Sharon Schulze - Heart Of The Dragon

He snatched up the scabbarded sword leaning against the coffer and belted it about his trim hips. “You will not talk? So be it, then. Mayhap a night spent in the cellars will loosen your tongue.” The expression on his face had her backing away, but he grabbed her by the arm. “Who knows? You might even get the chance to speak with my ‘master’—if I’m of a mood to plead your case.”

But the harshness in his eyes before he snuffed the candles warned her there was little chance of that. Her heartbeat unsteady in the sudden darkness, Lily let the Dragon lead her from his lair.

Ian crossed the courtyard as the rising sun cast a rosy glow over the gray walls of Dolwyddelan. Icy puddles crackled beneath his boots, the perfect accompaniment to the wind whipping around the battlements.

He loved the brisk air, the cold serving to stoke the fire in his blood. It thrummed through his veins, lent energy to his steps as he descended the stairs into the vaults below the keep.

The promise of battle with a certain mysterious fierymaned stranger had nothing to do with it.

The guard snapped to attention beside the cell door, then grinned his thanks when Ian dismissed him to break his fast abovestairs.

Ian shook his head at the young man’s hasty retreat. No doubt he’d been bored to distraction standing here through the night, but perhaps ‘twould teach the lad patience. That virtue was sadly lacking in most of the hot-tempered warriors who had gathered behind Llywelyn’s banner.

He’d do well to control his own impatience before he unbarred the door and met with his captive once again. Last night, somewhere between the curtain wall and his chamber, he’d lost his usual impassive demeanor.

And try though he might, he hadn’t regained it in the hours since he’d left the elusive Lily locked behind this door.

Taking a lantern from the hook beside the door, he removed the bar from its brackets and entered the cell.

Lily sat up, shielding her eyes from the light. She leaned back against the damp stone wall and tried to ignore the way straw from the small heap she’d slept upon poked through her clothes. Although she knew she should stand—courtesy required it, not to mention the fact that she hated to have him tower over her—a night spent curled on the hard-packed dirt, after her midnight climb, had left her so stiff she could scarcely move. “Good morrow to you, Dragon,” she said, infusing her voice with the strength her body refused to supply. “Have you word from your master?”

“I am Lord Ian ap Dafydd of Gwal Draig.” He closed the door behind him and hung the lantern from a peg in the rafters. Three steps brought him across the narrow cell to stand at her feet. “No one calls me Dragon—to my face.”

Did he give her his full name—and the name of his home—apurpose, to show her own lack? Rage and hurt overcame Lily’s aches and brought her to her feet without pain. A glorious surge of power straightened her backbone and lifted her chin until she looked him in the eye. “I have never feared to be different, Lord Ian of Gwal Draig. I shall call you Dragon.” She brushed straw from her clothes with apparent unconcern.

She expected him to do something…anything. For reasons she’d rather not examine too closely, she welcomed the chance to cross swords with him once again. Lily braced herself for the storm.

But he did nothing, nothing at all, if she discounted the slight gleam in his eyes. Did she see a challenge there?

‘Twas a trick of the flickering light, more like. Lily bit her lip. She needed him to react, to lash back at her. Otherwise she’d never be able to sustain enough fire in her blood to do what she must. But his disregard of her meager show of defiance sapped her mettle. Fresh pain throbbed to life, making the simple act of standing torture. Shivers racked her, beyond her will to ignore.

Still silent, the Dragon left the chamber and returned with a three-legged stool. “Here, sit before you fall.” He slammed the stool down and, grabbing her by the shoulders, pushed her onto the seat.

She closed her eyes and rubbed at her arms, certain she’d bear the imprint of his strong, callused fingers for days to come. But he’d spared her the indignity of collapsing at his feet.

Rough wool settled over her shoulders and startled her into opening her eyes. The warm folds of fabric enveloped her in her captor’s scent. She tugged the cloak more tightly around her body and tried to ignore the sense of solace his unexpected gesture brought. It wouldn’t be wise to feel grateful to him, to owe him anything. Who could tell what the Dragon might demand in return?

“Are you ready to talk today?” he demanded, his voice gruff. He leaned back against the wall with complete disregard for the cold, slimy stones and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m curious. Why must you see Llywelyn? What is so important that you’d risk your life to get to him?”

Lily fought the seductive slide into comfort as the cloak warmed her body. Within her mind raged a furious debate. Should she tell him? Sweet Mary, she knew little enough herself. But she’d heard it said that the Dragon had Llywelyn’s favor—indeed, even his trust. He could help her, if he wished.

“Is Llywelyn even here?” The question had haunted her through the night. Until then, she hadn’t allowed herself to consider that her efforts might be for naught. The guard she’d spoken to—the one who’d refused her admittance to the keep even as he laughed at her request to see the mighty prince—had told her Llywelyn planned to stay at Dolwyddelan for a sennight more. But given his reaction to her, he might simply have been amusing himself further at her expense.

Lord Ian looked at her as if she were mad. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t know? I thought your actions foolish before, but now—” He shook his head.

“Just tell me,” she cried, rising from the stool and gathering the mantle about her. She wanted to pace, to move, but the chamber was too small and his cloak too long. She sighed her frustration. “Please.”

“Aye, he’s here. But I doubt he’ll see you. His labors begin with the dawn, and continue without cease until the sun is set. In the evening he makes time for nothing but merriment.” Did she detect scorn in his voice?

His face told her nothing, but what did his opinion of his master matter to her? She had run Llywelyn to ground at Dolwyddelan, climbed the curtain wall and survived. Relief weakened her already shaky knees. She plopped down on the stool. “Saints be praised,” she said, smiling.

Ian stared. Her smile transformed her face, and her green eyes appeared lit from within. Although dirty streaks still covered her cheeks, she looked happy. And beautiful.

Christ on the cross, had he turned into a besotted fool? He shifted his gaze to the narrow beam of sunlight streaming through a slit high in the wall. Somehow, this woman had addled his brain.

But he refused to give in to the temptation she presented. The image of a strong, unified Wales rose in his mind, the shrine he worshiped above all others. He’d likely given up all hope of heaven, of family and a life of his own, to attain that goal. A mere slip of a woman would not keep him from it.

He’d ignored far more compelling distractions, he reminded himself as he forced himself to look at her again.

Her smile had disappeared. Perhaps God’s light still shone upon him, after all.

“Would you plead my case, milord?” she asked. “It truly is important. I’d never have tried so hard to see him, otherwise.”

What harm could there be in it? Christ knew, she’d shown more valor than many a noble warrior. She’d earned her chance to speak—to him, at least. “I’ll hear what you have to say.”