He shouted into her streaming hair. Her name was invocation and thanks. All around her she felt her spirit vibrate in tune with his as if they shared some celestial melody. His pleasure was as real to her senses as hers. Surely he felt this union of their spirits too?
After a long time, or no time, she could not really tell, his shaking arms lowered her to the ground. Contentment and homecoming replaced the intensity of their shared climax. “Wow!” His voice was exultant. “Did you feel that?”
“I felt the earth move.”
“Pretty much.” He pulled her body against his. His breathing was ragged. As was hers.
She was as damp as he was. Her legs felt as wobbly as a newborn fawn’s. “I am weak with pleasure,” she confessed.
“If we had a bed, sweetheart, we could sleep in each other’s arms. As it is, perhaps we should have a dip in the sea and wake ourselves up.”
“It will be cold.”
“If you are a dragoness, you will not feel the cold.”
The waves were chilly, but not icy. Marc stood, tousled and victorious, watching her closely. “We should fly together.”
“If I am able,” she said doubtfully. “I do not feel any different. Other than being mortal.” Her new body felt more abundant. Powerful and sensual. Was this what it meant to be a dragoness?
“Hmm.” He shrugged. “We must try. Only it is broad daylight. We will have to stay low and close to shore so we are not observed. The world is full of people who know nothing of dragons or elves, and it is as well to leave them ignorant.”
Of course. In a thousand years, the world had not really changed that much. Mortals were still afraid of elves and shape shifters. However, she still had no idea how to start becoming a dragoness. She told him so.
“You must think about becoming a large and mighty creature. Imagine yourself morphing as the princess in the tower did.”
In fact it was as simple as becoming an owl had been. One instant she was standing up to her knees in the sea, the next she was on all fours, her wings casting long shadows over the waves.
Beside her Marc had become the great iridescent blue dragon of their shared dream. He leaped into the air, using his great haunches to propel himself upward. His spread wings caught the breeze and he rose above the sea and circled over her calling a welcome.
She imitated him. It was different from being an owl. At first she missed being able to adjust each feather to make the most of the air currents. But then she caught on to this new body. She let the wind fill her wings. Effortlessly, she drifted sideways to where Marc was following the shoreline.
He began to sing to her. A haunting, exhilarating, whistled melody that was their love made audible. It stirred her until she too began to warble in concert with him. They danced and sang, following each other in a pattern that was both new and ancient.
Her love for Marc infused each note of her song. And the more energy she poured into her voice, the more love welled from her heart. As if after all these years of loneliness, he had uncovered a bottomless well of love in her heart. A fountain of pure joy.
When he bugled one last blast of love and darted away, she followed him. They were going home. For wherever and whenever they were together, in that time and place, they would be home.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zofie~
On a warm afternoon at the end of the month mortals term June, Zofie drove up to the huge white palace she had beheld in the Pool of Loki. She had learned to call it a cathedral. She was sitting by herself on a huge seat in this long white chariot they called a limousine. She needed the entire seat to herself because of the great billowing expanse of her dress.
Her white skirts foamed around her like the sea. Despite the pearls and diamonds sewn into them, every draft made them rise and flutter like the wings of butterflies. Like the ones in her belly. She and Marc were to be married today.
Across from her, smiling genially, sat a tall white-haired, mustachioed man. He was somberly dressed in a dark blue suit with a crisp white shirt. On his lapel bloomed a red rose. This was not her bridegroom but his Uncle Olaf. Now her Uncle Olaf. Another gift from her generous bridegroom. This wise, dear old uncle lived with them in Marc’s castle on the Island of St. Peder. He had been a shaman for his Sami tribe, and now he was her guide to mortal life.
Uncle Olaf smiled at her. “Not long now, my dear.”
The door of the limousine opened. The driver took her hand and helped her out. Uncle Olaf shuffled around from the other side and offered her his arm. “The steps are steep,” he whispered. “And my legs not as steady as they used to be. Let us support one another.”
Uncle Olaf was the youngest brother of Marc’s mother, and the only one still living. He was in his nineties and had refused to carry his cane on this most important day. He had insisted on walking Zofie down the aisle to meet Marc.
‘Twas an odd custom of her new people, this giving away of the bride. But as Marc had already received her, what was the harm? Besides, she already loved this sage old man. And the steps were indeed steep, and she was walking for two. They could balance one another.
She laid her hand on Uncle Olaf’s proffered arm just as a second limousine drew up. “Shall we wait for my matron of honor?” she asked.
He patted her hand. “Certainly. I have no objection to escorting two beautiful women.”
The red-haired woman who emerged from the second limousine was dressed entirely in celestial blue. Lindorm blue, she had informed Zofie. Her gown was a simpler version of Zofie’s.
The man who emerged from the other door of this limousine was as tall and broad as Marc. Perhaps broader. He was wearing a great blue sash adorned with a magnificent star over his white uniform. His wife barely reached his heart.
“I should carry you up those stairs,” he declared, reaching for her.
His wife laughed merrily and whisked herself away. “Nonsense, Theo. Behave yourself. Walking is good for me. And being carried is undignified. Give me your arm – that will be enough.”
Zofie rushed toward her as quickly as the train looped over her arm would permit. “You look ravishing,” she told her cousin.
“No tears,” Lexie Lindorm warned her. “Your makeup will melt, and you will look like a fright.” She opened her arms and they embraced.
Zofie blinked hard. The familiar joy of being with Lexi flooded her. As he had promised, Marc had found her cousin, who was married to his distant cousin.* He had brought them together. Zofie kissed her cousin’s cheek.
“We better get moving, or we will be late,” Lexi’s husband interrupted briskly. He was as bossy as Marc!
Uncle Olaf chuckled. “We have the bride, Theo, we cannot be late.” He offered his arm again to Zofie.
The four of them moved slowly up the steps taking pains not to trip on the ankle-length gowns. They slipped into the cathedral by a side door and found the small waiting room already crowded with women.
“Everyone out,” said a stately matron also wearing Lindorm blue. As Marc had no female relatives, he had asked Lady Lindorm, the wife of the Eldest of the House of Lindorm, to assist Zofie and Lexi this morning.
“You stay, Olaf. Theo, who has your daughter?”
“Mamma is managing Sofie, Aunt Inge.” It was one of the true joys of Zofie’s new life to have discovered that Lexi had named her child for her lost playmate and cousin.
Theo kissed his wife’s cheek. He and the half-dozen women slipped away.
“Where is your veil?” asked Lady Lindorm.
“It’s hanging up. We left it here last night.” Zofie pointed to the wall hook where her veil – Lexi’s veil – was hanging in a protective silk cover.
“Sit down child. Lexi and I will arrange your veil.”
Soon Zofie was gazing at herself in a long mirror. She saw the woman from her vision, completely veiled. But there was nothing solitary or solemn about this female. A tiara of diamonds and pearls anchored the silk lace to her black hair, which had been
arranged as elaborately as mortal hairdressers could manage.
Aunt Inge gently pulled the filmy top layer over her face and fluffed it so it fell gracefully. Inge handed her a cascading spray of red roses mixed with tiny white flowers. Zofie admired the splash of scarlet against her sparkling skirts.
“Hold it a little lower, Zofie. We don’t want to hide your waist or bodice,” instructed Aunt Inge, who had dressed many brides.
Zofie’s bodice was already partially concealed by this veil. The glittering edge was real diamond chips that fell well below her bosom. And the less said about her swelling waist the better. But she obeyed Lady Lindorm. The flowers did appear more elegant in that position.
“That’s better. You look lovely. Doesn’t she, Olaf?”
Uncle Olaf beamed. “You look like a happy bride, Zofie.”
“You look radiant.” Lexi blinked rapidly. “I’ve outdone myself.” Lexi had designed their dresses herself. She was not only the happily married wife of Theodor Lindorm, and the mother of their daughter, but had established herself as the foremost fashion designer to dragonesses.
“Olaf,” said Inge, “I will take my seat. In two minutes, go through that door and when the boys open the double doors and the singing starts, begin to walk up the aisle. Lexi, you spread out Zofie’s train and stay four paces behind it.” Lady Lindorm collected her purse and left.
Lexi waited in the narrow corridor – at least her dress made it seem narrow – until two young men opened the door and the sound of gladness poured out of the cathedral. The combined voices of European Dragonry rose in an exultant anthem that celebrated her marriage to Marc Valli, the Greve of St. Peder and lord of her heart.
And there he stood with the bishop, before the altar, waiting for her. For an instant, as he smiled at her, he was the splendidly dressed lord from her vision. She could see her ring shining on his hand, symbolizing his commitment to her and their child. And then he was Marc Valli in his white naval uniform with medals on his chest.
The magnificent sanctuary was decorated with flowers and great banners with the crest of the House of Valli and the Counts of St. Peder. Twelve of Marc’s comrades in white dress uniforms held glittering swords before their faces.
As she slowly approached, as befit both the music and Uncle Olaf’s great age, Marc’s attendants formed an arch for her to walk under. Marc had told her this signified their willingness to die for his bride should any challenge his right to wed her. He had sworn that this particular barbarity was most unlikely.
Uncle Olaf placed her hand in Marc’s. Her ring was invisible on his left forefinger. But that didn’t matter. They would exchange gold rings later and hers would go on his second finger as was the custom now. His would nestle next to the diamond ring he had sealed their betrothal with.
Lexi took her bouquet and stood quietly beside her. Marc had a groomsman, his gray-bearded cousin, Noah. Noah and his wife, Emma, lived on St. Peder. To Zofie’s delight, Emma maintained their Sami heritage by keeping a herd of reindeer as large as King Erriki’s.
The bishop spoke, and the ceremony began. She pledged herself to Marc and he to her. He placed his ring on her trembling finger. She gave him her heart with her ring.
They signed papers. The bishop introduced them as Lord and Lady Valli. The congregation rose to their feet. Voices rose again in triumphal song. She and Marc walked back down that long, crimson carpet smiling and nodding, until they were standing in the blazing sunshine. The future looked brilliant for her, her hero-husband, and their child.
*Read Theo and Lexi’s fairy tale romance in Dragon’s Christmas Captive
<<<<>>>>
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Dragon’s Confession
Lords of the Dragon Islands Book 0
When Victor Lindorm met gorgeous curvy Ingrid at his Uncle’s house party, he was smitten. So he bespelled her. Big mistake. Next morning, even though she was now a dragoness, his beautiful no-longer-virginal mate wept tears of diamonds because she didn’t want to get married. So he did the only thing he could do: He let her go.
Six years later, now Kapten Lindorm of the Swedish Royal Navy, he has permission from his billionaire dragon clan to resume his interrupted courtship. Victor is honor bound not to claim Ingrid by right of capture. But his dragoness bride has charms that appeal to many mateless dragons. And one is stalking her.
Can Alpha Male Victor keep his dominant dragon in check long enough to win a second chance at this passionate champion skier’s love? He knows he can satisfy Ingrid in bed, but her heart is the prize he’s after. How can he explain his feelings when so many misunderstanding lie between them?
Spice alert: Dragon and dragoness set the sheet alight. The earthy love of these two shifters will fulfill all your emotional and sensual needs.
This 25k novella reintroduces the Lords of the Dragon Islands series. It is a standalone and has a HEA and no cliffhangers.
Available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
Six years earlier, Chateau Lind, Loire du Bois
He pulled her behind the door where no one could see them and planted an inexpert kiss on her lips. Ingrid von Schwalm wound her arms around Victor’s neck and kissed him back. When his tongue asked for entrance, she opened her mouth and tasted him.
It wasn’t her first kiss. Not even her first French kiss. But apparently it was Victor Lindorm’s first. But he made up for his lack of skill with husky murmurs and brute enthusiasm. When he raised his head his eyes were unfocused. She wasn’t a giggler, but she giggled.
He placed her hand over his heart. “You are the one,” he declared.
Ingrid peeked up at him through her lashes. He was so intense. In the last two days this blond giant had tugged her into a dozen of the alcoves and niches that formed part of this sixteenth century castle. Each time he had uttered versions of the same desperate phrase.
Her trouble was that she was beginning to believe him. Could fate intend her to find her one true love already? Was she destined to marry a dragon after all? To become a dragoness? Her father would be ecstatic. She needed to be careful of this handsome boy.
Victor’s phone beeped. He turned scarlet and answered it promptly. He spoke rapidly and respectfully into it before turning it off. “I’m sorry, Ingrid. I have duties. Forgive me. Do you know the way to where you were going?”
She nodded. “The Chateau Lind is a big place, but no larger than the Schloss Schwalm. I’ll be fine.”
He bowed as if she were a princess. Pressed a hard kiss on her lips. “Later.” He was gone before she had her eyes open.
That evening after dinner when the house guests were gathered in Lady Lindorm’s music room for an impromptu recital, Victor sang a credible accompaniment to one of his aunts’ piano playing. He executed the lyrics in flawless German. It was an old love song, but he sang it for her, in the language of her homeland. At least that’s what her heart thought.
Vater nudged her when the song was over and a laughing group of giant Lindorms were arranging themselves into a chorus. “Would you fetch my reading glasses, please?” he asked.
“Of course.” She glanced at the front of the room. Victor was already gone. He kept telling her that he had duties. And it seemed to be true. He was always vanishing. She smiled as she slipped past the rest of the audience and went for her father’s glasses.
Victor followed her up the curving staircase. “Where are you headed? This isn’t the way to your room.”
“My father needs his glasses.”
“I will come with you.”
“Don’t you have duties?”
He shrugged. “I have to play the violin later. Do you know where your father’s room is?”
She grinned at him. “Lady Lindorm put him in the Chinese room.”
His brows rose. Obviously he had recognized that the Graf von Schwalm was a highly honored guest. “I know a shortcut.”
Of course he did. “Why would I want to rush?” she teased.
He let her pick up Vater’s spectacle case and start back to the music room. On the second floor landing, he tugged her behind the drawn curtains of the bay windows. The gold satin lining enclosed a tiny space with the windowpanes forming the three other walls. Victor’s big hands pulled her against him. He brushed kisses all over her face. Tender, exploratory, reverent kisses.
He stopped with a huge sigh of regret. “We need to get you back, before they notice.”
“Who?”
“My family. Your father. Your brother.” He sounded cross. “Don’t play games, Ingrid.”
“I’ll go to bed early. Come to my room. We’ll…talk.”
His smile made her feel feminine, powerful, grown up.
* * *
Ingrid had cocooned herself in the top sheet. She huddled sobbing and trembling on the edge of the bed. With each shudder, her pearly shoulders peeped tantalizingly through the pale hair that cascaded over them.
Victor stared helplessly at his mate. Her tears made his heart cramp. The harder Ingrid cried, the faster her tears trickled down her face and tinkled onto the floor in a flood of tiny crystals. He had no idea how to make her stop.
He rolled out of bed and grabbed his pants, stuffing his legs into them commando style. He rounded the ornate footboard to sit beside his mate. “It’ll be all right,” he said as comfortingly as he knew how.
If anything, Ingrid cried harder. Her tears made a small and musical backdrop to her sniffling. He edged closer to try and put his arm around her and trod on a great pile of them.
“Damn.” His mild expletive frightened Ingrid. She shrank further away.
This was dreadful. He had not expected her to be so frightened and sad. He knelt before her and tried to take her hands. She clutched the sheet and shook her head. Blonde waves bounced. The diamonds, for she was weeping diamonds, cascaded faster. They bounced off her lap and puddled on the carpet.
Victor tried again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said desperately. “I’m sorry.”
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