle of Mac’s finest whisky and hurried back to the American. Mac grabbed the tablecloth, reset the table, and then handed the towels to Rory Hawthorn. The American wiped his face and shirt with a good-natured smile aimed her way.

  She melted. Her breathing sped up and dizziness made her head feel light and not her own. Nessía forced a smile as she poured whisky into both glasses. Mac lifted one, handed it to Rory, and swallowed the amber contents of the other. She stood quietly to the side, unsure if she should return to the bar.

  No, that is not quite true.

  She did not want to leave. And when Rory pulled out the seat beside him and asked her to sit, she sat.

  Mac huffed.

  “The lady and I need to talk. You understand?” Rory said to Mac. The man glanced furtively her way then toddled back behind the bar.

  “I am sorry, sir,” she whispered. Other guests stared at her and she felt her cheeks heat once more. Her fingers tangled in a loose apron string and she stared into her lap.

  “Wow! Sounds like that hurt to say.”

  Nessía’s head flew up and she stared into the eyes that had caused her to trip in the first place. “I apologized for my clumsiness. A gentleman would accept my apology and let me return to my duties.”

  Rory leaned forward and clasped her hands in his. The warmth that radiated from his fingertips and meaty palms sped through her, and she leaned closer, thirsty for more.

  Much more.

  His face appeared suddenly inches from hers, and she inhaled his musky scent, mixed with spilt ale. His breath, with the peaty scent of the Scotch he drank, mixed with the ale’s heady aroma, tickled her nose. Her mouth dropped opened with a consuming desire to taste his lips. She desperately needed to tangle her tongue with his.

  Laughter, behind her, broke the mood.

  “Back to work, Nessía,” Mac called from the far end of the bar. The front doors swung open and several fishermen marched inside, amid cries of welcome, as they shook the sand from their boots.

  “What time do you get off, Nessía?” Rory whispered, as she stood. His hands still held hers in his.

  “Off? From work? Um, why?”

  His low, gentle laugh curled her toes inside her shoes. Nessía gazed into his eyes. The emerald orbs sparkled in the firelight. Her breasts tightened and her nipples pebbled, stretching against the coarse linen of her blouse. Breathing grew uneasy as if all the air had disappeared out the door, or up the chimney.

  “Why do you think?” he answered.

  When he licked his lips, her jumbled mind understood.

  “None of your business.” She pulled her hands from his, jumped up, and scurried away. Nessía refused to look at him a minute longer. His gaze had the power to make her melt into a puddle of goo.

  So unladylike, even for a dragon.

  ***

  A small group of locals joined Rory at his table. As one man passed him a tankard of ale, he realized they were as shocked by Nessía’s actions as he.

  “She never trips,” one man said.

  “She never blushes, even when ole’ Sven asked her point-blank for a tumble in the hay loft,” another offered.

  “I’ve never seen her with a man, unless she’s serving him a pint, or tossing him out the door.”

  The entire group roared with laughter and landed good-natured slaps on his back. Again, Rory forced a smile. He stared into his empty tankard and thought up a plan. He’d return to the inn, while he took great care to stay under Kendra and Suzie’s radar. A quick shower, a change of clothes, and then a return trip to the pub sounded like a great idea. When Nessía left for home, he’d be there, waiting. Their discussion was not yet over.

  CHAPTER 4

  Wiping a clean rag across her brow, Nessía sighed and leaned against the doorway that led to the kitchen from the bar. “I’m off, Mac.”

  Mac, his hands deep in suds as he cleaned some last minute pots, glanced over and winked. “Stay safe, Nessie.”

  Too weary to chastise him again, for calling her something she had learned to hate, ever since Monty spouted the nickname, Nessía gathered her meager belongings and locked the front doors. She closed her eyes, leaned back against the weathered planks, and inhaled the night air. It wafted over the new spring grass that nudged the shore of Loch Ness. At times like this, weary from hard labor and itchy with unrequited desire, a late night swim sounded like her only salvation.

  She glanced up and down the street, then traipsed across the road, and skipped through the damp grass. Her dress reeked of filth, including Rory’s misdirected dinner. The time to wash her dress, her hair, and her aching nether region was now.

  Then I shall sleep until noon.

  Reaching the water’s edge, she walked along the beach until she came to a jumbled rocky outcropping south of the fishing pier. Untying the laces between her breasts, Nessía removed her girdle. She pulled the shirt off over her head. She shimmied out of her dress and kicked the dirty, sweaty clothes aside.

  The cool water made goose bumps pebble up and down her arms. Reaching up, she undid her tethered braid. She tunneled her fingers through her hair as a gentle breeze tickled her breasts. She gathered her dirty clothes, and walked into the loch with an eagerness centuries in the making. Life under the surface would always be a part of her, even as her heart yearned for a family, children, and a mate to love.

  She bent her knees until the water lapped at her chin. One at a time, she scrubbed each piece of clothing. She threw the sodden jumble onto a large rock in the shallows then strode deeper and rinsed her hair. The fresh scent of the mountain lake sunk into her pores, and she breathed deep. “I deserve a little happiness.”

  “Indeed. And I offer my services.”

  Nessía spun around and faced the man who caused the need for a cold swim.

  ***

  Rory swallowed. Moonbeams turned her brown hair gold and reflected off
the water’s surface into her icy blue eyes. He’d surprised her, evident in her open mouth and crossed arms. They barely covered her breasts as she slowly stood. Water cascaded down her shoulders, dripping onto the calm surface of the loch. He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited to see what she’d do. He hadn’t meant to sneak up on her and had no idea she planned to go skinny-dipping. When he’d spoken a few words in answer to her vocal plea, shock froze his steps when he recognized her naked state.

  “ ‘Tis ye again, Mr. Hawthorn. Ye do seem to excel in ungentlemanly actions.”

  “Please accept my apologies. I had no idea—”

  “Be off, then, and let me complete my bath. ‘Tis rather chilly.”

  “Then why are you…never mind. You must have your reasons for such torture.”

  “Don’t be silly. ‘Tis refreshing.”

  “You forget. I had a little dip in the loch myself.”

  “I have little choice. My home has no…”

  Rory felt a smile tug at the right corner of his mouth. Could he salvage this little faux pas? “No shower at your place?”

  She shook her head, which made moonlight shimmer like an angelic halo in the flying water droplets around her. His erection strained at the front of his black jeans, and he hoped the night hid the bulge from view. Even from this distance, he spied the shivers that wracked her shoulders.

  “My room at the inn has a deluxe bathroom with claw foot tub and separate tiled shower.”

  Nessía’s chin perked up. He could almost hear the cogs grinding inside her head as she weighed the pros and cons of his offer. She should.

  “Throw me my shirt,” Nessía demanded.

  Rory did as she bid and turned his back, until her footsteps echoed to his right. The whisper of clothing, as she gathered up the rest of her personal attire, made him smile. If she took him up on his open-ended suggestion, the chance to get to know the woman beneath the beautiful curves might be in the cards tonight.