Highland Dragon Rebel

by Isabel Cooper

  Twenty-seven

  “I do not, I trust, send you away heartbroken,” said Namwynne, as Madoc and Moiread left her party at the border of the city. She’d leaned in to give him a sisterly embrace and kiss, so her words reached his ears alone.

  Madoc shook his head. “It will beat a while yet, I promise you.”

  Sharply as his thirteen-year-old self would have remonstrated with him… Well, he was thirteen no longer, and no longer infatuated with the fairy princess. The deepening of the alliance might have been as inconvenient as it was helpful, in its way. The Caduirathi had their own quarrels, and Madoc would not have liked to leave the mortal world for years at a time, nor did he think that Namwynne would have been happy staying by him in Wales. Leaving, he was well content.

  “Take care that it does,” she said. “Your world has far worse dangers in it than women, from all I hear. I wish to see you whole at my wedding.” She spoke that sentence more loudly, and addressed it to Moiread as well.

  “I’ll be sure of it, Your Highness,” Moiread replied, and a quick smile passed between the two tall, dark women.

  Namwynne had reported little of their conversation the night before, or of the reason for Sir Cauldir’s departure. Well after she’d announced her choice, and Madoc had congratulated Lord Arbelath, she’d mentioned that Cauldir had asked Moiread to dishonorably help advance his suit, and that Moiread had refused him in scathing terms. “And she is very loyal,” Namwynne had said.

  “She takes her duties seriously,” Madoc had replied. “Including those her family gives her.” He hoped that his company made Moiread’s task more pleasant. It could only be better than a muddy campaign against the English, at any rate, and the surroundings were certainly more novel.

  They rode back along the roads by which they’d come, watching a landscape of silvers and violets that held nostalgia for Madoc and fascinated Moiread. She gestured to a large white form as it flew over the forest once and asked, “Does everything here fly?”

  “All the beasts and people, yes. The scholars I knew said that this was a world of air, where ours was one of earth.”

  “Perhaps my ancestor comes from a place of fire, then.”

  “It’s a sensible explanation. I’d not like to try to find out myself.” Madoc smiled. “You might have to leave me behind for that, fragile mortal flesh that I am.”

  “Not from what Namwynne says…or not entirely.”

  “Ah, that. Her Highness does me too much honor. We age slowly, but we’re far more capable than you of injury. It may have been different in the beginning, but we know little of that, though it was the start of my family’s dealings with hers. A many-times-great-aunt on my father’s side. He’s none too comfortable speaking of her. He wasn’t the child they fostered in his generation, but my aunt Joanna took the veil after her time here and had no children.”

  “Aye, well,” Moiread said. “I can see how being here would make a woman want to be closer to the divine.”

  “Or how the men here would make human suitors look like shaved bears,” Madoc replied, the memory of their coupling too fresh for him to feel any qualms when she laughed and didn’t deny it.

  When they passed the transition this time, Moiread no longer looked nervous, and she peered around the other side with a new wonder in her gaze, one Madoc remembered well. “There’s a shift,” he said, “or there was for me. I always expect the sky here to be blue or gray, but at the back of my mind I always know there’s a place where it isn’t.”

  “Aye, that,” Moiread said. “Leaving home is always that way when you come back. But this is on a far greater scale.” Her smile flashed out. “I could say a thing or two next time Cathal starts holding the Holy Land over my head. Or France.”

  The road stretched lonely and pine-flanked ahead of them, the sky overcast above. “Glad to have been of service,” said Madoc. “And my thanks for yours. Namwynne told me of that last evening.”

  “Nothing to it,” said Moiread, shrugging. She was wearing armor again, and Madoc was beginning to accustom himself once more to the clink of chain as she moved, not to mention seeing a young man in her place. “A man who’d try such tricks would try to get out of paying for them, no doubt. I confess I’d not expected that to be part of my duties, but—” Another shrug.

  “Neither had I, I swear.”

  She made a hunh sound in her throat, then asked, “Do you mind a rather intimate question?”

  “From you?” Madoc let memories fill his gaze, smiled slowly, and watched with satisfaction as her eyes darkened in response. “Never.”

  Flushing, likely with remembered heat rather than modesty, Moiread laughed and then cleared her throat. “Why’ve you not been married already? Eldest son of a lord and all… No matter your inclination, I’d have thought your father would take a hand, aye?”

  “He did, once. When I’d finished my fostering with Queen Gilrion, I was to wed the middle daughter of a wealthy man. The month before I was to come home, she perished of a fever.”

  “I’m sorry,” Moiread said, crossing herself.

  “Doubtless it’s a sad matter, but it’s no wound to me. I never knew her. I hear tell she was a pleasant girl, and her portrait was comely enough. That’s all.” They turned around a bend in the road, and Madoc turned his head to shield his eyes from the sun. “By the time she died, my father had married and had more sons, and my next-eldest brother had gotten a local girl with child.”

  “But you’re the eldest, and surely your brother wouldn’t have married the woman.”

  “Either matters less for us. Clydai claimed the boy as his, and so the lad’s an heir, maybe. A man’s land is split among his heirs. I’ll have more than my brothers, should none of them choose to fight the matter. Father remembers Llywelyn and his sons, and how maybe we’d not be a subject people now if that had gone differently.” Madoc sighed. “To put it shortly, in Wales a man can have too many heirs.”

  “Aye, that’s true anywhere in its fashion, though not so dramatically for us. The Church is helpful for that, or war.” Moiread chuckled. “Cathal and Douglas do best when there’s half a continent between them. And too many daughters are by no means convenient for a man, as I’m sure my father could tell you. Especially for us, as we’re no’ good breeding stock for mortals.”

  “We’ve never had that problem,” Madoc said dryly.

  “Different blood mixes differently. My sister’s husband turns into a seal when the fancy strikes him, and she’s practically littered. Well-formed bairns, at that, and healthy and well-behaved last I saw. The eldest will be changing soon, one way or the other,” Moiread went on, with the faint sound of surprise common to mortal and immortal alike on realizing that a babe in arms had somehow become old enough for his first horse. “There aren’t many noblemen with inhuman blood. Fewer these days…fewer of any of us. And I’d not have done well as a nun.”

  “No.” Madoc hadn’t meant to sound either as forceful or as sensual as he did. He caught an appreciative smile from Moiread. “I’d have made a poor monk myself. But I don’t believe I’ve ever given my father more to concern him.”

  “No,” Moiread said in her turn, catching the question he hadn’t asked. “When we can, it’s a matter of will. Which, as my family’s not the only dragon-blooded one about, says either that our full-blooded ancestors were different in that regard or that Roman women were interesting creatures. My father took in a bastard once—not his, but a dragon-blooded girl who didna’ know her sire. Said it raised a good many questions, but he’s no’ yet gotten answers.”

  “I’d not heard of others. I’d barely heard of your family, in truth.”

  “We try to keep private,” said Moiread, “and we’re the most known to the mortal world. The others wander, as my great-grandfather did, and many of their children dinna’ bear their names. There are few, even so.”

  “Mayhap
you should have tried to wed your family to the Caduirathi.”

  “Aye, could be.” Moiread smiled impishly. “I could turn back and ask Cauldir for his hand now.” She made as if to turn her horse.

  Without thinking, even knowing that they’d both been jesting, Madoc put out a hand and caught her reins. Both of them froze in that moment and stared at each other. Faint drops of fog clung to Moiread’s hair and her eyelashes. Madoc leaned forward.

  The gelding, displeased by his proximity to Moiread, snorted and stamped.

  “You couldn’t get through again without me,” Madoc explained feebly. He drew back his hand and urged his horse forward, turning to watch the road.

  Twenty-eight

  They drew near to the Welsh border. The accents softened. If they were still largely English and southerly, Madoc could nonetheless hear traces in them of the voices he’d known in boyhood. From the road, he could see mountains in the distance and sheep nearer by, grazing placidly on the hills. The air felt like home, smelled like it.

  That familiarity flowed into his veins with every breath, loosening the muscles in his back and at the same time letting him sit on his horse with more alertness than before. Being on alien ground had taken effort Madoc hadn’t known he’d spent. Now he had that strength back.

  He knew any security he felt was an illusion. The land he rode through was still England. Wales was yet under English rule and likely would be for as far as he could see into the future, and even home could have plenty of enemies. Madoc knew all of that well. His spine and his gut disagreed, and he was willing to indulge them, particularly when he could watch Moiread as well as the land.

  As in the Caduirathi’s world, she watched their surroundings with more interest than mere caution. There, she had evidently been caught up in wonder, half disbelieving what she saw and not knowing what to expect. As they journeyed through England and approached Wales, her expression was different: less awe, but more comfortable admiration.

  “I feel better near the mountains,” she said as evening fell and they neared a small town. “Being up high lets me think clearer, mayhap.” A smile tugged the corners of her mouth upward. “And if any of my siblings were here, they’d have a pert answer to that. One of many reasons I prefer your company.”

  “And it’s glad I am to hear it,” Madoc said. He spoke lightly but knew she probably sensed the thoughts that exchange led to, and the heaviness in his groin that made him shift in his saddle. He doubted Moiread had any idea of the less-physical warmth he felt at her words, nor did he think he wanted to tell her—not on the road and in the middle of their quest, at any rate. “A trait of your people, do you think? Or is it just what you’re used to?”

  Moiread thought about it, dark brows slanting slightly. “Bit of both, I should think. We’re at our best in the air, that’s certain, but being raised up high would help there. I’ve known men who didna’ feel right unless they lived by the sea, so it could be that.”

  “It could.” From the village, the road wound back upward into hills and then the mountains. “This feels right to you?”

  “I’d like a bit more height, but aye. I could spend a while here and not get restless…or no more than I’d get anywhere,” she added, and her eyes met Madoc’s briefly. This time, she was the one who looked away.

  * * *

  She hadn’t meant anything. Truly. She’d been talking idly, making conversation on the road. Of course Moiread hadn’t seriously considered living in Wales, any more than Madoc had been seriously asking her if she could.

  If she did really think about it—if, perchance, their exchange had made her turn the possibility over until she caught herself—there were of course reasons why it wouldn’t work. Not that Moiread had never thought to leave Loch Arach. She probably wouldn’t find it wise to do so before Douglas brought home a bride and confused matters regarding the ranking woman in the household, but she’d always thought she’d travel then, or go to a foreign war as Cathal had done.

  There weren’t that many foreign wars anymore, or at least not that Moiread had heard of. The last real Crusade had been more than thirty years ago. Humanity being what it was, she was sure another war would break out somewhere if she waited a year or two. Failing that, she could always travel.

  It would likely be no hardship to live in Wales—from what she’d heard and what she saw as she neared the border—but she wasn’t sure she could keep her temper long in any land under English rule. It didn’t matter. The issue was unlikely to seriously arise.

  All the same, Moiread was glad when they reached a town near sunset, and she could shake off her thoughts. She was happier still, and for other reasons entirely, to find that she and Madoc could secure a room for themselves on the second floor. It had been a long few days since they’d bedded, and she’d spent the ride aware of his proximity, of the breadth of his shoulders and the clean male scent of his body. From the light in Madoc’s eyes when he looked at her, and his smile when she told him of the room, she believed him to be equally enthusiastic.

  So he proved a little later on. They’d gotten through dinner without appearing to be more than man and squire, sitting well apart and paying most of their attention to the food, but once they reached their room, matters changed quickly. Madoc shut and bolted the door behind them with a decisive series of heavy thumps, then crossed the room and, without hesitation or even speaking, took Moiread in his arms.

  * * *

  Armor hindered the preliminaries somewhat. Even the light chain and leather that they wore for traveling was a barrier. When Madoc pressed Moiread to him, the metal links dug into both of their chests. In the first heated moments of the kiss, when his tongue claimed her mouth and her lips were desperate against his, it didn’t matter. But then Madoc tried to slide a hand up to Moiread’s breast, and she attempted to trail her fingers down his neck.

  “Bugger,” she said.

  “Damn,” Madoc said at the same moment.

  Laughing, Moiread stepped back. “Might be something to be said for self-control, at that. Swiving in armor’s a madman’s act, if there’s any other way handy.”

  If she spoke as one who knew from experience, Madoc didn’t care. Whatever Moiread might have done before him, for that evening she was with him: her body lean and strong against his, her dawn-blue eyes shining for him, her laughter low and sensual in his ears. Nothing else mattered.

  She helped him off with his armor and boots with as much skill as the squire she seemed outside their room, and Madoc stripped hers off with faint memories of his own service. Both lingered more, and let their fingers stray further, than most actual squires probably did with their masters—rumors about the last English king notwithstanding. When they finally stood free of metal and leather, both were flushed and panting, and the air around them was warm and thick with lust.

  Moiread shook out her hair, smiling. “And I’m glad anew that I keep this short. Though I do hear men prefer otherwise,” she added with a teasing glance at Madoc.

  “It couldn’t look lovelier on my pillow,” he said, running his fingers through the short dark locks in question, “if it grew to your waist.” Madoc closed his hand gently, tugging Moiread’s head back a little, and bent to kiss her once more.

  This time there was no barrier between them but cloth, and Moiread rendered that ineffective as quickly as possible. Madoc had half expected the way she snaked her hands under his tunic, caressing the bare skin of his back and sides. He did not anticipate the moment when she suddenly tightened her grip and wrapped her legs around his hips, letting him lift her off the floor, but he had no objections. For all her strength and height, she wasn’t a heavy woman, and the pressure of her sex against his cock brought a groan from his throat and his hands to her arse, keeping her right where she was while she wriggled in pleasure and nibbled on his neck.

  All the desire that had built over their time in Gilrio
n’s land, not to mention all that had come before and only partly been quenched by their night together, took hold of Madoc then. He bore Moiread backward onto the bed, hurriedly pushing up her shirt to bare the full ivory softness of her breasts, the pale-rose nipples already taut and pointing up toward him. Taking one into his mouth, he lashed his tongue over it, making Moiread curse in Gaelic and writhe beneath him, while his hands found the juncture of her legs.

  Even the cloth was damp. At the pressure of his hand, Moiread let out a boiling-water hiss through her teeth. She’d thrown her head back against the pillow, and the dark cloud of her hair was, as Madoc had said, lovely. In the throes of passion, she was an image a man could treasure for a lifetime. Indeed, the memory of her had made the last days at Gilrion’s court a torment, for then he’d known precisely what he was missing.

  Now, with not just memory but Moiread herself at hand, he was practically bursting.

  When she tried to sit up, reaching for him, Madoc pushed her back down to the bed. “No,” he said against her breast as he raised his head to speak more distinctly and began peeling down her hose and breeches. “I’d not trade last time for the world, but I’d not make it through now. Not even begin.”

  Moiread smiled smugly. One long stroke of Madoc’s fingers banished the satisfaction from her face, though. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, signs of passion he could have easily read, even if her thighs hadn’t clenched around his wrist. “You think”—she panted—“I can?”

  “Oh, but it matters less, in my”—he skirted the stiff pearl at the top of her sex with his thumb—“limited experience of women.” He chuckled when she growled another oath at him. He thought that one was Gaelic, and badly pronounced at that. “If I were a stronger man, I’d see how many times I could break you, cariad, but I’m a very weak vessel just now.”

  And he almost immediately proved as much by snapping his laces in an attempt to undo them one-handed. He cursed halfheartedly, but in truth couldn’t have cared less. A heartbeat later, he was sliding into the slick heat of Moiread’s body, feeling her gasp and then hearing the little nn-sound of pleasure she made in his ear.