Dark Highland Fire

His heartbeat slowed, pulsing through Rowan's hand and into her own breast, coaxing her own heartbeat into a matching and sensuous dance. In moments, the two hearts beat like one, that connection thrumming through both of their bodies as they faced each other in the hazy and scattered light.

"Two halves," Gabriel murmured as he watched her eyes grow blurred, "one whole. Your heart knows mine, Rowan an Morgaine. Even after a thousand years."

Rowan lingered, swaying faintly with the rhythm as though entranced. Then, without a warning, she ripped her hand from his grasp with a strangled cry, staring at her hand in horror as though he'd burned it. When her gaze connected with his, all Gabriel saw was stark terror, so raw that he wanted to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness for having put it there.

"My heart," she forced out in a near hiss, "is my own."

She clutched her hand to her chest, casting one more burning look at him before turning to race away through the trees back toward the house, picking up speed until she vanished, just a blur, in the distance.

Gabriel stood, silent and alone, staring after her long after she'd vanished. Finally he let out a soft, sad sigh and ran a hand back through his hair to shove it out of his eyes.

"I wish I could say the same," he said. But what he had just done, he could never undo.

And after a time, he started home.

Chapter 8

The golden silk walls of the cavernous tent billowed gently in the night breeze as she walked, feet bare upon sumptuous rugs. All around her was silence as she moved, every eye upon her. The revelers had paused in the midst of the nightly celebration, the Orinn from the nearby village dressed in their muted browns and greens mixed in with the women of her tribe, who stood out like bright jewels in bursts of color. The music, which had been a wild and sensuous beat, had ceased as abruptly as the nightly celebration at the sudden appearance of the two black-clad interlopers. The foreign Drakkyn. The Andrakkar.

Waiting, with their burning violet eyes, for her. And an answer.

People parted to make a path for her as she approached the dais from which the Dyana presided over the festivities. Elara, curled like a beautiful and aging lioness upon the pillows of the raised platform, watched her come, her expression inscrutable. Rowan felt her heart pounding in her chest as it never had, not even the first time she had tasted both blood and that first electric surge of her own power. Though she had never seen these two, she knew who they were. Their names had been whispered with fear and a sort of terrified reverence as befitted those from the Black Mountains, the lair of the dragons. Their territory might be far away, but the reachof their claws was wide. Only fools would fail to accord them the respect that demanded.

The tales of those who had not were, after all, both legendary and drenched in blood.

Rowan kept her head high, determined to meet Mordred and his son and heir, Lucien, as equals, though she knew they would not regard her as such. While there was no particular hierarchy among the Drakkyn, the dragons were most feared, and so considered themselves above all others. It had caused problems from time to time.

She feared this would be one of them.

At last she reached them, extending her arms out at her sides and dropping into a graceful curtsy as the tiny silver bells she wore at her wrists and ankles jingled softly in the oppressive silence. She felt their eyes on her, the cold burn of them, and had to force herself to rise up and meet them with her own. Violet fire bored into her from the twin gazes, making her skin crawl. Rowan struggled with the urge to scream.

"She is lovely, is she not, Lucien?" It was the older of the two who spoke, silver-haired but with a sharply handsome face that was practically unlined. Still, Rowan had no illusions that his beauty was anything more than skin-deep. There was a coldness that radiated from him, so strong that it raised the flesh into tiny bumps along her bare arms.

"Indeed." The voice was barely a whisper, a sound that did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. If anything, Lucien was more frightening than his father. There was a dangerous kind of heat in his gaze, along with a sense of immense power and barely restrained violence. He too was darkly handsome, she thought, recognizing it without letting herself be touched by it, His light skin and ebony hair were a striking contrast, setting off features that were almost hawkish. His tall and elegant frame gave an air of sensual grace, though it no doubt hid a terrible strength. He was, after all, Mordred's son. And "terrible" was a word often applied to him.

No, he might be beautiful to look at. But no woman who valued her life would ever see him as anything but what he, like most dragons, must be: a harbinger of a long, slow death.

And yet something about him, something Rowan couldn't quite place her finger on, was familiar, as though they had met long ago. As though some traitorous part of her recognized him, and instead of recoiling in fear and loathing, wished to know him better. It made no sense. And it unsettled her so deeply that she buried the feeling as best she could. She wanted no part of this dragon, or any other. And she knew for certain that whatever that odd connection was, she would never have any desire to lay with Lucien Andrakkar.

That much, at least, was a relief. She might occasionally be foolish, but she had never been self-destructive.

"I thank you for your kind words," she managed, schooling her expression into one of regal indifference. It was disconcerting, this sick unease roiling within her. She had always been supremely confident, fearing nothing. And yet in the presence of these men, she wanted desperately to be allowed to go back to hide among her sisters. A flash of bright blue caught her eye off in the far corner, and Rowan caught the barest glimpse of Bastion's troubledexpression before forcing her attention back to the matter at hand. As difficult as it was to believe, there could be little doubt as to what these men wanted.

Her.

This, despite the fact that the Dyadd, descended from the Goddess Morgaine herself, had not bound themselves to men since the arukhin, their beloved warrior shifters, had disappeared so long ago. Since the Andrakkar had enslaved them, only to see them escape into the unknown darkness beyond this world.

The Dyadd's choice had always been respected by the other Drakkyn. But it should come as no surprise that Mordred, of all dragons, should have decided to cast that aside. His house had overseen the enslavement of the arukhin, against all of the natural laws. And now, after all of this time, he had turned his eye to the forest once again.

Rowan shivered slightly. There were reasons there were so few women among the dragons. She did not want to find out whether she would have the strength to survive such an existence. They were not known for their kindness toward what they regarded as the weaker sex.

"She will do nicely, Elara," Mordred said, not bothering to acknowledge that Rowan had even spoken. "I believe my son has chosen well. You did say she would have succeeded you one day, yes? "

Elara's eyes flashed as golden as the long waves that coiled around her shoulders. "Rowan will one day become Dyana, yes. Of all my daughters, she is most suited. And I have not given her to you, Mordred. Nor will I. For reasons known to us both."

Mordred brushed this aside with a graceful wave of his hand, as though Elara's objections were a mere trifle. "Those reasons are exactly why I have come. Her power makes her ideally suited. In all of our travels, no other has come closer to being worthy. No, your daughter will bear the strongest rulers the Andrakkar have yet seen. My house will be reborn. And in return for her compliance, the forests of the Noor will remain untouched."

Though his voice was light, there was a thinly veiled menace in his words. Rowan's mouth went dry as she looked between the two rulers, Elara's expression both haughty and defiant, Mordred's faintly threatening. She didn't understand their exchange ... what "reasons"? Though her gift did not always please her, she had never considered it a detriment. But puzzling it out would have to wait. Her thoughts were scattered as Lucien continued to stare at her. She felt his eyes as they touched upon her body, on the high full breasts so proudly displayed by her low-cut bodice, on the hints of leg teasingly shown by the shimmering strips of material that comprised her long skirt. Rowan had never shied away from attention, but now it was all she could do to remain still, to look elsewhere so Lucien could not see the disgust in her eyes that she knew would be there.

"The Noor has no reason to fear attack, Mordred," Elara said pointedly. "The Drakkyn are at peace."

"Mmm," he said softly, toying with some invisible thread on the long, black cassock he wore. "And yet you are in an enviable position here. So many resources... so much this land has to offer should anyone decide to take a closer look."

Fear slipped down her spine like ice water. Had the ruler of the dragons just threatened attack should she refuse his son? Was she truly worth so much? Rowan look a deep breath. Impossible. They must want more than that. She was hardly worth such a display. All Dyadd were beautiful. She wasn't unusual in any way at all. And as for her power, Elara insisted that great things would come from her in time. She herself, however, was by no means convinced. No, the Andrakkar couldn't possibly resort to such things over a mere woman when everyone knew the ill regard they had for her gender.

Except Lucien continued to stare at her like a man possessed, lust mixed with some indefinable emotion in his gaze that she didn't want to understand. No woman could ever give enough to take that away, Rowan thought. Though she might kill herself trying...if he didn't kill her first.

"I'm sorry," Rowan said, determined to be heard, "but as it's my fate you're discussing, I think it should be my decision." All eyes shot directly to her, unnerving her, but she pressed on. It must be said. And it must come from her. She was a woman now by virtue of her twenty-six years. It had been many years since she'd hidden behind her mother's skirts. And there was no reason for Elara to bear the brunt of the blame for the refusal Rowan knew she had to give.

"Then give us your answer," Mordred said silkily, "and let us hope that you have more sense than your exalted mother." ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">