“I trust that dragon with my life and the life of my kin,” she said. “But I’ll never trust him with my food.” She glanced down at the purebred dog who’d followed her around the tiny room, his long and thick whiplike tail threatening to knock over everything in his wake. “Or Canute,” she added.
“I’d never trust him—or his brothers—with my Canute.”
“I probably wouldn’t trust his youngest sister either,” Ragnar added, thinking of that guard dog in Bampour’s dungeon. “As a precaution.” Ragnar took a handful of cookies. Dagmar sat opposite him, her dog settling at her side so that he faced the door but could still keep his eye on Ragnar. The woman did know how to earn loyalty.
Never one to waste time on niceties when unnecessary, Dagmar got right to it. “What brings you back into the Southlands, Lord Ragnar?” He remembered when she’d called him “Brother Ragnar.” When she’d believed him to be a human monk. At the time, he had honestly thought she could never understand or handle who he truly was. He’d been wrong. He still felt regret for that mistake. Immense regret.
“Escorting Keita and…uh…the boy.”
Dagmar nibbled on a cookie. She probably limited herself to one or two a day at the most, used to the rules of economy that the Northland humans believed in rather than the excesses of the South. The Hordes had similar ideals—but not when it came to food. “What boy?”
“The blue one.”
Her smile was quick and warm. “Éibhear’s home?” Ragnar studied the warlord’s daughter before he relaxed back in his chair. He appreciated the fact that the furniture had been built for dragons in human form. Nothing more embarrassing than leaning back in a chair and having the damn thing break on you. “What is it about him that makes all you females eager to see him?”
“Blue hair?”
“Mine’s purple.”
Grey eyes that had always reminded him of the finest steel peered at him through spectacles he’d made for her many years ago. “A bit jealous, my lord?”
Ragnar couldn’t help but pout a little. “No.”
“I can’t believe you’re yelling at me!” Keita wailed. “Do I mean nothing to you? ”
“Don’t try that with me, Mistress Mayhem. You were the one who cut off contact with us. You were the one who blamed us for getting caught unaware in Northern territories,” Briec reminded her.
“I never blamed you,” she insisted. “Who said I did?” But as soon as she asked the question, her eyes narrowed, and she accused, “Mother.”
“Don’t blame her. She didn’t tell you to cut off contact with us.”
“I had some things to take care of,” she argued.
“So you run off with that”—Briec sniffed in Ren’s direction—“foreigner?”
“Oy! Be nice to the foreigner!” Gwenvael cut in. “Him I know.”
“What’s going on?” a voice asked from the castle steps, and Briec immediately rolled his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh.
“Nothing to worry yourself about, my precious sweet tart,” he replied.
A brown hand caught Keita’s arm and dragged her out of the big-brother pile she’d been trapped in.
“Talaith!” Keita cheered, hugging the acid-tongued witch tight. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you, sister.” They pulled away from each other, and Talaith gave Keita an astonishing smile that lit up her whole face until she faced her mate and that smile quickly turned to a scowl that even a demon spawn would fear.
“I thought we discussed and agreed,” Talaith bit out between clenched teeth, “that when we saw Keita again, none of you were to pounce and yell at her. Instead, we were all to have a nice, friendly, family chat to discuss and resolve any issues.”
“There was no discussion,” Briec said. “You, heart of my heart, just talked, talked, talked like you always do and I ignored, ignored, ignored, like I always do. Did you really think I heard or bothered to listen to a word you actually said on something regarding my baby sister?” A damning finger pointed at Briec. “If I thought, for one moment, that either of your daughters would forgive me, I’d cut off your tongue and wear it around my neck as an amulet to ward off your idiocy!”
“Isn’t your one, constantly yammering tongue enough for even you to handle, Lady Never Quiet?”
“Not when a day doesn’t pass that you don’t torture me with your insanity, Lord Stick Up His Ass!”
Keita stepped between the bellowing couple. “Must you two do this out here?” she asked desperately. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “The servants are watching.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Keita and Gwenvael burst out laughing, earning themselves several sighs of disgust.
“Battle Lord?” Ragnar asked again. “She made you Battle Lord?”
“Annwyl made me Chief Battle Lord. All Battle Lords of Dark Plains report to me.” Dagmar sipped her tea. “Your mouth is open, my lord.”
“I…uh…” Ragnar put his tea down…and closed his mouth. “I must admit. I saw this house and thought that you’d been forced here. Of no further use to the Mad Queen of Garbhán Isle and the Fire Breathers who rule with her.”
“I guess there’s always that risk with Annwyl, but she likes me.”