Royal Mate

by Juniper Hart

  Royal Mate

  Misty Woods Dragons

  Juniper Hart

  Royal Mate: Misty Woods Dragons

  By Juniper Hart

  Text Copyright © 2018 by Juniper Hart

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First printing, 2018

  Publisher

  Secret Woods Books

  secretwoodsbooks@gmail.com

  www.SecretWoodsBooks.com

  Contents

  Royal Mate: Misty Woods Dragons

  Bonus Content: Enchanted Werewolf

  Bonus Content: Shifter Romances

  Royal Mate: Misty Woods Dragons

  By Juniper Hart

  Prologue

  Heaviness hung within the dank castle walls, each brother more distraught than the next.

  The cavalry—soldiers on foot—was coming, but who could say how long it would be before help arrived? Would it be a day? A week?

  The six princes of Misty Woods knew they did not have such a luxury.

  “We are doomed,” Cassius murmured, pausing between the grey slate of the stone to stare into the darkness. “We have called too late for salvation.”

  “You must not speak so ridiculously,” Marcus growled, pacing along the hearth, his heavy wolf cape draped about his shoulders. “They will come. We will be saved.”

  “We are the sons of King Rui. We have never failed at battle, and we will not commence today!” Anders declared hotly, slamming his sword into the scarred round table and scowling at his brothers. “We bleed royal blood. We carry the seed of Misty Woods in our loins. Cease your doubts and hold your heads high as Father would have had us do! Whether they come or not, we will go into battle and fight for our kingdom!”

  His brothers did not seem to be convinced.

  “I must go to Nora,” Ansel muttered, turning to flee the room. Maximus stood solidly in his way.

  “You will see your maiden when the kingdom has been spared,” Maximus spat.

  “And what if the kingdom is not spared?” Titus demanded, undoubtedly thinking of his own love, locked away in the turret with the other women and children for their own protection against the impending battle that loomed not so far away.

  “Then we shall all perish together!” Cassius roared.

  “You needn’t perish, my lords,” a creaking voice called out to them, and the princes whirled to the source.

  From the shadows beneath the cast iron candle holders, the old sage grinned toothlessly at them, her wretched face a twisted compilation of glee and malice.

  “You!” Maximus shouted, lunging toward her. “How did you get in here?”

  “I come in peace, my lord—lords,” she cooed, seeming unperturbed as the oldest brother yanked her from the wall and paraded her forward. “I have come to offer you safety in this time of terrible peril.”

  “You?” Ansel snorted. “You are decrepit and useless. Who do you fight with?”

  The old sage cackled, and each man felt a shiver of apprehension slide through them as they realized the crone was not intimidated by the threat of six towering men of power and weaponry.

  “As you said, my lord,” the witch demurred, “I am ancient and without benefit. I do not wish to take sides.”

  “Put her in the barracks!” Marcus howled. “We are wasting valuable time bantering with this hag!”

  “My lord!” she cried imploringly. “Before you lock me away, hear my words, and then decide to do what you will. I only beg a moment of your precious time.”

  Her black eyes seemed like hot coals as the brothers turned their attention to her.

  “Speak!” Maximus snapped. “We have matters of battle with which to contend!”

  “It is of those matters I wish to speak,” she assured them. “You cannot win against the Northmen.”

  “Nonsense!” screamed Titus. The princes advanced on her, their swords drawn, ready to behead the her for uttering such treasonous words.

  “I beg of you, my lords, hear my words before you strike me dead!” she continued, offering them a nearly toothless smile. Her grin widened, even though she was encircled among the six princes of the kingdom, as though their presence inspired amusement in her rather than fear.

  “The soldiers you have requested from the realm will not be here until the day following the full moon,” the sage explained. “And the Northmen will attack at dawn. You know as well as I do that they have already conquered the villages. Their next skirmish will be the castle walls. They outnumber you. It will undoubtedly be a brief, humiliating fight.”

  “How can you know that?” Ansel demanded, but even as he spoke the words, he knew the woman had her ways to obtain the knowledge she desired.

  “I assure you, my lord, it is so,” she said. “I am offering you a chance to win against the Northmen without fear. You will be regarded as legends, and the minstrels will sing about you for generations to come!”

  “We are the princes of Misty Woods,” Anders growled. “We fear nothing!”

  “There are already many a ballad about our bravery!” Marcus called.

  The old sage shook her head, as if there was little else she could do to change their minds.

  “Then you will die,” she told them, her tone flat and certain. “And Misty Woods will no longer be.”

  A stillness hung in the air, not broken or interrupted even by a breeze from the open window as the six princes stared at the old witch. Her statement had cut each of them deeply, and they could do nothing but inherently recognize the truth. Without help, their kingdom would certainly cease to exist.

  “How can you prevent it?” Cassius asked quietly. He sensed the disapproval of his brothers for asking, and although none of them protested his question, he still lowered his gaze.

  “I have the power to invoke the will of Mother Nature and turn you into beasts who breathe fire,” the sage told them. “For three days and three nights, you will sprout wings and fly above your enemies, touting flames from your throats until they have all been sent back to the fiery hell where they belong!”

  “Witchcraft!” the brothers yelled. “A spell! Underworld debauchery!”

  “It is the will of Mother Nature,” she assured them, demurely lowering her eyes. “It is only a short miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.”

  The princes stepped back and glanced at one another, unsure of how to respond.

  “If it is the work of Mother Nature…”

  “If it is only for three days and nights…”

  “If this ensures our victory…”

  They turned back to the woman, who waited patiently for their response, her black eyes glittering.

  “Why would you help us,” Ansel demanded, “if you claim to have no side?”

  “Ah, my lord,” she replied smugly. “Just because I do not choose, it does not mean I do not hate.”

  “And what do you have to gain by this?” Titus insisted. They wanted to know why she would willingly help them fight against the Northmen.

  The old witch smiled enigmatically. “I am serving my kingdom, my lord.”

  Once more, the brothers exchanged a long look. The old woman had been nothing but trouble for them and for Misty Woods, but if she could give them a chance to defend their kingdom… if they could save their people…

  Slowly, the six princes began to nod, one by one, their hearts fi
lled with hope once again.

  “We shall prevail!” Anders cried, and they all roared in consensus, raising their swords to toast their newfound power.

  And in their surge of arrogance, they did not see the witch’s smile grow cruel and cold, for they had not thought to ask her which kingdom it was that she served.

  Not until it was much too late.

  1

  The wind had picked up significantly, and Poet struggled to keep the umbrella from flying away as she hurried toward the steps. She was having little success in controlling anything that morning, and the black gamp in her drenched palms was no exception. There wasn’t much she could do now about the fact that she was running late; she knew that Professor Kincaid would likely subject her to ridicule.

  I suppose it’s all part of the fun, she thought wryly. Despite her resolve to remain optimistic, she was not feeling overly amused.

  It had been quite a rough morning all around: her Uber had gotten hopelessly lost through the construction on the Western Bypass, rerouting them in a way even Poet did not know. For all the years she had already been in this country, she still couldn’t get her mind around the roadways. Her island was so much different than this one.

  The bad road planning itself had only been an aftermath to how she had been woken: with Chauncey vomiting all over a Persian rug Poet had inherited from her late Aunt Stella.

  The woman must be spinning in her grave right now, she thought. She always hated Chauncey and loved that stupid carpet. That’s probably why he puked on it in the first place.

  In a way, having slept in after hitting snooze on her alarm had been a blessing, but having to clean up after the Cocker Spaniel had done nothing except make her waste more time. Poet had found herself flying out the door in a panic.

  Now she was so late, she half-considered blowing off her anthropology class altogether and grabbing a coffee in that mess to warm her freezing bones, but she knew it was not going to happen. She enjoyed Professor Kincaid’s lectures far too much to miss a word. Even after she had caught up with his course online, she had seen it wasn’t the same as being actually present, as if the old man’s energy and character made all the difference.

  Professor Kincaid was so impassioned about the subject of ancient civilizations, something her other professors lacked, despite their Oxford University credentials. Then again, no one said you had to be interesting to be a scholar.

  Poet’s raincoat dripped on the floors as she rushed toward the lecture hall. She only hoped that one day she would not be the same kind of instructor as the others. She strove to be more like Kincaid—except without the excessive and embarrassing tongue-lashings he administered like daily communion.

  Her honey-blonde hair was plastered to her head, the umbrella having failed its use miserably in the short jaunt from the parking lot to the Denys Wilkinson Building.

  I should not have worn these boots, Poet thought, as if she needed just one more reason to write off the day. The idea of blowing off her lecture appealed to her more and more with every step she took, but she continued to hurry before her desire for caffeine could override her need to learn. Keep going, Poet. You pay good money to attend the world’s best university. The coffee can wait.

  “Poet! Hold up a minute!”

  Poet turned her head slightly to the side, her blue eyes resting on Nick Taylor as he hurried to catch up to her. Poet didn’t slow her pace.

  “Hi!” she said brightly, trying to keep the impatience from her voice. “I’m in a bit of a rush!” It was obvious to anyone with eyes that she was late, but Nick either didn’t care, or he was oblivious to Poet’s quick movements.

  “Got class then?” he asked, his thick Cockney accent lacing his words. Poet nodded, offering him a half-smile as she continued to hurry through the halls.

  “Professor Kincaid is going to have my head on a platter. This is the second time this week I’ve been late for his class,” she explained. “He likes to make an example out of people like me.”

  “He’s a wanker,” Nick volunteered, and Poet chuckled.

  “He’s not so bad. At least he cares about what he’s teaching,” she said. “And I like listening to him. You’re not coming today?”

  “Nah,” Nick answered. “I prefer my balls intact in the morning. I just got here, too. Maybe I’ll ring you for your notes.”

  “If he lets me take any,” Poet chuckled dryly. “Last time someone was late, he refused to let them record a word of his lecture. ‘If I can commit things to memory at my age, so can you!’ he yelled.”

  Nick snorted as Poet stopped before her classroom.

  “I told you, he’s a total wanker,” he declared. Poet shook her head, trickles of water tickling her neck with the movement.

  “He’s still my favorite,” she confessed.

  “Meet me at the pub later?” Nick asked hopefully, and she nodded, more to rid herself of him than because she wanted to see him. She had a feeling that he would draw her out for an entire conversation unless she agreed. His unrequited affection for her was sometimes tiresome, but Poet didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  He was a nice guy, after all. Paying him a little bit of attention was not going to kill her. Besides, she would most likely need a drink after today, if her morning so far was any indication of how the rest of her day would turn out.

  “Sure,” Poet said. “I have classes until four.”

  “Four fifteen,” Nick confirmed. “At the Cloak and Clock.”

  Poet didn’t respond, pulling open the door and entering the full lecture room. She cringed as all eyes turned to her, but she shifted her gaze downward and rushed to find a seat.

  “Ah, Your Highness! How lovely of you to join us! Can I offer you a cuppa?” Professor Kincaid called sarcastically. The rest of the class tittered. “I am afraid I have sent the cabana boys out for grapes, but they should be back soon to fan you with palm fronds.”

  “I’m sorry,” Poet replied quickly. “My dog—”

  “Your dog ate your homework?” he interjected, and there was another round of nervous laughter. Poet wished the floor would open beneath her and swallow her whole. “That excuse is so undergraduate, Miss Mueller.”

  She lowered her head and sank into her chair, swallowing the embarrassment in her throat.

  “As I was saying,” the grey-haired curmudgeon continued, casting Poet a dark look. “In all parts of the world, on every continent, there have been mass similarities, dating back to before Christ. It has puzzled anthropologists and archeologists for centuries, given the seclusion of some sects until recent history. That is where those harebrained, pseudo-science nut jobs begin touting about ancient aliens.”

  Poet pulled out her laptop and tried to catch up with the class, her ears honed on what Professor Kincaid was saying.

  “This is not news to any of you as graduate students, of course, but I would like your final paper to reflect something about these remarkable findings, however you would like to incorporate them. You know that the final paper will be worth twenty-five percent of your grade.”

  There was a low groan among her classmates, but Poet was not concerned. She was looking forward to finally unveiling her research. She had worked hard on her paper.

  Professor Kincaid retreated to the podium, his hand on the trigger to the projector, and he began to discuss recent discoveries in China. Poet leaned forward with interest.

  Is he going to say what I think he is? she wondered, her heart catching.

  One of Poet’s biggest fears was that her discovery was going to be exposed by someone else before she was able to publish her thesis. But when the professor continued to speak, Poet realized that it had nothing to do with her research, and she settled back against the wood chair.

  “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?” Mya Christensen whispered, elbowing Poet in the ribs uncomfortably. “I think you like it when the old man checks you out.”

  “No!” Poet denied hotly, a blush coloring he
r cheeks at the thought of something so vile. She scowled at Mya. “Shut up!”

  Her classmate leered at her, winking a dark brown eye at her. “And yet you blush like you secretly hope Old Man Kincaid will bend you down in front of the hall and ride you like a cowboy from the goldrush.”

  “Will you please shut your trap? I am trying to hear what he’s saying!” Poet snapped, her face crimson with humiliation.

  Of all the seats to take, you had to find one beside Mya. She’s so nasty and mean, Poet thought, furious with herself for not paying closer attention.

  Mya was reminiscent of the mean girls often found in high school. She was probably Poet’s penance for never having to deal with women like that when she was younger. She couldn’t escape them her entire life, could she?

  “He’s just rambling about the same shite he’s been going on about all semester, anyway,” Mya told her in a bored tone. “You didn’t miss anything. I think he’s forgetting what he’s teaching.”

  Poet knew the professor was retiring soon, and she wondered if his advanced age had anything to do with it. From what she remembered, Geoff Kincaid had been a fixture at Oxford since the late sixties. If anyone was due to live in the sun, it was him.

  Still, Poet knew she would miss the old man, even though she was scheduled to graduate in May. She looked at him as a mentor, even if he saw her as a perpetually late thorn in his side.

  “How is your thesis coming along?” Mya asked, and Poet wished she would stop talking. She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than necessary. Moreover, she simply did not like Mya. It was as if the girl had always harbored some secret resentment toward Poet, even since they were undergrads.

  Lately, Poet felt as if Mya’s animus toward her was growing, but she had no idea why. Perhaps it was all the stress of midterms coming up to her. It seemed to her that everyone hated her.