Dragon Song (Dawn of the Dragon Queen Book 1) Page 5

  She inwardly smiled at the weapon in her hand─leverage to assist her weak human body. Jumping to her feet, she managed to steady herself while smashing the tankard across the head of another knight. Though she heard the crack of bone, Fiona briefly wondered if she’d done any harm at all. The knight simply walked to the other side of the room, weaving between tables before he reached the back wall.

  Clutching tightly to her weapon, Fiona’s chest swelled with pride as she watched the knight slowly slide down the wall.

  The farmer still battled the two big knights who’d first accosted her. She had not seen the farmer strike, but the white haired-knight dropped his sword, clutching his chest as blood seeped from between his fingers.

  The other knight fell against her table, grasping a bleeding wound at his throat. The structure wobbled beneath her. She heard the sound of wood splitting and screamed as she flew into the air.

  Then she landed in a strong embrace. Instinctively, she clenched her fingers, but when her nails pierced the flesh of her palm, her throat tightened at the realization she’d lost her tankard.

  Balling hands into fists, she prepared to strike the man holding her.

  Only then did she look at him—into eyes paler than the summer sky.

  “Are ye hurt?” His voice was strong with a gentle edge.

  A tremor shot to her core, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Nay, are you?”

  One corner of his mouth hitched up in a slight smile. “I am well, but I think we should go before the magistrate arrives.” His brogue was not thick like the other villagers she’d encountered this day. “Are ye able to stand?”

  ’Twas then Fiona realized the farmer was still holding her. But how could she have forgotten? Her mind was so muddled at the moment, she could hardly muster a coherent thought.

  “A-Aye,” she stammered.

  Slowly, and ever so gently, the man placed her on her feet. Fiona sighed when he released her. For a moment, she thought she missed the warmth of his touch. She shook her head, trying to clear her brain of such foolish notions.

  She’d vowed long ago never to lose her heart to a man. Men brought only heartache. She’d learned that from her sire.

  Fool that she was, the breath was stolen from her lungs when she looked into his face again. The lines around his pale eyes suggested his age, mayhap thirty-five summers or more. But he was far more handsome than any young mortal she’d ever known. Perhaps ’twas the compassion she’d read beneath his soft gaze.

  His warm hand still clutched hers, and though she knew she ought to pull free, she made no attempt to let go. He opened the heavy door and led her into the crisp night air.

  Still clutching his hand, Fiona followed without care or thought for anything save her blue-eyed swordsman. A voice flickered through the recesses of her mind, warning her ’twas folly to become smitten over a man. ’Twas her mother’s voice, she was sure. But her mother had been dead six autumns, and Fiona’s hand cradled in his was so welcoming. Fiona realized she’d been alone far too long.

  “I’ve not seen ye before, lass. Where is yer home?” His deep voice pulled her out of her trance.

  “Home.” She mouthed the words, slightly stunned by the hollow sound of her own voice.

  They’d come to a halt. Fiona looked up, into the intensity of his gaze as he stared at her in silence. Still clutching his hand, she spun a half-circle, surveying her surroundings. She had not realized he’d led her off the cobblestone path and into the dense forest, illuminated only by the pale light of the full moon.

  “I think I should escort ye home.” The pad of his thumb traced gentle circles along the tender cup of her hand.

  Fiona’s knees weakened, and her legs wobbled like jelly. Instinctively, she leaned into him, craving the warmth radiating off his broad frame.

  “I have no home,” she spoke on an exhale while resting her cheek against the cradle of his chest.

  His arm came around her and settled on the small of her back. Then he stroked up the length of her spine until his thick fingers threaded through her riotous curls. Tucking several strands of hair behind her ear, he spoke in a throaty whisper. “Ye may stay with me if ye like.”

  * * *

  Fiona barely remembered the journey to the stranger’s small, dark hut. Her dragon-touched eyes normally took in every nuance of her surroundings, but she’d been blinded by a pair of handsome, pale eyes and a warm, seductive smile.

  After he’d hung her shawl beside the hearth, he bade her sit on a low wooden stool and handed her a heavy goblet filled with swirling amber liquid. She smiled into the mead, discreetly admiring his finely sculpted form while he stoked the embers of the fire. Though the man seemed to have entranced her, she had enough sense to know what would become of her that night. He would caress, kiss, and toy with her, making her as pliable as a soft piece of clay. Then he would carry her to his warm furs and make love to her. And she wouldn’t do a damned thing to stop him.

  Fiona knew she should have thanked the man for the drink and warm fire and then fled. Aye, that’s what she should have done. But the effects of the potent mead made her head whirl, carrying away her doubts in a lust-induced current.

  Her mind told her to fly to the safety of the secret cave she and her mother had once shared, for her mother had warned her men brought only heartache. In truth, she wanted to flee. But she wanted him more.

  His masculine spices—a mixture of sweat, leather, and sage—assailed her senses as he drew near. He sat beside her on the stone hearth, warming his hands in front of the fire.

  “Are ye hungry?” He leaned over her, pouring more mead into her goblet.

  “No.” A shiver coursed through her as the scent of desire pulsed off his skin.

  He frowned. “Are ye chilled?”

  “No,” she said, clenching her hands to still her trembling. What had come over her? How had a mere mortal reduced her to a quivering flower?

  “Then what can I do for ye, lass?” He clasped her small hands in his, the calluses on his fingers chafing her smooth skin.

  Fiona pondered his question. What did she want him to do for her. She wanted him to show her what it felt like to spend the night in the arms of a man. She wanted to feel the intimacy of his mouth on hers, to understand why mortals so easily fell under the spell of desire. But most of all, after six years of traveling alone and missing the familiarity of a kind word or a tender hug, she wanted to feel loved.

  Fiona silently stood, unlacing her bodice and letting her dress fall to the floor. She turned up her chin, meeting his shocked gaze with a subtle smile. “Can you make love to me?”

  “Aye,” he said on a throaty growl. “I can do that.”

  * * *

  Galveston, 1900

  Fiona woke with a start. Her chest heaved and her limbs shook. Her sweat-drenched hair and shift clung to her flushed skin. It had been so long since she’d dreamed of the night she had fallen in love with MacQuoid. The night they had conceived Safina. Dreams of the coupling they’d shared could only mean one thing: their souls had awakened. MacQuoid would soon be aware Fiona was no longer in slumber. He would search for her like a moth drawn to a flame. Their need for one another was part of their connection.

  This time, Fiona would not flee. She would no longer fight the invisible tether that bound them. She would let him come to her. She would be waiting for him, and she would use the speaker to sever their bond for good.

  Careful not to disturb Safina, Fiona pushed aside the thin sheet shielding them from the night air and rose from their soft bed. She knelt on a padded bench and slid open the window.

  Fiona heaved a sigh of relief as the salty air cooled her flesh. With her heightened dragon senses, she inhaled deeply the smell of her surroundings: seaweed drying out along the shoreline, pungent shrimp being unloaded on the docks, the scent of freshly chopped wood, and the fragrant aroma of baking bread. Though the sun had yet to peek over the horizon, dawn must be approaching.

&nbs
p; On this new day, Fiona would honor her word and heal the Jenkens child. Then she and Josef would devise a way to sever her bond with MacQuoid.

  She did not know the cost of unleashing such dark magic, and she no longer cared. All that mattered was that she would finally be rid of this bond that tethered her to him, a tempest of emotions that threatened to shatter her very sanity.

  Chapter Seven

  Scotland – 1429

  She looked too much like the girl of his dreams.

  Duncan had been a fool for taking her to bed–he knew it, but when he awoke with her in his arms, the woman did not feel like the phantom soul who’d haunted his nightmares.

  Nay, she felt sweet and warm and all too real.

  More than anything, Fiona felt right.

  Chased away the nightmares, she had. Yesternight was the first in six years he’d not had to endure the tortured look in the woman’s eyes while she slowly died from the spear he’d thrust through her chest.

  Duncan chanced a look at Fiona’s sleeping face. A soft moan escaped her throat as he stroked the crook of her arm with the pad of his thumb. She was a beauty. Riotous curls fanned her nude body in crimson waves. She was slender with a small frame, although she was not soft like most females. Her body was firm from labor of some kind.

  He remembered the jolt of fear that shot to his gut yester-eve when she’d wandered into the pub. She’d strolled up to the giant knight without care or concern for her own safety. Even from the dark recesses of the shadowed corner where he sat each night, hoping to drink away the memories of that fateful day, he’d seen the determination in her face.

  Why had she come to this remote edge of the world, looking for a dragonslayer? He silently hoped her village was not plagued by a dragon, for he knew he’d not have it in his heart to spear another.

  Even for her.

  A wild thought crossed his mind. He would persuade his amber-eyed lass to stay here with him. He would keep her safe, and perhaps having her in his bed each night, loving her, was what he needed to restore peace to his life.

  The lass’s eyes fluttered open, twin amber gems with flecks of gold. She smiled up at him, smoothing a slender hand over the stubble on his face.

  “Good morrow, lass,” he rasped as desire coursed through him. He had a mind to take her again, making love to her the rest of the day.

  She stretched her arms above her head, letting the furs fall away from her small, pebbled breasts. “Good morrow.”

  He instinctively cupped one soft mound, intrigued by the thrumming in the tips of his fingers. “I feel your heart beating as if ’twere my own. You have bewitched me.”

  Her eyes bulged as she bolted upright. “I am not a witch.”

  “At ease, lass.” Duncan cupped her cheek, stroking her lip. “I know what you are.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You do?”

  “Aye.” He smiled. “An angel sent to chase away my nightmares.”

  She came to her knees, leaning into him as concern marred her pretty brow. “What bad dreams plague you?”

  At once, her worry washed over him. How had he felt her emotion?

  “’Tis nothing.” Duncan shook his head, trying to clear the odd feeling of the lass searching inside his mind. “This connection that we share. I’ve never felt this way before.”

  Her eyes widened as she placed a hand on his heart. “My mother told me of this. I think we are bonded.”

  “Bonded?”

  “Aye.” She frowned, casting her gaze to her hands as she fisted them in her lap. “Mates.”

  Duncan sensed the embers of her despair stoking deep within her bosom, fanned by the flames of worry and frustration. “You are upset?”

  She nodded, her gaze meeting Duncan’s for a brief moment before looking away. “I did not plan for this.”

  “I have no regrets, Fiona. I could love you each night for an eternity.” Duncan spoke in earnest, though he had to admit this mysterious connection they shared troubled him. He did not understand it, but he knew his amber-eyed lass had not meant to bewitch him. Somehow, they would find a way to make sense of this.

  The conflagration of her emotions burst through his senses until he feared he’d suffocate under the weight of her worry.

  “I’m sorry.” Her shoulders sagged as if she bore the weight of a thousand stones. “It’s just I made a vow to my mother. A vow I must keep. I cannot be the mate you deserve until I find the dragonslayer.”

  An invisible noose wound around Duncan’s throat. He had vowed he’d not kill another dragon, but how could he refuse his mate and cause her anguish? “Do you seek revenge against a dragon? Did a dragon kill your mother?” His breath hitched as he awaited her response.

  “I wish it were so simple. ’Twas a monster who killed my mother, but ’twas no dragon.” Her voice cracked as she looked up at him with wet eyes.

  He felt her sorrow as keenly as if ’twere his own. “I must find the dragonslayer, and after I do, I will come back to you.”

  Duncan clasped her hands in his, tenderly stroking her fingers and hoping to ease her suffering. “Who is this dragonslayer you seek?”

  “I only know him by name—MacQuoid.”

  Duncan sucked in a breath through a hiss. How ironic that the lass who’d brought him so much joy would now be a source of newfound sorrow. For how could he kill her monster, and how could he live with himself if he did not?

  Though he did not wish to reveal his identity, he knew he had no choice. As their emotions were now tethered, she would learn soon enough.

  He cleared his throat, summoning the courage to speak. “We share a connection I do not understand,” he spoke softly while continuing to caress her fingers. “It is as if our hearts are entwined and beating as one. Yet we know so little about one another.” His voice dropped to a strained whisper as he averted his gaze, unable to look in her eyes as shame overcame him. “I am Duncan MacQuoid, Fiona.”

  “Murderer!” She shoved him back with such force, he toppled from the bed in a tangle of furs.

  “Fiona, ’tis me, Duncan,” he cried as he struggled to stand.

  What had come over her? One moment they were caressing beneath the warm furs, and the next she had sprung from his bed, screaming like a banshee.

  “I know who you are, MacQuoid. Dragonslayer!” She ended on a shrill sob before covering her face with her hands.

  Duncan stood, kicking the furs to the side and reaching for her. “I am a dragonslayer no more, Fiona.”

  “Why did you make love to me? You should have killed me like you did the rest of my kind.” She rushed through the flap of his tiny hut into the cool morning air.

  Swearing under his breath, Duncan wrapped a fur around his waist and chased after her.

  Surely they had both gone mad.

  The morning was exceptionally cold, and Fiona wore not a stitch of clothes. A chill wind from the north whipped the heavy branches overhead into a frenzy. Autumn leaves danced around Fiona’s feet as she wept, kneeling beside a fallen oak.

  The sharp edge of her suffering pierced the cavity of Duncan’s chest. He still did not understand how her emotions had been tethered to his own, but he did feel her pain, so keen he thought his heart would break from it.

  “Fiona, you are mistaken. Come inside where ’tis warm,” he pleaded.

  She looked up at him through tear-soaked eyes. “You killed my mother!” Her body shook with violent tremors. “You struck her with a spear, and she had never sought to harm mankind. Never!”

  Duncan’s head spun and he felt weightless. Mouth agape, he stared at her, hoping his senses would return. And then the words from the she-dragon reverberated through his skull.

  I have never sought to harm mankind. Never!

  “’Twas a dragon I speared, not a human.” But even as he said the words, he knew ’twas a lie. That dragon had been no dumb beast. She was something more.

  “She was my mother!” Fiona wailed. “She was kind and good and all I had left in the
world.”

  “Fiona,” Duncan struggled for words, knowing nothing he could say would ever bring back her mother. “Forgive me.” Stepping forward, he reached out, needing to touch her and soothe her pain.

  “Do not touch me! Do not ever touch me!”

  What happened next Duncan would not have believed had he not seen the she-dragon transform into a beautiful woman each night in his dreams.

  But those were dreams, and the dragon hovering above him now was no fantasy, though just a moment before she had been his beautiful lass.

  Panting like a wounded animal, she singed his hair with her fiery breath.

  Duncan did not cower. He did not fear. They had shared a connection when he loved her beneath the light of the full moon. She would not harm him now.

  He looked up into her amber eyes, which were the same as last night, only larger, sadder. ’Twas then he knew neither of them would come away from this unscathed. For her heart was shattered, and he did not know how he could live without her forgiveness.

  * * *

  New York City, 1900

  “Your coffee and morning paper, sir.”

  After the buxom maid set the tray on Duncan’s expansive mahogany desk, she curtsied low, wanting him to salivate over her bounteous breasts, no doubt.

  Duncan did not know how many times he’d have to thwart her advances before he would be forced to terminate her employment. He was growing ever more tired of his servants’ lack of propriety. With each passing century, they seemed to grow more bold and licentious.

  “Thank you, Agnes,” he said with a purposely disinterested slur while keeping his gaze on the index of the paper. He quickly scanned the headlines, breathing a sigh of relief that no dragon sightings had been reported.

  “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “No, thank you,” he said tersely as his eyes caught hers from over the rim of the paper.

  For the first time he noticed she was wearing heavy face paints like a harlot. Her eyelashes were thick with black stuff, and it looked as if her pudgy cheeks had been smeared with the pox.