“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.
“If you need anything—”
“A bath. Please.” Gwenvael sat down on the end of the bed. The day had caught up with him and he was tired.
“Well, there’s a lake.” She walked to the window, looked out. “And I believe it might rain tonight if you want to stand outside.”
Gwenvael dropped his head into his hands.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“By all that’s holy, tell me you have a tub!”
When she didn’t answer, he looked up to find her hand over her mouth and her shoulders shaking as she laughed at him.
“Woman, don’t make me cry again. Because this time I promise you mucus.”
She laughed a little more freely now. “Reason’s defender, please no more of the crying.”
Gwenvael rubbed his tired eyes, yawned. “Reason’s defender? I haven’t heard that expression since the time of Aoibhell.”
“You’ve heard of Aoibhell? So you have read a book.”
“I’ve read at least two, but I actually knew her.”
“You knew Aoibhell the Learned? The philosopher?” She stepped closer. “You?”
“Don’t you mean Aoibhell the Heretic?” Arms behind him, palms flat against the bed, Gwenvael stretched his legs out in front of him. She was close enough that if he wanted to, he could run his foot up the inside of her leg. Well…He did want to, but he feared what might be waiting inside her skirt to snap his toes off. “Do you really not have a tub?”
“I have a tub. And heretic was an unfair title. So what was she like?”
“Like?” He shrugged. “She was nice enough. But she debated about absolutely everything. Do you really not believe in the gods?”
Dagmar kept her hands loosely clasped in front of her. To all outward appearances she seemed the perfect royal spinster daughter. Demure, well spoken, knowledgeable of etiquette, and just smart enough to hold conversation with those around her. But he already knew better. Only the brilliant and the brave followed Aoibhell’s teachings. To openly dispute others’ beliefs in the gods was risking a lot.
“There is nothing in Aoibhell’s teachings to suggest gods do not exist. But like her, I don’t worship them.”
Gwenvael smiled, remembering the passionate discussion he’d had with Aoibhell the Learned about the gods and her belief that reason and logic were all that was necessary to successfully and happily get through life. And it wasn’t that Gwenvael had disagreed with her at the time, but he could tell she liked to argue.
“Don’t you worry you’ll need a god one day?”
“No. They can’t be relied upon. One is better off standing on her feet, relying on herself rather than falling on her knees praying to gods who will not listen.”
He chuckled. “She would have liked you.”
“Would she?”
“She liked thinkers. ‘Those who think beyond their day-today cage,’ she’d say.”
“You really have met her. I’ve only read that phrase in some letters of hers a friend gave to me. Never in her books. Were you there when she passed?”
“No.” He winced at the memory. “We stopped speaking when she caught me in bed with one of her daughters. She was so mad. Came after me with a pitchfork.”
Her demure pose ended when her hands rested haughtily on her hips. “You defiled her daughter?”
“I didn’t defile anyone. Her daughter was a young widow. I was merely helping her back into life.”
“How altruistic of you.”
He grinned. “I thought so.” Gwenvael dropped his arms out at his sides and fell back on the bed. “Tub! Or I start stomping my feet and crying.”
“Please do. My father looked moments from throwing you out anyway.”
“He did, didn’t he?”
“A good crying fit should toss him right over the edge.”
“That