Tall, Dark, and Medieval

by Barbara Devlin

  “’Twas you who killed my parents! ’Twas you who stole my family’s wealth.”

  “You’re parents?” he asked, sounding bewildered. As if he didn’t know who she was when he saved her from the dragon only to claim her as his prize.

  She grabbed the coverlet from the bed and wrapped it tightly around her, easing herself to the floor and hoping her father’s ivory-handled dagger still lay hidden under the loose floorboard. She would never be the spoils of war. She’d kill him before she lived at the side of the man who murdered her parents.

  “I’ve heard it said that the former lord and lady of Thorndale Castle had a daughter. A daughter who befriends fire and has magical powers at her command,” he answered from the darkness.

  “And I’ve heard it said that the man who leads the Klarens into battle, killing and ransacking everything in sight is a black-hearted man who gains his power at the hands of others’ misfortunes. His reputation is known throughout the hills of Lornoon. He’s the one mothers warn their daughters about. He’s the one they mention to threaten their children when they’re bad. Yet his name is never spoken aloud, for fear the darkness that possesses this man’s soul may follow his name, striking down dead the one who spoke it.”

  It was then he stepped slowly out of the shadows and into the soft light of the fire that flickered from the bedside candle. The glow encompassed him as his dark eyes bore into her. One fist gripped a tankard of ale in front of him. He was tall, handsome, but yet foreboding, and carried his body frame straight and proud as he strolled toward her. His chest was bare - wide and sturdy. Every muscled ripple showed in his physique. His arms were huge in a strong sort of way, empowering the rest of his warrior body. And like a warrior, he still carried a weapon though he was half-clothed.

  His gaze penetrating, she felt a slight hesitation in his action as he stopped in front of her with his free hand hovering above the sword strapped at his side. Almost as if she’d called him a traitor or insulted him by saying the legends of his name aloud. He was the most dangerous man alive. And she was alone with him in the dark, with only a coverlet between them.

  “’Tis true. It is you,” she said barely above a whisper. “I’ve heard of your crest described by the bards. You are Drake of Dunsbard, are you not?”

  “You so daringly let my name slip past your noble lips. Aren’t you afraid you’ll drop dead at my feet for such carelessness?”

  “I’d welcome death to the alternative of what you’ll do to me.”

  “So sure are you that I’m that dangerous?”

  “You are a Pendragon!” she cried. “You’re the one they call the Dragon’s Son. You are the devil and you’ve come to claim my soul.”

  He put the tankard on the bedside table and stared down at her. All the way to her soul. She knew she should look away, but stubbornness made her match his glare. It was said that the son of the dragon could turn one to mere ashes just by fixing his gaze on a person. But it mattered not to her. She had an ally in fire, and his dangerous stare could not harm her. She’d be protected from the fires of hell.

  He chuckled softly, his lips turning up into a lopsided grin that only made the indention in the cleft of his chin more pronounced. His ebony eyes sported a glimmer as he seemed to find amusement in her words. Then the glimmer was gone and the danger was back. He took a step closer, so close that she could feel his breath on her face when he spoke, though he did not touch her.

  “You’re only partially correct with your legends.”

  She didn’t trust him so close to her and knew she needed protection. She needed her father’s dagger, but it was hidden under the floor on the far side of the bed. She scooted away from him, never turning her back to him, and shifted around the foot of the bed.

  “I am a Pendragon,” he admitted, “’tis true. And I am the one they call the Dragon’s Son. But I am not the devil, and I want nothing to do with your soul.”

  He made his way toward her, and she darted around the back side of the bed, holding her coverlet tightly in the process.

  “I don’t believe you.” From the corner of her eye she looked to the floor, trying to remember which board the dagger was under. Then her toe caught on a loose end and she knew she’d found it.

  He took another step toward her, this time with more definition. It was all she needed to see. The look in his eyes said he knew she was about to deceive him. She had to move fast. She dove to the floor, dropping the coverlet that concealed her nudity and tore at the floorboard, groping inside for the weapon.

  His boot heels clicked on the floor and stopped in front of her face. She grabbed for the dagger in one final attempt to protect herself from him, but to her horror, she found the hiding place empty. She stiffened when she felt his hand on her arm. Her breathing labored as he pulled her to her feet, her body trembling from his mere presence. He pulled her closer, her hips grazing the flat end of the sword at his waist.

  “Looking for this?” Still holding her arm, he raised his other hand and displayed her father’s ivory-handled dagger in the air.

  She expected him to use it on her, and she knew there was nothing in her power she could do to stop him. She stood there naked and at his mercy. Every chance she’d had of protecting or defending herself was gone.

  “Go ahead and kill me,” she taunted him. “Live up to your reputation of taking what you want no matter what the cost.”

  “I will.”

  Her gaze darted up to his eyes, as she wanted to stare into the face of the man who would take her life. But instead of the hatred and anger she thought she’d find, she saw gentleness and a haunting sadness.

  “I will take what I want,” he reassured her, “but I have no intention of killing you.”

  She knew it should have relieved her, but somehow it only prolonged the waiting. Something she didn’t like in the least. Whatever he had planned for her was surely worse than death. He released her arm and used his foot to raise the coverlet from the floor to his hand. He wrapped it around her shoulders and tossed the dagger onto the bed. Her eyes followed it, and thoughts of diving for it as soon as his back was turned entertained her head. Then he either foolishly or trustingly, she wasn’t sure which, turned his back to her. The moment she was waiting for. But before she could dive for the dagger, his deep voice stopped her, though he didn’t turn around.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Precious.”

  He sat down at the foot of the bed and faced her, leaning back on his elbows. His muscles rippled in the firelight, his bare chest begging to be touched by a woman’s hands. His tight breeches stretched over his thighs, doing nothing to hide his attraction for her. He lazily crossed his booted feet, not caring that his lust was evident. His long black hair hung to his shoulders. His eyes were like the black velvet of a moonless night, cool and unreadable.

  “Do what?” she asked, rearranging the coverlet to keep her body hidden from him. She hoped he couldn’t read her thoughts. She didn’t want him to know how much she hated or feared him for what he’d done. Or how much she admired his manly beauty and grace.

  “Kill me,” he answered. “After all, that is what you were planning, is it not?”

  So if he knew of her intentions, why’d he taunt her by throwing the dagger on the bed within her reach? Mayhap he was toying with her. Or testing her for some odd reason.

  “I don’t believe it’d look very good for a woman to kill her own husband,” he continued.

  “Husband?” Her eyes left the dagger and focused back on him. “I have no husband. You know not of what you speak.”

  “Ah, but how wrong you are my feisty little witch. Come the morning, you’ll be married to me, Brynn. Brynn is your name, is it not? I’ve heard that the woman of fire is called Brynn - named after the brimstone of which she was conceived.”

  “You would know more about brimstone than I. And I would never marry a devil of a man such as yourself.”

  He chuckled again and pushed himself up to a standi
ng position, towering over her small frame. Her boldness seemed shallower when he wasn’t at a lower level than she. She didn’t at all feel as confident of her escape anymore.

  “You said yourself that I take whatever I want. And I want you.” He headed for the door, grabbing a tunic and slipping it over his head as he walked. “Juturna will see to you now, though I don’t believe you are at all wounded.”

  “My wounds run deep, my lord. Mayhap they don’t show on the surface, but the scars beneath will never heal.”

  He stopped, hand on the doorframe, and let his eyes rake down her. She felt ravished, though he hadn’t touched her. She felt naked under his perusal, though the coverlet hid her nudity entirely.

  “Leave that to me.” His words sounded more like a promise than a threat. He pulled open the heavy wooden door, giving an order to the guard who stood watch.

  “Why?” she questioned him and he turned back with a look of surprise on his face. His one brow raised and the side of his mouth lifted again, showing off his dimple.

  “Why what?”

  “Why!” she repeated, exasperated. “Why do you want to marry me instead of killing me? Am I to be your trophy? Will you show the survivors, if there are any, that you’ve won the spoils of war? Or am I just to be at your side to make you seem even more frightening or powerful? Or perhaps you choose to use me for your pleasures?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” he answered. “You are no prize. I happen to know that just as many people fear you and want you dead as they do me. And I have no need to display tokens of war to make me powerful. That ability was granted to me the day I was born a Pendragon. And though I can’t say you’re not alluring under that coverlet, I don’t want you for your body.”

  She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, almost wishing he did want her body. At least then she wouldn’t feel so low for her own thoughts of his beauty running through her head.

  “Then what is it?” she challenged him. “There must be another reason for marrying me. You’ve already got my father’s castle and riches. So what is the reason for wanting me to become your wife?”

  His mouth was clenched and she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. She was sure no other woman, nor probably even his men, had ever questioned him or challenged him like she had just done. She was irritating him, that was obvious, and she was glad of it. Any man as cold-hearted as he to have done the things he’d done, needed someone to stand up to him and question him about his actions. Even if it was the most addlepated thing she had ever done in her life.

  He walked back toward her and reached out, taking her chin in his hand. He tilted it up till her eyes met his. She had somehow expected him to be looking at her mouth - to take her in a punishing kiss to let her know he wasn’t going to put up with her antics. But instead, he was looking into her eyes. Her own gaze flickered across his lips before interlocking with his eyes against her will. Even with words unspoken, he held such a dominance over her. What he said with that one look told her more than words could ever convey. She shuddered, she burned. She shivered, she yearned.

  And then he released her and left her standing alone as he headed out the door.

  THE DRAGON AND THE DREAMWALKER

  CHAPTER FOUR

  As soon as the door closed, Brynn collapsed upon the bed. Her will shaken, her mind confused, she needed fire to replenish what she’d lost and to regain her strength. Her father’s ivory-handled dagger still lay on the center of the bed where The Dragon had thrown it.

  She reached out for it with one shaking hand, barely able to close her fingers around it. She was alone now, and a prisoner in her father’s own castle. She clasped her fingers, gripping the hilt, feeling her father’s energy and her mother’s magic emanating from the dagger, giving her the courage she needed to carry on. This was a family heirloom. Not a weapon of destruction, but one of creation and life.

  She looked to the carved spindles on the bed, remembering the stories of how her father constructed them with this very dagger while making a wedding present for his bride. She looked to the faeries and woodland creatures that scampered around the wood in a carved motion that almost made them seem alive.

  Her father’s spirit would live on through her. Her mother’s gifts of magic would be with her for the rest of her life. Tears welled in her eyes as she held the blade up to flicker in the light of the night candle.

  “I vow I’ll bring vengeance upon the man who took your lives,” she made her promise. “Drake of Dunsbard may think he’s going to marry me, but won’t it be his surprise when I kill him instead?”

  Her tears dripped onto the handle of the dagger as she made her vow. Steam rose from the ivory hilt, and to her surprise the entire thing was glowing. But it wasn’t glowing from her own magic or the memories of her family. She felt Drake’s presence in the dagger since he’d touched it. The Dragon’s curse flowed through the weapon - his essence overpowering that of her own parents.

  Her eyes darted to the banner of The Dragon covering her own family crest. The black and red dragon danced in the firelight, jumping, moving in the flickering flame, mocking her vow of vengeance, igniting the fires of justice that welled inside her.

  “No!” she said in a breathless whisper. “You have consumed my family, but you will never consume me.” She ran to the wall, using the dagger to rip The Dragon’s banner apart. She tore it to shreds and hurried to the dying hearth. She held out her hand and said the words her mother had taught her as a child. She dug down for her last bit of energy to try to call forth fire.

  “Fire within me and of this earth, ignite the dying embers upon this hearth.”

  Immediately, flames burst forth, the logs of the fire glowing brightly. She gathered up the shredded banner, throwing it into the fire. She watched as the eyes of the dragon glowed red, the vengeance within her growing bright as well. Then, in a final submission of defeat, the dragon before her turned to ash and disappeared.

  She took hold of the dagger, putting her entire hand into the fire to cleanse the blade of his essence. The ivory was protected under the flesh of her grip, and she willed his vibrations to leave her family’s heirloom. Then she reached in with her other hand and bathed in ecstasy as the fire replenished her.

  The door to the room burst open, and she jumped to her feet, the coverlet falling from her body in the process. The dagger glowed red, as well as her hand. She was ready to use it on him should he think to reach out and touch her chin so intimately again.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she warned, whipping around to see not Drake, but an old, frail woman with long, white hair standing in the doorway. She was clothed in a burgundy colored robe, the hood down to make her identity known. She had an inner wisdom about her that told Brynn she wasn’t just a commoner. Her eyes, a pale blue, held a world of secrets locked into their depths. She wore a large, round crystal sphere on a chain around her neck. The crystal shimmered in sparkles of pink and green. The woman’s gnarled old hand caressed it when she saw Brynn notice it. It was almost as if it were a part of her that she wasn’t willing to share. She pulled her cloak around herself, blocking the sphere from Brynn’s view.

  “You may want to save that for later,” came the woman’s strong, confident voice. “I’m not here to harm you, but to help you at the request of Lord Dunsbard himself.”

  She suddenly felt very foolish. Standing there naked, holding a scalding hot dagger, threatening an old woman who didn’t look strong enough to kill a flea.

  “I . . . I thought you were someone else. I apologize.” She hurriedly picked up the coverlet and placed the red hot dagger on the bricks of the hearth. The old woman just stood there, waiting for an invitation to enter.

  “You must be the old seer, Juturna?”

  “I am.” She still didn’t move.

  “Please, come in and shut the door behind you.”

  The woman did as told, and walked over to the hearth to look at the dagger. “You can’t kill the dragon, you know.”
<
br />   “I’ll make him pay for killing my parents.”

  “I’m not speaking of Drake of Dunsbard, though he’s invincible as long as the dragon lives.”

  “I know not of what you speak old woman. I am not fond of riddles, so please speak in words which I can understand.”

  “Do you have clothes to wear?” she asked. “Something of your mother’s perhaps to give you the endurance you’ll need to survive his plans?”

  She looked at the woman curiously, wondering how she knew so much of the man’s plans of the wedding. “I don’t know if my mother’s things have been stolen or not.”

  Juturna caressed her crystal sphere, gazing into it a moment before pushing it back under her cloak and walking over to a trunk.

  “In there.” She pointed a crooked finger. “You’ll find many of her clothes to fit you inside there. Your own things have been burned by the Klarens in an attempt to rid themselves of you. They hadn’t made it to this chamber before The Dragon secured it.”

  “You know all this, because you’re a seer?” Brynn walked over to the trunk and found her mother’s gowns inside, just as the old woman had foretold.

  “I have seen many things that involve both you and The Dragon.”

  Brynn chose a blue velvet gown, one of her mother’s favorites, running her hand over it in reverence, asking for her mother’s blessing before she donned it. She missed her mother and longed for the woman’s comforting words and understanding ways. She missed her father and the way he accepted both his wife and daughter, knowing they were of the faerie realm, and withstanding all that went with it. She needed them now. She needed to know about the man who held her captive in her own castle. Drake of Dunsbard was nothing more than a murderer and she couldn’t let him hurt another person, including herself.

  “Legend has it, he’s the dragon’s son,” she told Juturna. “What do you know about this man called Drake of Dunsbard? That is, Drake Pendragon.”