What a Dragon Should Know
Morfyd did know her brother would try, but still … This was Gwenvael!
“Is it Gwenvael again?”
Her body immediately tensed at the sudden intrusion until a familiar hand stroked down her back.
“I hurt his feelings,” she said without turning around. “I didn’t mean to.”
Lips brushed against her cheek, the back of her neck. Teeth nibbled lightly at her ear. “I know. But sometimes he does ask for it.”
Morfyd leaned back against the human male behind her. He’d come into her room the same way for the last few months—through her window. Their days may belong to the kingdoms they served, but their nights belonged to each other.
“He says we have no faith in him.”
Sir Brastias, general to the entire Dark Plains armies, put his arms around Morfyd’s body and held her close, his chin resting against her shoulder. “Faith and trust must be earned, Morfyd, and your brother plays too much for that to be the case. Besides, he can’t poke at the bear and be surprised when it attacks.”
“But he does care. In his own way. I know no one thinks he does, but he does. He really wants to help Annwyl. He’s worried about her.”
“We all are. She’s not been looking well these last few weeks.”
“I know. And I appreciate you making sure she’s not bothered with much.” And for keeping their relationship a wonderful secret. Morfyd wished she could say it was only her worries for Brastias’s physical health should her brothers find out that kept her from admitting the truth. But it was more than that. It was having to tell her mother that almost had her curling into a ball on her bed, afraid to move. Queen Rhiannon could be difficult at the best of times, and the gods knew she treated her sons vastly different from the way she treated her daughters.
“I try to protect her, but sometimes she searches me out.” He smiled, a rare thing of utter beauty. She always felt like his smiles were a special gift just for her. “How much longer?”
“I don’t know. It should be at least another two months. But even with twins … she shouldn’t be this big yet.”
“Are you terribly worried?”
“I’m worried.” She rested her head against his. “I’m definitely worried.”
“You’re already doing the best that you can for her. She can’t ask for more than that. None of us can.”
“I know.”
“She won’t be at dinner tonight. Did anyone tell you?”
“No.” She instantly became concerned. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine. Fearghus said she just wanted to lie in tonight. It sounds like few will be down in the Great Hall.”
“All right.”
“So I thought you and I could have dinner up here. Have our own lie in.”
She turned her face toward his, let the feel of his kiss move through her.
“Were you going to wear that dress tonight at dinner?”
Her eyes fluttered open, and she realized he’d stopped kissing her. She hated when he stopped kissing her.
“This? Uh … I was just trying it on. I wasn’t going to wear it.”
“Let me see.” He pulled away from her. “Go on. I want to see.”
Feeling uncomfortable, she stood and slowly turned to face him. She should never wear red. Her mother had specifically told her she should never wear red. What had she been thinking?
“Back up a bit so I can see the whole dress.”
She took several steps back. “Well?”
“Nice gown. You look amazing in red.”
“I do?”
“Aye.” His gaze swept her from head to foot and back again. “You do.”
Morfyd felt her confidence grow under that gaze. Blossom. “Thank you.”
He stretched out on the bed and let out a wonderfully contented sigh, his gaze never leaving hers. “It’s a tragic shame you won’t be wearing it for long, though.”
Walking toward him, her fingers already sliding the sleeves of the dress off her shoulders, she said, “Aye, Brastias. A tragic shame.”
Gwenvael shook his hair out of that stupid braid and began to pace his room.
“Of course,” he muttered to himself, “don’t send Gwenvael. He’ll just muck it up. Useless, worthless Gwenvael.”
From one of his three brothers, Morfyd’s comment could and would have been dismissed. But from either Morfyd or his younger sister, Keita, it hurt. Deeply. For them to think he didn’t take any of this seriously hurt. Annwyl meant the world to him, and he wouldn’t risk her or the twins. So why did his family not see it? Was it because he refused to face every challenge as some grim test to the death? Should he constantly glower at every living thing like Fearghus? Or show nothing but constant disdain like Briec? Or perhaps be constantly wide-eyed and openly earnest like Éibhear? Could his kin only then take him seriously? How, after all these years, could they still not see?
And he refused to hear any longer that it was his “whoring” as his father loved to call it. None of his kin had been monks, though Morfyd was the closest to that ideal than any of the others.
Yet when it was all said and done, it was only Annwyl, a human he hadn’t even known five years, much less two centuries or more, who seemed to understand his worth. Only she had any true faith in him.
Because of that, she would be the reason he would not fail.
A knock pulled him from his rather depressing thoughts—and the gods knew he hated being maudlin—and he walked across the room to open the thick, sturdy wooden door. When he thought about it, most things in the north seemed made of wood and sturdy. Even the people.