What a Dragon Should Know
The Reinholdt lifted his gaze from the maps in front of him, glanced at Gwenvael, and immediately went back to his maps. “Don’t know him.”
“I know. But you’ve met him.”
“I have?”
“He’s the dragon from this morning.”
Grey eyes similar to his daughter’s slowly lifted, and the widely built man leaned over in his chair, looking around Dagmar to see Gwenvael.
“You havin’ me on?” he asked his daughter.
“Because I’m known for my rich and well-developed sense of humor?”
Actually, the dry way she said it, Gwenvael thought she was extremely funny.
“Good point,” her father said. “But still …”
“I know it’s hard to believe. But it’s him.”
The Reinholdt let out a soul-weary sigh and sat back in his chair. “Yeah, so … What’s he doin’ ’ere?”
“He asked to meet with you.”
“Last I remember, we weren’t tellin’ him nothin’.”
“True. But I had little choice but to bring him here. He asked for shelter and as an outsider alone I had to give it to him at least for the night as per Northland etiquette law, which he’s obviously studied.”
“Ya act like he’s some starving woodsman who fell at your feet. He’s a bloody dragon.”
“True. But it was hard to turn him away when he cried.”
Eyes now wide, the warlord again leaned over and gaped at Gwenvael. “Cried?” That one word dripped in distaste.
“Yes, Father. There were definite tears. A touch of sobbing.”
“I’m very sensitive,” Gwenvael tossed in.
“Sensitive?” And he said it like he’d never heard the word before. “He’s … sensitive?”
Dagmar nodded. “Very sensitive and has a tendency to cry. So … I’ll just leave you two to it.”
“Get your skinny ass back here,” the warlord harshly demanded before she’d taken more than three steps. Gwenvael didn’t immediately jump to the woman’s defense as he would with most women. His instincts told him she didn’t need his help, and he knew for a fact she wasn’t like most women.
She raised a brow at her father and he raised one right back.
“When you put it so nicely, Father …”
“Cheeky cow,” he mumbled before returning his attention back to Gwenvael. “So what do you want?”
Putting his hand over his chest, Gwenvael softly replied, “Warm food, a soft bed, and a good night’s sleep. That is all I ask.”
The warlord gave something that a few partially blind beings might consider a smile. “What ya hoping for? In the mornin’ she’ll change her mind? She won’t. Tell ya that right now.”
“Can’t you beat it out of her?”
He heard it, though she desperately tried to hide it—a little cough trying to cover a laugh.
“We don’t do that here,” The Reinholdt told him. “We leave that to you Southlanders. We prize our women in the Northlands.”
“Ohhhh! You mean like cattle!”
Her father cut her such a look that Dagmar wondered if the dragon cared for his head at all. Or did he want it mounted on her father’s bedroom wall with the two fifteen-hundred-pound bears he’d slaughtered the winter before?
“Lord Gwenvael, I’m sure you’re not trying to insult my father. Again.”
“Trying? As in effort? No.”
All right, she had to at least admit it to herself … He was funny. And had no concept of personal safety.
Not only that, but what was he doing bringing up how handsome the men in the north were—although she knew that lie for what it was—and admitting to the crying with her father right there. He was no fool, this dragon. He understood the ways of the north quite well. So what in the name of reason was he doing?
She didn’t know, but she couldn’t wait to find out.
“As it is our way, Father, we should let him stay the night.”
“Fine.”
“And can I join all of you for dinner?” the dragon kindly asked, blinking those big golden eyes.
“Dinner?” Her father looked at her. He was so confused right now, it was almost endearing.
“Aye. I’d love to chat with the great Reinholdt over dinner. As well as the delightful Lady Dagmar.”
“Well … I guess.”
“And those fine strapping, handsome sons of yours! They’re all not taken, are they?”
The snort was past her nose before she could stop it, but when she saw her father start to rise from his chair, she held up her hand.
“It’s all right, Father.” She leaned in and whispered loudly, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“You do that.”
Her father settled back in his chair, and Dagmar motioned to the door. “My Lord Gwenvael. I’ll show you to your room.”
Chapter 6
She led Gwenvael up to the second floor in another part of the building. The Main Hall may have been one mammoth room that could accommodate a small army, but behind that was an eight-story-high section that housed a substantial amount of sons, wives, and offspring.
“You’ll stay here.” Dagmar stepped into the room and waited for him to enter. “There are fresh linens, and the furs have been aired.”
He walked around the room. It could be worse, I guess.