by G. A. Aiken
Once Vigholf finished eating, they headed back to where they had left the horses. Separating from Rhona for a bit had been a good idea. It had allowed him to get his reason back. Although he didn’t regret kissing Rhona, he now realized he’d have to handle this with much more finesse. Something he knew he could manage . . . with a lot of effort. But, still . . . manageable.
“So what did you do in town?” Rhona asked once they were well on the road.
“Got information,” he said, finally able to pull the hood of his cape off his head. It had begun to annoy him.
“Information? I thought you’d never been to this town before.”
“I haven’t, but you can always find out information. You just need to know the kind of places to go and the kind of people to ask.”
“I’m impressed. I always seem to be the last one anyone sends out for information.”
“Because you’re such a soldier that you can’t help but look like you’re interrogating someone.”
She laughed. “Thank you very much!”
He bumped her with his elbow. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”
“You didn’t mean that I’m a villainous soldier that terrifies the poor townsfolk with my intimidating demeanor?”
“Well . . . you’re not villainous.”
“So what did you find out?” she asked, surprised that hadn’t been the first question out of her mouth. Gods, who knew the Northlander could be so bloody distracting? Especially when all she wanted to do was demand to know what the hells that kiss had been about.
“We’re on the right track. Three females were seen coming through town, dressed as travelers, on foot, but they sounded so large and well armed, they had to be Annwyl, Izzy, and Branwen.”
She laughed. “When the Cadwaladrs don’t breed them big, they mate with the big ones. Usually.” She adjusted the pack she carried. “How long since they went through?”
“Three days, give or take a day.”
“Shit. They’re way ahead of us.”
“We’ll find them.”
“Because we have horses?”
“No. Because those three will find trouble, no matter how they’re dressed or what they do to be ignored. Trust me. . . . We’ll find them.”
“Anything else?”
“It seems that more Sovereign soldiers have been seen around as well. More than the townsfolk are used to since the war began. And even more in the last few days.”
“They causing any problems?”
“Not so far, but we should be careful.”
To Rhona’s surprise, the horses were where she’d left them, grazing on grass and nuzzling each other.
Rhona pulled out a burlap bag filled with fruit she’d picked up in town, but Vigholf took it from her. “I’ll feed them.”
“You will?”
“I think they like me.”
“No, they don’t.”
“The stallion lets me ride him.”
“Only because he’s keeping an eye on the mare. He couldn’t care less about you.”
“I don’t agree.” And off he went.
“You can’t be that oblivious,” she told his back, but she realized that not only could he be that oblivious . . . he was that oblivious.
Shaking her head, Rhona walked over to a nice spot and pulled out her bedroll. She spread it out and sat down, letting out a weary sigh.
She placed the palms of her hands flat behind her, propping her up, and stretched out her legs.
But she wasn’t surprised when she heard, “Oaf!” seconds before Vigholf flipped over her legs and slammed into a nearby tree.
“I told you they don’t—”
“Quiet,” the Lightning barked at her, getting himself up and stepping over her to march right back over there.
Two seconds later, he came flying back again.
“What is wrong with you?” Vigholf demanded of the stallion.
“He doesn’t like you and he doesn’t want you around his female,” Rhona explained.
“I don’t care.” Vigholf stepped over her legs, heading over to the stallion again, but Rhona reached up and grabbed his arm. “You of all dragons should understand his position. Now sit.” When Vigholf only glared at the horse, Rhona insisted, “Sit down. Now!”
“Fine!” Vigholf threw the bag of fruit in the horses’ direction. “Here, you bastard!”
Rhona bit the inside of her mouth to stop from laughing and was pleasantly relieved that everything seemed back to normal again.
She pulled on his arm until he finally sat beside her. “You take things so personally.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do, but you need to let it go. For your sake.” She released his arm and brushed the growing welt on his forehead. “Before that mean bastard cracks your skull open.”
“I thought we could bond over the fruit.”
“You’re not going to bond with that one. Just be glad they’ve stayed with us this long.”
“Bastard,” he muttered while rubbing his abused forehead. “Just a mean bastard.”
“You should be used to mean bastards.”
“Don’t talk about my kin like that.”
“Actually,” she told him, “I was speaking of my own.”
“Oh. Then you have a point.”
Rhona took another look at Vigholf’s head. “That’s swelling. I better get a compress for it.” She leaned over Vigholf to get a cloth from her bag. That’s when she felt him bury his nose against her neck and take a deep breath.
Rhona froze. “Are you smelling me?”
“No,” the Lightning replied, but the word was muffled by all the hair he had his face buried in.
“All right then.”
She pulled a clean cloth from her bag and, after easing away from Vigholf, went to the river, and plunged the material into the cold water.
Looking around for some snow or, even better, a bit of ice, Rhona stood and turned—only to find Vigholf standing right behind her. She took a step back, startled to find him so close and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“What’s that look on your face?”
“What look?”
“Like you’re starving.” Rhona briefly closed her eyes, exasperated, immediately realizing this had nothing at all to do with her. This dragon was a bottomless pit! “Gods of death, you cannot be hungry again. You just ate.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But you have your hungry face.”
“My hungry face?”
“I guess you never noticed it because you never look in a mirror, but you have this . . . hungry face. Like you’re a starving man ain’t seen a good stew in years.”
“Well, I don’t have that look for stew.”
Rhona panicked a little and desperately whispered, “This isn’t about the horses, is it? You can’t go around eating our transportation.”
Vigholf snatched the compress from her hand, inexplicably aggravated. “I have no intention of eating our transportation.” He pressed the cloth to his head. She was guessing he had a headache. His own fault really, trying to feed the horses.
“You can’t lie to me, Vigholf. You clearly want something to eat, but you’re not getting it. Not tonight. We need to economize with our supplies.”
“I’m not hungry,” Vigholf growled.
“You need to find a way to control your appetite.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We’re going into enemy territory,” Rhona felt the need to explain as she would to one of her cousins or siblings. “I don’t know how regularly we’ll be able to get you food. So you’ll really need to—”
“I’m not hungry!” he yelled at her.
Rhona slammed her finger into his chest. “Don’t yell at me, you Northland bastard. I’m not the one who looks like he hasn’t had a meal in years.”
“You want me to be honest with you?” Vigholf snapped. “You want me to tell you why I have my hungry face
as you call it? Because of you. Because I’m hungry for you. If there’s anything I want to eat—it’s you.”
Rhona stepped back, hands on hips, and accused, “You cannibalistic bastard!”
And that was when the mare charged Rhona and shoved her into the river.
Vigholf nodded at the mare. “Thank you for that. Because I’d been moments from doing it myself.” Because no one could possibly be that oblivious. No one!
Gasping and desperately trying to push wet hair out of her eyes, Rhona got to her feet.
“What was that for?” she demanded, pulling herself out of the river.
“Because,” Vigholf answered for both him and the mare, “sometimes you ain’t half a dimwitted twit.”
“Me?” she nearly screeched. “Me? I’m the dimwitted twit, O Great Feeder of the Horses?”
“I was trying to bond!”
“Well, bloody good job you’re doing with that.” Rhona held her arms out at her sides. “Look at me! It’ll take forever for my clothes to dry. Arrrgh!” She glared at him. “I should set you on fire!”
“I wasn’t the one who pushed you in. Although I wanted to.”
“Oh, really? Well, I’d like to see you try.”
And, with a shrug, Vigholf shoved Rhona back into the river. He took great satisfaction in hearing that splash.
The mare, shaking her head, walked back to the stallion.
“She dared me,” he argued, holding his hand out for Rhona to grasp so he could help her out of the river. “I couldn’t ignore a dare.”
Then again, he couldn’t ignore that fist to the jaw either. And gods-dammit that female had a mighty right hook!
“You’re just lucky,” Rhona told him as she got out of the river by herself, “that I respect your brother too much to bring him back your corpse!”
Vigholf rubbed his jaw. “The punch was unnecessary,” he muttered.
“Shut up.” She walked around him. “Just . . . shut up.”
“We’re not done talking, Rhona,” he said to her back.
“What else is there to talk about? You’re an insane Lightning and that mare has no bloody loyalty. All seems clear to me.”
Fed up, frustrated, and out of ideas, Vigholf just admitted the truth.
“I want you, Rhona.”
She stripped off her soaking-wet fur cape and put it over a low-hanging branch near her bedroll. “You want me to do what?”
At that point, Vigholf was at a loss. He raised his hands in defeat, his mouth open as he gawked at her.
When he didn’t reply to her stupid question, Rhona looked at him. “Why are you staring at me like . . .” She blinked. Twice. “Oh. You mean . . .” Her eyes widened. “Oh!” Narrowed. “Oh.” Shook her head, appearing a bit disgusted. “Oh.” Then she smiled a bit. “Oh.” Then she sort of slumped and sighed. “Oh.”
“What was all that?” he demanded.
“It means I’ll not settle.”
Vigholf felt rage suddenly explode through his veins. She’d said something like that before, and he hadn’t much liked it then either. “And with me you’d be settling?” he bit out between clenched teeth.
“Well, we’d both be settling, wouldn’t we?”
“What?”
“No need to bellow. But it’s plain, yeah? I’m here. I’m unattached.” She pointed at her crotch. “I’ve got a pus—”
“Yes,” Vigholf cut in. “I’m well aware of what you have.”
“That’s it then. You have needs. I understand that. But I’ll not let some dragon fuck me because I happen to be here. Get yourself a barmaid.”
“Is that what you think?” Vigholf asked her. “That I only want you because you’re here?”
“You expect me to believe a Northlander would be seriously interested in one of us?”
“Us? You mean a Southland female? The ones you constantly accuse us of stealing?”
“No. I mean us. The scarred-up, less-than-reputable, drink-too-much, curse-too-often Cadwaladr females. The ones you lot never steal.”
“We did once. And do you know what happened?” Vigholf asked her. “While one of your bloody aunts was removing the lungs from her captors, your Uncle Bercelak was kidnapping and dismembering the eldest sons of all the Horde leaders . . . until she was returned. Soooo, stealing Cadwaladr females. Not something we do anymore.”
“Oh.” Rhona rubbed her nose, and he knew she was trying not to laugh. “Right. Heard about that. That was my Aunt—”
“Don’t care,” he admitted. “But if you want to know why my kin were specifically not giving you a second glance—that was because I told them not to.”
“You . . . you told them not to?”
“Strongly told them not to. With great force.”
Rhona shook her head, confused. “What does that mean?”
“It means I told them to stay away from what was mine.”
Wait . . . what? “Yours?”
“Mine. I told them that if they wanted to keep their eyes in their heads and scales on their backs—they’d stay as far away from you as possible.”
“But—”
He started walking toward her. “And, as my kind often does, my younger brother tried to test me. Kept looking at you. Growling inappropriately.”
“How does one growl inappropriate—”
“Lusting after what was mine.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you—”
“So I cracked his bloody head open with my hammer.”
Rhona froze and focused on the seething male before her. “You did what?”
“He survived. His head was kind of flat anyway.”
“He’s your brother!” she yelled.
“Then he shouldn’t have looked!” Vigholf yelled back at her.
Disgusted, she turned from him and returned to her bedroll. “You’re worse than Éibhear and Celyn!”
“I am not,” he shot back, insulted. “Unlike that Blue baby, I made it clear from the very beginning I had interest in you. The fact that my brother chose to ignore that was his own damn mistake.”
“Oh, well, I guess that makes it all right then.”
“As far as Northlanders are concerned, it does.” He followed her. “You might as well accept that I knew what my intentions toward you were from the very beginning. And the fact that you’re a Cadwaladr was simply my burden to bear.”
“Your burden to . . .” No. Best not get into that or she’d hit him again. So Rhona took a deep breath and crossed her arms over her chest. “And when exactly was the beginning of this great want? An hour or so? Two? When you kissed me this morning?”
“No. Since that night you got drunk with your cousins at Garbhán Isle.”
Rolling her eyes, Rhona reminded him, “That happened . . . what? Two days ago?”
“Not that time. The other time. When me, Ragnar, and Meinhard brought Éibhear and Keita back from the Northlands and Outer Plains.”
Frowning, “What the hells are you talking about?”
“I was sitting up one night, staring out the window . . . missing my damn hair.” And gods, the glare she got when she laughed. “When I saw all these dragons flying low—all of you for some reason wearing eye patches—when you suddenly dropped Keita like a sack of grain.” Rhona winced at the memory. Although it was more about those ridiculous homemade eye patches than dropping Keita, but that involved a long explanation she wasn’t about to get into.
“The others went up and over the building, but you . . . you flew right into the wall by my window. Damaged the stone with that hard head of yours.”
“Oy!”
“But all I could think was, ‘Look at the tail on that one.’ You know why? Because that was my tail. And since you seem to be the only one completely oblivious to that—even after that damn kiss—let me make it clear for you . . .” He stood right in front of her and yelled, “My tail!”
Rhona let out a breath and stepped away from him, turning her back.
Vigho
lf gritted his teeth, now angry with himself rather than her. This hadn’t been how he’d planned things. But the female was just so damn frustrating and confusing he had no idea where she was coming from or going!
For instance who knew she’d slam him in the knee with the butt of her gods-damn spear, forcing him down? Then who knew she’d press the tip of that spear to his throat? But that’s exactly what she did.
Vigholf gazed up at her, staring at the pretty face with the small scar on her cheek.
“All right,” he said, trying not to move. “I’m a prat. That don’t change how I feel, Rhona.”
“Good. That makes this a bit easier then, don’t it?”
Then she leaned down and kissed him—making Vigholf even more confused!
Chapter 19
All this would have been so much easier if Vigholf had been just a tad clearer. Complaining about her spear and calling her Babysitter were not acceptable ways to show interest. At least not for Rhona.
Because Rhona was not a subtle female and she didn’t know how to read subtle either. How to understand it. She was a straightforward dragoness, and she expected that straightforwardness returned in kind.
And once she was clear on his intentions, understood them, well, then . . . the rest was quite easy. At least for her.
So Rhona kissed him. Hard. Her tongue sliding into his mouth, tasting and teasing, her lips desperately pressed to his, surprising herself with the intensity of it all. But there really was something about this dragon that she very much liked. Perhaps more than she was willing to admit. But now, out here, far away from wars and battles and troops and kin and all the other distractions that could ruin a day, all Rhona had to worry about, to think about—for once—was her and Vigholf.
And truly, it was the best feeling ever.
Vigholf never expected her to kiss him. And her kiss was desperate, demanding, which was exactly how Vigholf felt. How he’d been feeling since a tumble of brown wings, hair, and talons had slammed into the castle wall beside his room, damaging the brick and stone and his equilibrium.