by Paula Quinn
Still, the stonewash were well-worn and tattered at the knee and she didn’t want Marcus to think this dinner meant so little to her that she couldn’t even bother to fix herself up for it. Not that it meant anything more than exactly what it was. He was fixing her home. The least she could do was cook him a nice meal to show her gratitude. On the other hand, it was probably better to look like she didn’t care what he thought of her appearance. After all, she didn’t. Her cuticle began to bleed.
She disengaged her finger from her mouth and scowled at her jeans before deciding on the stonewash. Part of her wished she could wear the small red dress she’d purchased in Soho last year, but she doubted her virginity would last past dessert if she did.
She had to admit, while she pulled her jeans over her legs, that it was nice having a man around—a drop-dead gorgeous man, at that—who found her irresistible. Too bad the man was a dragon who would react the same way around any virgin. She wondered if the woman he’d practiced kissing before he came back was a virgin, and what had become of her when Marcus left her? Had he kissed that woman the same way he’d kissed her? With such fire, such demand? Probably.
Hadn’t he said he was told he kissed rather nicely? Sam pouted, tore a sweater from her closet, and tossed it onto her bed. It was a thick cable knit of creamy white, bulky enough to conceal the slight swell of her breasts. Not that it took much material to achieve that endeavor. She wasn’t blessed with full breasts, not that Marcus cared about such things. It was her scent that enticed him.
Fortunately, she had that problem covered. Unwrapping the two halves of pungent onions she’d picked up at the market, she told herself that it was for his own good, as well as her’s, that she mask her scent. The poor man was going to end up rebuilding her entire castle if she continued to frustrate him. And for her own good because she was certain his control couldn’t last much longer.
She knew hers wouldn’t if he ever kissed her the way he had against her kitchen counter. God help her, the man was pure sin. The scalding burn of his kiss was deadly enough. Feeling his hard shaft throbbing against her untried body nearly made her beg for it.
The onions were perfect.
She rubbed the onions up and down her bare arms, over her neck, and between her slight cleavage, and then pulled her sweater over her head. Hopefully, they would be able to enjoy their dinner without Marcus wanting to deflower her every ten seconds. She smiled, happy with herself and wiped the stinging tears from her eyes. If she could make it through the night without gagging on her own odor, they would have a great victory to celebrate.
Marcus? She called to him outside and waited in the silence of her room for a moment.
Aye, Sam?
Dinner’s just about ready, put down your hammer and come eat.
Marcus was just entering the cavernous foyer when she reached the top of the landing. Their gazes met at the same moment, stilled by the sight of each other. Sam understood why she could barely breathe, barely move. She doubted she would ever grow accustomed to his raw virility, the way his raven hair swept down his shoulders, or his dark, ever-hungry brow. But why he should seem just as affected by her, confounded her. Couldn’t he smell the onions? How was it possible that he could make her feel as delectable as a plate of sizzling bacon when she’d gone to such measures to look shabby?
I like how you look, Sam.
His voice purred across her thoughts and she felt her blood rushing to her cheeks. Hell, she’d underestimated his power to seduce her.
Forcing herself to concentrate on dinner rather than on him, she severed her gaze from his, tucked her hair behind her ears, and hurried down the stairs.
“I’ll go check on the roast.”
When she moved to pass him, he stepped a bit closer, causing her heart to accelerate.
“Sam, I—” He sniffed the air then pulled back, grimacing. “Saint George’s guts, what the hell is that smell?” He sniffed again, this time braving a few steps closer to her. He stopped when his nose tapped her shoulder and lifted his eyes to hers. “You seem to have bathed in something foul.”
Sam grinned and inhaled as if she was standing in a garden of roses. “It’s onion. Don’t you think it’s a wonderful idea?”
He straightened and scowled down at her. “Not unless you plan on serving yourself for dinner.”
“Oh, don’t be silly.” Sam rolled her eyes and slapped his arm softly as she continued on her way to the kitchen. “I’m simply masking that smell you say drives you mad.”
Marcus stood in his spot, watching her sashay away. “Well, go wash it off. I don’t like it.”
“No.” Sam turned to smile at him over her shoulder. “I did this for you.”
He stood there staring at her as if he had much to say on the matter, but decided against it. Sam suspected he knew she was right. Pleased with herself, she turned once again toward the kitchen.
An instant later, he was standing directly behind her, arriving there without a sound. His voice along her neck sent fissures down her spine. “I find your consideration for me quite… By the stars, you smell repulsive!”
“Go wash up, Marcus,” she said glancing at him. “You don’t smell so great yourself.”
He stopped following her and looked so stricken Sam almost laughed. She did laugh when she turned to enter the kitchen and looked at him one last time to find him sniffing under his arms.
What a terrible liar she was. He actually smelled quite good, earthy and sweaty and masculine.
Thank you, Sam.
Rolling her eyes, but happy that he’d heard her, she lit the antique candelabra and carried it into the great hall.
“Oh,” she called out before he disappeared up the stairs. “I picked up a shirt for you today at a wonderful little vintage shop. I think it will fit you better than the newer fashions you find so confining.”
Thank you, Sam. Have you ever heard me sing?
No, I haven’t, she answered, setting the table.
She took great care decorating everything to perfection with flowery napkins, her best silverware, and two solid silver goblets Ellie had given her as a house-warming gift. She was in the middle of pouring the wine when Marcus’ voice boomed through her brain. He was singing. If his voice was musical when he spoke, the melody was lost when he tried to hold a tune. Maybe it was the bawdy song he chose to sing, but Sam drew her shoulders up around her ears, grateful that he couldn’t see her face. She was very careful to think only positive thoughts.
Suddenly the sound of his laughter filled her head. How long would you say nothing, my sweet Sam?
Not much longer, I’m afraid. Secretively, she breathed a sigh of relief that he was done showing her how well he sang.
You do not actually think that a Drakkon would sing so vilely, did you?
Sam looked up at the ceiling. Are you bathing up there, Marcus?
I am. Would you care to join me?
She could almost see the smirk on his face when she told him to shut up. She was thinking of lighting the hearth fire when a sound so profoundly beautiful literally weakened her knees until she had to pull out a chair and sit down. He sang to her in the ancient language he had used when they met, and though she had no idea what the words meant, the sound of them brought tears to her eyes. His voice was no longer raspy and off-key, but smooth as fine silk and deeply moving.
When he finished, Sam remembered to breathe and wiped the tears from her eyes. Oh, Marcus. That was beautiful.
He told her, while she fed some freshly chopped wood to the fire, that the song was something his ancestors used to sing at Beltane. It told the story of two great Gold Drakkons who were life mates. Their love transcended the stars, and even time. The male fought one day with a Green and was killed. His female wondered the earth looking for him for many years. When she discovered that he was dead, she mourned for centuries before hunting down the Green that killed him. She dashed her enemy to pieces with her tail and charred him to ashes with her breath, and then
she buried him.
While he dressed upstairs, Marcus explained to Sam that it is forbidden for a Drakkon to burn another. Because the Gold had committed such a grievous act, she was condemned by the Great Council, destroyed and buried. Never to be re-consumed by the stars. But nothing could stop the terrible disease that had come upon the world, born out of the ashes of her flesh and the soil of the earth.
A plague? Sam asked him.
“Aye, Sam.” Marcus entered the great hall. He wore a new pair of black jeans he’d probably picked up with Ellie and the cream-colored gauze poet shirt she’d purchased from the vintage shop.
Seeing him in it, Sam doubted her resolve and her reasons for buying it. The shirt laced halfway down the center, loose at his neck, with bloused sleeves ending in a small ruffle over his wrists. He looked like a medieval man of her dreams. His hair was damp, with inky locks falling over the aged fabric, and even in the soft glow of the firelight, his eyes glimmered and clothed him in azure beauty. Sam knew she was doomed, but still she smiled when she looked down at his lack of footwear.
“Nice feet. You were right.”
He was staring into the fire and blinked when she spoke. “Thank you.” He bowed his head slightly and then looked around the hall. “It looks wonderful in here, Sam.”
“I’m glad you like it.” She watched him walk around the table, sweeping the surface with fingers half-covered by the ruffled edge of his sleeve. “Thank you for the shirt.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “I look just like a knight taking a break from hunting Drakkons.”
Sam’s smile faded.
It wasn’t the mildly mocking tone of his voice that struck her like a blow, but the trace of hurt beneath it. She had thought to dress him like the men in her books, the men he tried to learn about in order to win her. She’d hoped to strengthen him, thoughtlessly forgetting that knights hunted dragons according to lore. How careless of her to try to change him into something he did not want to be. She remembered the horror in his face when he woke up in her stable and looked at his hands, the anger that flashed in his eyes with a fire from within when she told him he wasn’t human.
What was he? Heartbroken for him, Sam took a step forward, and then her heart shattered to pieces when he smiled at her. What strength had that taken? What if she woke up one morning with claws and a tail and long, leathery wings?
“Marcus—” she began.
But he cut her off, his gaze on her soft and gentle. “I appreciate the things you do for me, Sam. No one has ever done them before. I’m sorry if I was cruel.” He looked down at himself. “The shirt fits me well. It’s quite comfortable and roomy.”
As far as apologies went, his just outdid every person’s she had ever known—and he didn’t even have anything to be sorry for! Sam didn’t know whether to stop herself from running from the hall or straight into his arms. “I wasn’t thinking, Marcus.”
“Shh,” he quieted her, taking a step toward her. But he stopped before he reached her and rubbed his teary eyes.
“Now I understand why that keeps vampires away.” He pulled her chair out instead.
“That’s garlic, silly.” Sam giggled in spite of the sadness she felt for him.
“Garlic…onions…they are both equally vile.” He walked around the table and sat across from her.
“Are they real?”
“Vampires?”
She nodded, sitting down. “I don’t doubt much anymore.”
“In a way, they are. But that is a long story and one you most likely would not enjoy.”
“Now you’re being considerate.”
Marcus’ smile grew into a wide, heart-stopping grin. After that, his humor was completely restored. Sam gave him the honors of cutting the meat while she served the vegetables, baked potatoes, and the best wine she could afford. Every hour spent cooking for him was worth it when he bit into his dinner. Sam thought he would cry out in ecstasy at any moment.
“Didn’t you ever eat cooked meat when you were a Drakkon?” she asked him incredulously.
“Nay,” he said, and then stopped to savor the slice he’d just shoved in his mouth. “There wasn’t time to char my food before I ate it, especially in the last several centuries. Knights hunted us day and night, and after them there were always others. We stayed out of sight mostly, but mankind is afraid of what they do not understand.”
Sam nodded, feeling guilty for being one of them. “What about after you became a man? You never stopped into a Mickey D’s for a burger?”
“Mickey D’s burgers are meat, Sam?”
His question was asked with such a complete lack of guile that Sam burst out laughing. She watched him eat. She could have watched him all night long, though his table manners were endearingly atrocious. He chewed with his mouth open and gulped his wine like someone was standing behind him waiting to snatch it away. His appetite was insatiable, and later, when they relaxed with a blackberry pie Sam had bought at the local bakery, he lounged in his chair with one foot planted on the cushion and his knee drawn to his chest. He answered all her questions about being a Drakkon while popping chunks of pie into his mouth.
“We’re not truly immortal. We simply age at a much slower rate than humans—a few hundred years slower.”
“How old are you, then?” Sam asked him, her fist tucked under her chin, completely engrossed in his tale.
“I was born in the eleventh century.”
His eyes dipped to her lips when she whistled. “How do you do that?”
“Make your lips tighter and blow.”
He tried. Nothing came out but air. Sam would have preferred to watch him practice all night, but fantasizing about kissing him would do neither of them any good.
“So, if you remain a man,” she asked, taking her mind off his sensually shaped mouth. “You’ll grow old like me?”
“Nay, the Phoenix Amber can only alter our form. My blood is still Drakkon blood.”
“I see,” she said quietly as another truth dawned on her and threatened to ruin her evening. “Then you will always desire a virgin—any virgin?”
“Probably, if she is of an accountable age,” he answered, reaching for his cup. He stopped as if picking up her thoughts and looked at her. “It would pain you if I desired another woman, Sam?”
“Of course, not!” She forced a laugh. “We haven’t made any promises to each other. You can do what you want.”
It could have been the wine, but she was almost certain his eyes flashed with anger.
“What is it about virgins, anyway?” she asked him, a tad angry herself. “Are we trophies? Is that it?”
“I’m not sure what trophies are.” He tilted the cup he’d been holding to his lips and finished its contents in one gulp. “I do not know any more if it was even worth eat—” His eyes flicked guiltily to hers. “—taking their essence.”
“What do you mean?”
He squinted at her, then shook his head as if to clear it. “The Drakkon are superior over all other creatures, but we lack purity. Maybe we are born with it and we lose it over the centuries.” His voice grew low and pensive, unsure of what he knew anymore. “After living for a thousand years, very little remains fresh and new. You cease to see the good in things around you. Cynicism and caution become your only friends. But there is always that desire for innocence eating away at your heart, yearning to be born anew, to capture that one thing you do not possess, the thing none of us truly understands.”
“And you think you can find it in a virgin?” Sam asked him softly.
He blinked and pushed his plate away. “A virgin has never been soiled by another. Their blood is pure.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean their hearts are.” Did she want to open up to him? Could she? She never had with anyone else, but then again, no one else could read her thoughts and know her deepest feelings and fears. Besides, if he thought he was going to find purity by sleeping with her, he was wrong. “Marcus, I’m a virgin and I look at the world thro
ugh cynical eyes too. I was an orphan. I spent my life either alone or with people who really didn’t care one way or the other about me. If I was fortunate enough to find foster parents who did care for me, it was never permanent. I don’t have what you need.”
He smiled at her from across the table, a gentle, understanding smile that colored his eyes like rare jewels and made Sam want to weep for them both.
“Perhaps then, Sam,” he said leaving his chair and stumbling toward the hearth, “we are both looking for the same thing.”
Feeling a little guilty for getting him drunk, Sam watched him and murmured under her breath, “Perhaps we are.”
She followed him and sat at his side before the flames. “Marcus?”
“Aye?”
She smiled at the way he frequently crossed over from modern speech to medieval. “What was the terrible disease set forth by the Gold Drakkon’s crime?”
“It was the birth of Mankind.” He dragged his gaze from the fire to look at her. “The disease was man.”
“I don’t believe that, Marcus. God created man. We’re not a disease.”
He turned on his bottom and laid his head on her thigh, stretching out his long legs. “Perhaps not.” He yawned and closed his eyes. “But if they are, then you are the cure born to right the wrong.”
Sam stared down at him, thinking about all the losses in his long, lonely life. She understood what it was to grow up without the love and security of parents, but to lose your entire race, to know that everything you ever learned was now meaningless and considered nothing but myth…
She leaned down and kissed his brow. He snored in response and she smiled, tracing her finger over his ear. She sat there for a long time just listening to him breathe and watching him sleep. He had no idea how terribly beautiful he was. In his mind, he was nothing more than a disease now. The thought of it made a tear fall from Sam’s eye. It dropped into his hair.
Why had he fallen into her stable? Was it fate? Why had he returned to her and why did he remain? Was it simply his driving need for purity? And when he took her, if she let him, would he disappear again?