Chapter Five
O drowsy, drowsy as I was!
Dead sleep upon me fell;
The Queen of Fairies she was there,
And took me to herself.
— Ballad of Tamlin
Aithinne stared up into the face of a fierce warrior, a battle-hardened man capable of killing without hesitation. This aspect of St. Giles terrified her. Frantic, her hands pushed at his shoulders, against his chest, but nothing she did moved him, or caused the pressure on the chain to let up.
“Who are you? Tell me why I am shackled in this room,” he growled the words.
She searched his eyes, at first dreading he had not eaten the food which contained Oona’s potion. As they struggled to focus upon her face, she realized the brew still held him under its sway. So strong, he was fighting against the affects.
He raged in fury and anguish, “Demon witch robbing my mind, why bespell me so…use my dreams against me? You destroy me.”
Aithinne trembled in true fear. This was something she had not foreseen―the warrior unleashed, his strength used against her. She presumed the herbs and Oona’s spells would see him docile, compliant the whole time he remained captive in her bed. Another error.
Mayhap it was the Selkie blood she sensed coursing within him. With that fey magic, he might hold a power to resist Oona’s crafting of the Beltaine love philter. If so, then the situation quickened to dangerous. She had no way to gauge how a warrior enraged would act with his judgment clouded. Panic rose as her mind warned a knight used to surviving in battle would act to protect himself from sheer instinct.
Though the weight of the chain had not increased, it still cut into her throat where speaking was impossible. Shoving against his shoulders proved futile. While a sturdy lass, she was helpless against the strength of his powerful arms. She could sooner shove around a bloody horse.
Instinctively, she sensed fighting this warrior was not the key. With a trembling hand, she reached up and traced her finger over the arch of his upper lip, then slowly along the fullness of the lower one. The tension on the chain slackened, as his focus drew to her hand on his mouth, then back to her pinned to the bed, choking.
Brows furrowed, he flung the links aside as if he had held a snake. His hand shook as he gently traced her throat with his fingers, following where the chain had bit into her skin. In the moon’s shadows, she saw the glimmer of tears form in his pale eyes. “Be cursed…I…regret...”
Aithinne coughed, nodded, and then tried to sit up.
“I mislike this lack…of control,” he whispered hoarsely, fighting to speak the words. “It rubs against the grain of a warrior…why enchant me thusly? Why taunt me with a vision I cannot have…offer me my most cherished dream…torment me in a hell of my own fashioning, because I know it can never be?”
Unable to meet his probing stare, Aithinne lowered her eyelids, feeling empathy for his confusion, the raw frustration. St. Giles was a vital man, one used to command. Shame flooded her, showing just how shortsighted she had been in not thinking this whole scheme through.
Truly, she was not a selfish person, one careless of other people’s needs or feelings. Only, she had many responsibilities weighing down upon her shoulders these past two months. No one was there to help ease the burden. So many depended upon her to protect them, looked to her to shield all in Glen Eallach in this time of war with the English. Edward Longshanks terrified her. How was she, a mere Scots lass, to stand in the path of the most ruthless king to ever sit on the English throne?
So desperate for a solution to her quandary, in all her plottings not once had she considered how the man might feel. Most males seemed too apt at spreading their seed around to any woman willing to lie with them. Thus, she presumed he would welcome, even enjoy the couplings, then just sleep the rest of the time.
In her mind everything had been so straightforward, aims clear. Now the threads of her plans were unraveling about her. Rage and rebellion burned in this proud man. Her actions troubled his spirit, and because of their bond, that anguish echoed within her. Her head turned to the side to hide her dishonor, allowing the tears to trickle silently down her face.
He lifted her chin with two fingers, then rubbed the droplets on her cheek with his thumb. “You cry, Faery Queen? Do tears of the Fae taste different? If I sample one, will the price be my mortal soul?”
Her breath sucked in on a gasp, as he leaned forward, kissing the tears from her countenance. His tongue flicked out and lapped their taste. The corner of his mouth lifted faintly upward. “My mother believed tears from a faery can bless one with immortal life. In spite of this, she cautioned there is only one way to make a faery cry―to break her heart. Have I broken your heart, my Fae Queen?”
More than he could ever know, her mind mourned. She put her fingers to his lips to stop the flow of words, unable to bear his concern. “Words wound deeper than any knife, my lord. Often fester and never heal.”
♦◊♦
Frustrated, Damian backed off the high bed and tried to stand, but his knees would not hold him. The room spun. He caught the bedpost, holding on until the world righted once more. Scores of questions pressed inwardly upon his beleaguered brain, but his head hurt too much to think. Bloody hell, just breathing hurt!
Until he looked at her.
When he stared at this vision of beauty, he forgot the ache, forgot exhaustion. His blood renewed, and he wanted her with the frenzied urgency that seized a stallion when he scented a mare in heat. The urge rising within his flesh was primitive, raw, more than any man could contain. The muscles in his jaw flexed, trying to rein in control.
Who was she? Why was he here?
Images assailed his mind. Of him making love to her throughout the night. Had that been real, or merely a wish of his feverish, drug-muddled dreams? He tried to focus on her, but ended up slumping to sit on the cold stone floor. The swirling blackness sucked at him, waited to claim him once more.
Had the whole bloody day passed in a blur? Night must have come again.
Earlier, when he awoke the first time, he had staggered to the narrow window to look out, see if he could figure where he was being held. The high hills that he saw from the narrow opening were unfamiliar. He was held prisoner, likely in a Scottish stronghold. Only why?
Times were troubled, seeing loyalties shift at the flip of a coin. The English had moved northward, and Longshanks’s battle-seasoned troops from Flanders led the sweep through the Lowlands. What was left in their wake had not been a pretty sight. The sacking of Berwick turned the stomach of even the most grim-bitten warriors. It sickened his soul that men were capable of such blood churning atrocities. He saw how it nearly destroyed Challon.
A runner had come to Glenrogha with report of the battle at Dunbar. The English routed the disorganized Scots in a single charge, their leaders fleeing along with the common soldiers. Word had come, only Sir Patrick Graham stood and valiantly fought to the death. Upwards of five-hundred score Scots were killed on the field of Spottsmuir. The resounding defeat saw the biggest measure of the Scots’ nobility dead or in irons.
With the times so unstable, he wondered if some Scottish lord, who managed to escape the slaughter, had now taken him hostage in an effort to barter more generous terms when he came unto Edward’s Peace. If that were the case, then his life was not on the line―for now. Feasibly, they kept him drugged to save confrontation until they could ransom him back to Julian or Edward.
Only why did the woman come to him? Was she real or a figment of his clouded mind?
He turned his head to watch her, but the shadows from the firelight danced and played trickery on him. If he reached out and touched her wouldst her skin be warm? Would her hair be soft if he buried his face in it? Or was she a demon assuming Tamlyn’s form? Head lolling back, it was too much to unriddle.
Earlier, when the door had opened, he had expected it to be the woman again―wanted it to be her. His body pulsed nearly tortured with hunger. When he had opened his eyes it was to see a hag lighting the candle. Even though he was awake and watched her, he lacked the will to stir. His warrior’s instincts rebelled, rage boiling up in his throat at being helpless, vulnerable. Nonetheless, he could do naught as she stepped to the bed and looked down upon him.
She placed some twig with dried leaves under the bedding and then touched a drop of oil to his head. “Aye, my bonnie lad. You be the one Evelynour of the Orchard saw in her visions, the warrior wrapped in the color of fog. Your coming be the will of the Auld Ones. You be what my lass needs.” Closing her eyes, she hummed a strange tune. The sound floated about him to crowd inwardly until blackness claimed his thoughts again.
He wasn’t sure how long he drifted. Until she came...the woman with flame hair, soft about her shoulders, and smelling of apples and heather. His body shuddered with desire, every muscle recoiling in a craving that was awe-inspiring. He had to grit his teeth to remain still when her smooth hand stroked his thigh, branding him, sending his blood to boil.
Oh, he wanted her. In a thousand ways. He could spend a month, a lifetime, taking her and still it would never be enough. Never enough.
She slid off the bed and knelt before him, lifting his chin. “This shall soothe your pains.” Her thumb slowly brushed a swirl of fragrant unguent over his lips.
Being stubborn, he refused to open his mouth, fearing what the salve would do to him. The heady scent filled his nostrils, setting his heart to beat in the low cadence of the bodhrán he had heard at the May Day festival.
She ran a hand up his arm. “Your skin be chilled. I will feed the fire to warm the room.”
Trying to resist her siren’s pull, he pondered if he was held for ransom, why was she here? Logic scattered, he was unable to resist. His tongue swirled out, tasting the warm lotion. Its power instantly wiping out everything from his mind.
Everything but her.
He wanted more of it. Wanted more of her.
His thoughts moving faster than his actions, before he could reach for her, she rose. A woozy fool, he drank in the sight of her curves, the way the thin baize clung to her rounded hips. His eyes traveled up her waist to the high peaks of her full breasts, holding him spellbound with the way they pushed against the gauzy material, each breath forcing the tips into the fabric, tempting him to madness.
She moved to the fireplace to add a couple of peat bricks, prodding at them with the poker to see they caught faster. Then, she turned. And Damian could not breathe.
With the firelight at her back, the long hair cascading around her shoulders and down past her hips, it appeared as if she were born from the flames. An image that burned into his muzzy brain, one that would forevermore remain sharp, and with his dying breath he would recall the power of this instant in time, how it affected him. The thin chemise was rendered transparent, somehow more arousing than if she stood naked before him. Damian drank in her fey beauty, his muscles girding in desire so blinding, he had to fight for his air.
She came to him, her hands taking hold of his upper arms. “Come, the floor be cold.”
Pure animalistic male, his muscles unfurled as he rose pressing his strong body against her softness. He felt her tense, heard the small gasp of surprise. Heat rolled off her flesh. He greedily absorbed that warmth to where he no longer was aware of the chill in the room. Leaning into her, his mouth hovered just above hers, catching her breath.
She arched to him, wanting his kiss, her eyes so expressive, so open as they watched him. They widened in shock as he moved so fast she had no time to react. His hand grasped the back of her neck, holding her rigid as his mouth took hers, savaging her supple lips. He used his teeth, his tongue, working her mouth until she gave him what he wanted.
He spun with her to the wall by the narrow window, pinning her next to it. The stones were cold against her back, but he was all fire. He devoured her with a fathomless hunger. The sensations whipped through his blood. Painful. Agonizing. Unlike anything he had ever experienced. No woman before had ever provoked such an unleashed ravenous passion to claw within him.
Her hands clutched his shoulders, her sharp nails scoring his skin, but he could not focus enough to tell if she hung on or fought him. He refused to break the kiss. Refused to gentle his demand.
His right hand snaked down her waist, then over the rounded hip, pausing to squeeze its firmness. Gathering the thin material of her chemise slowly up her thigh, he touched the smooth flesh. Damian growled predatorily as the fingers of his left hand sifted through the nether curls. She squeaked in the kiss as his middle finger slipped over her mound, along the wet crease and then into her body. Her legs clamped around his hand as if to prevent his full penetration, but he turned the action against her, using the inside of his wrist to rub against that sensitized button, making her ride it.
He jerked his head back, gasping for air, reveling in the sweet fire of her woman’s heat. She clung to him, burying her face against his neck, her gaspy breathing matching the pace of his. He backed the finger out stretching her. She was so tight. Aligning his second finger, he slowly inserted them both, giving her body time to reform to allow his blunt intrusion.
“Please…” she moaned.
“Sweet mercy.” Damian’s body tensed to steel. He shook with a yearning so crippling he could hardly force his muscles to act. Dropping his head to lean it against hers, he enjoyed how her every breath pressed her breasts against the plane of his thorax, how her hips flexed against his wrist in unsure movements. “Please what, my lady?”
Reaching up, her hand took hold of his neck and pulled him down until their lips met. He devoured her mouth with a voracious desire, trying to direct this unleashed force within him. He scared her, but he could not pull up. He kissed her, caught her gasp into his mouth, their moans becoming one. This was raw, primitive, a stallion scenting his mare and ready to mount her. Even through all the pounding drive to mate, there was something more that brushed against his mind, something rare, beyond the cravings of the flesh, leaving all the sensations more intense, excruciating.
A sense of rightness, of coming home.
His hands took her hips and jerked her high against the wall. Her arms clasped behind his neck, hanging on. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he panted.
As she did as he asked, he drove into her, giving her no chance to adjust to him. Though tight, her channel was slick, welcoming, so he plunged to the hilt. Everything felt so perfect, making him a part of her.
So right. Of coming home. Of belonging.
♦◊♦
Aithinne awoke to the scream of the peacock and sunlight filtering through the narrow window. Alarmed she had slept too late, she jerked, trying to sit up.
St. Giles slept peacefully against her, holding her closely. He rested on his side, with his strong leg over hers, his right arm an anchor about her waist. When she stirred, he flexed his muscles, pulling her back to his chest.
Indulging, she permitted herself to lie there, and imagine this was any morning, pretend they were husband and wife and that every day they would awaken to this sense of peace and security in each other’s warmth. She had not meant to stay so long with him, her only excuse—she enjoyed being held through the night in RavenHawke’s embrace.
Memories of her night with St. Giles roared back, enflaming her body. He had taken her, time-after time, taking her with a relentless drive that left them both spent. Of course, that was Oona’s love philter spurring the endless need. Still, she sensed more compelling him to claim her. What that more was she did not want to stop to consider.
The hour was late. She should not have risked lolling in bed with him this long. Now that she knew him to be Lord Challon’s cousin, the cloak of darkness was even more important. He needed dosing with Oona’s potion again, to keep the spell reinforced. Yet, as she tried to slide out from under his weight she was possessed of two minds. He required the tansy to strengthen the spell cast, already she feared he was slightly resistant for some odd reason. Nonetheless, she would have to wake him up for that. For the safety of the future, she was determined he never see her in sunlight. If she gave him the brew, he would have no clear memory of her―at least Oona assured her that was the case. Once again, nagging doubts in her mind arose. She sensed a strong resistance in this warrior, a craft beyond that of a mere mortal man. St. Giles was more.
As she shifted, he tightened his grip on her, clearly intending on not letting her go. “Hmm…need to…use the chamber pot.”
He smiled in his exhaustion, then his hand cupped her breast, the thumb lazily brushed the tip of her tender nipple. Instantly, her body responded to his command, but just as she was getting concerned he might awake fully, he relaxed and she was able to slip away from his hold.
Picking up the gown from the floor, she shimmied it over her head, then reached for her mantle, intending to leave. She glanced back. Like him, she had only seen St. Giles in moonlight. The temptation was too much.
She moved to the bed, chancing so much just to gaze upon this handsome warrior. She flinched as she saw scars upon his perfect body. Then recalled the first time he had taken her, he had spake of a vision, of seeing her face―Tamlyn’s face―coming to him after being gravely wounded in battle and telling him he could not give up. Foolishly, she traced the scar running along the right hip. She fought tears welling up within her throat at the pain he must have suffered, how close he had come to dying.
Choking back a sob, she turned and left the room.
She hurried down the darkened hall. The sun was up and the people of Lyonglen were already stirring, going about their morning chores. She had not meant to tarry so long, preferring her comings and goings to the tower room were done under as few eyes as possible.
When she heard steps on the staircase, she pulled up and tugged her woolen mantle around her. Her cheeks burned red, as she knew whispers about what was going on in the tower room were surely on everyone’s lips.
The servants at Lyonglen were scared of this war with the English. They not only knew of her many deceptions, they encouraged them, fearful if her plans did not succeed they could well end up with an English overlord. Even so, she hesitated showing herself in her rumpled condition, coming straight from him, his scent still on her skin.
The hurried steps continued upward.
Deward saw her at the top of the staircase, his eyes quickly running over her. The imp smiled. “Sister, hurry, you needs must come, there is a rider under the standard of the Black Dragon, he asks for you―”
“Lord Challon be here?” Her hand went to her heart as fear spread through her. “Mercy, does he ken…about—”
“Nay, ’tis no’ the Dragon, just a messenger from him, he asks for you, hurry, he has been waiting since dawnbreak, we dare no’ tarry longer.” He continued on in his non-stop fashion as he took hold of her upper arm to speed her down the steps.
She tugged against his hold. “Deward, you lackwit. I canno’ go below stairs dressed in this manner.”
“Beg pardon, Aithinne, I was no’ thinking, you do look like a well-loved lass, our stranger pleases you, does he not, you and he will make a beautiful bairn together—”
“Hush your prattle. Run, call Aggie. Send her to me. Scurry.”
Leaving her brother to fetch her maidservant, she hastened into her room. Once there, she pulled a dark blue woolen kirtle from the wardrobe. By the time she finished a fast wash, Aggie came in tsk-tsking the whole way. “Och, lass. Be this truth? The Black Dragon be at the portcullis?”
“Nay, just his messenger. Quickly lace me up, then see the servants are kept away from the Great Hall. I want no one to misstep.”
“Lass, they support you―”
“I ken. I fash about someone accidentally revealing too much without even meaning to. So bustle.”
“Let me plait your hair.”
“No time. This will have to do.” Pulling out a ribbon of blue, she tugged the long mass of her hair around and secured it. She wrapped a sash of tartan across her shoulder and tucked in the braided leather about her waist. “Hope I shall appear a lady no’ a serving wench.”
Her brothers and Einar awaited her in the Great Hall, all four sets of eyes going to her, awaiting her lead. Deward nodded at her appearance, as she took a seat at the head of the trestle table. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she tried to think upon Raven, Baroness Kinloch. Her cousin was always so collected in her demeanor, able to look a man in the eye and not flinch. Aye, for this day Aithinne would pretend to be her beautiful, dark-haired kinswoman.
“Einar―”
He thumped his chest. “I live to serve you, Princess.”
She closed her eyes for an instant to rein in frustration. Cousin Raven did not get frustrated, she reminded herself. But then, Raven did not have a mountain of a man calling her Princess all the time. She sighed, sidestepping their usual do not call me princess argument.
“Stand to my left and slightly behind me, at attention. Sword in your hand, tip resting on the floor. Appear relaxed, yet on guard.”
“Aye, Princess, it shall be as you wish―”
“Deward, please sit to my right—and keep your mouth shut. Lewis to my left. Hugh, lean casually against the fireplace. All of your remain silent. Let me do the speaking to this man. Vex me in this and there shall be hell to pay. Am I made clear?”
All four looked at her and blinked, but remained mute.
Drumming her nails on the black oak table she waited. “Am...I...made...clear?”
Deward smiled. “Sister, you said we were to remain silent.”
“Och, I shall burn you all in the Wickerman come Samhaine.” She threatened.
Only Einar looked startled.
Deward leaned behind her chair and whispered to the Norsemen. “She will no’ do that, she just wants to impress upon us how impor—”
“Deward, silence.” Aithinne used the voice again to make him shut his mouth. When he looked properly subdued, she nodded to the servant to open the huge doors of the Great Hall.
A warrior in mail and plate came forward with a guard of two. The handsome man’s eyes went to Einar, instantly targeting the biggest threat in the unfamiliar situation, then her brothers, and finally came to rest on her sitting in the lord’s chair, feigning an air of a princess.
He offered a slight bow. “My lady, my name is Gervase, squire for the great Black Dragon, Lord Julian Challon. He sends greetings.”
“The Dragon’s name be kenned to us. I shouldst assume few have no’ heard of his valor in the service of the English king.” Unwisely, Aithinne could not keep sarcasm from slipping into the word. Deward kicked her under the table, a reminder to curb her tongue. Rearranging her face to a warm smile, she asked, “May I have food and drink fetched for you and your men? Have a room readied for you?”
This time it was Lewis who kicked her under the table. His eyes flashing a warning not to invite the soldier to tarry at Lyonglen. She booted back. Then, Deward kicked Lewis, as well. She forced a wider grin and then kicked them both.
“Thanks, kind lady, victuals would be appreciated. The ride from Glenrogha was long.
Howbeit, we dare not linger. My Lord Challon eagerly awaits word of his cousin.”
Hugh took a sip from a tankard of ale he was holding, choked on it.
Aithinne wished she could lash out at him, as well. Hopefully feigning innocence, she inquired, “Lord Challon’s cousin?”
“Aye, he went amissing on May Day and has not been seen since. With these troubled times, his absence grows worrisome to my lord. At first, we figured he was off with some wench, enjoying himself. He is known for having a way with the ladies.”
Aithinne’s spine stiffened, as an angry blush flooded her cheeks. She forced her hands to remain relaxed instead of gripping the chair in reaction to the lance of pain that stabbed her heart. She had never been jealous before. It was not a sensation she liked.
“Of concern, no doubt. Only, I fail to see how this has import to us here at Lyonglen.”
“We searched throughout Glen Shane, then my lord ordered our paths widened and the quest moved into Glen Eallach. None have seen Lord RavenHawke. Lord Challon frets that stragglers from Clan Comyn linger in the hills since Berwick. They may have set upon and taken him for ransoming. The Dragon sets great store in his cousin, thinks of him as a brother.”
Guilt ate at Aithinne. Another aspect not considered in her scheming, that someone could worry about St. Giles’s absence, fear he might have come to harm. Moistening her dry lips, she opened her mouth―to what?―tell the man she held St. Giles upstairs, chained in her bed?
Fortunately, Hugh stepped to the table under guise of setting down his empty tankard. He softly placed a hand on her right shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze.
“It does the mighty Dragon well to place such high value on his kinsman, but we canno’ aid you in this mission. We have seen no dragons of any sort about the keep—not e’en ones who breathe fire,” Hugh said with a slight air of boredom.
Aithinne was impressed. She did not think any of the three could muster such a degree of cleverness. Mayhap the lads were finally coming of age.
The squire’s gaze skimmed over her in assessment, question in his eyes. “Are you certain? RavenHawke is a handsome man, black hair, pale eyes―”
Einar shifted one-step closer to her―only a slight move―yet it drew Gervase’s attention. The man recognized the tall Norseman perceived the continued questioning of Aithinne as an insult.
Gervase inclined his head toward her. “Beg pardon, my lady. My words were ill-considered, but born out of worry.”
Her will taxed, she remained unmoving under his piercing scrutiny. Too used to having no shield against Oona kenning her every thought, a blush spread up her body. She felt as if Challon’s warrior could see telltale evidence of her having been with RavenHawke. Turning away, she was unable to hold eye contact with this man.
“Einar, see that his men and that their horses are fed, before they set off on the trail to Glenrogha.” She rose, stepping away from the table. “Now, Squire Gervase, I needs must take my leave. There be many chores. Lyonglen does not run by itself.”
♦◊♦
Aithinne tried to slam the door to her room, but the three idiots were on her heels. Lewis in the lead had the door hit his nose. He pulled up short to rub it, and then Deward and Hugh crashed into his backside, which started their typical shoving matches. Too upset by knowing Lord Challon was seeking high and low for his cousin, and when he did not find him would be back―mayhap this time himself―she had no patience for the lads’ childish antics.
She picked up the unlit candle and threw it at them. Lewis ducked but it hit the side of the door and broke into chunks. The other two put up their arms and tried to deflect the pieces.
“Stay your temper, Sister mine. We have done naught―” Lewis started, but dodged as she grabbed the empty chamber pot.
They scurried in three different directions to make her choosing a target harder. “Of all the brainless…halfwit―third-wit….ah…ooh―”
“Lackwit be the word you usually hurl at us, Sister.” Deward peeked up from behind a chair. “Nodcock in extreme circumstances, methinks.”
“Nodcock!” Aithinne stood vibrating with rage and much too practical to waste a perfectly good chamber pot on one of their hard heads. “Life be not cruel enough. I send you out on a simple errand to collect a man no one will miss and what did you come back with? The Dragon of Challon’s cousin! Of all the stupid, mooncalf―”
Hugh poked his head around the door’s edge where he’d hidden. “Now, Aithinne, save your temper. All shall turn out fine. You will see. The man will go back and tell Lord Challon his cousin be not here.”
Aithinne looked around for something, anything to bean him with. Finding naught she tossed her hands up in exasperation. “Of course he will. Then, Challon will become even more concerned, and will lead his troops on a more thorough search. What happens when he comes back, you dunderhead?”
Deward shrugged. “I suppose he comes and we tell him the man be no’ within the curtain. Aithinne, it is not like he has eyes that see through stone, so how can he know his cousin is in the tower, and why would he think we have reason to hold his kinsman, so he will just go away, do you no’ think—”
“Deward, hush your never-ending prattle! Most people take breaths when they talk.” She closed her eyes rubbing her temples, pain pounding to the point where she wanted to cry. “Och, we are doomed. I have trouble enough between Phelan and Dinsmore driving me to distraction, now you bring down the fire of the great Black Dragon.”
“Sister—” Lewis came and put his arm around her shoulder, urging her toward the high bed. “—you are just tired. You need rest. Hugh shall fetch Oona and she will give you a tansy to speed you to sleep. Einar will keep guard. Then, we can decide what is best to do this evening.”
“He goes back. Tonight. No more arguments,” she insisted, knowing it was the only option left.
Maybe if they could get him back to Glenrogha by dawn no fire-breathing Dragon would descend upon Lyonglen and make a charred meal out of her.