Sigmar sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Bloody ’ell.”

“A-ha!” His daughter-in-law said, but when they all stared at her, she simmered down.

“Go on,” Sigmar prompted.

“ ‘I am heading into the Southlands to meet with Queen Annwyl personally. I hope to get you at least one more legion. Perhaps two.’ ”

“Damn that girl.”

“Should we go after her?” his oldest asked, motioning to one of the serving girls for more food.

“A few weeks ago I would have said yes. But that monk, Ragnar, stopped by here two days ago and told me Jökull’s on the move. I’d feel better if I knew she was someplace else. Even with that”—he sneered—“weeper.”

“As would I,” his son agreed. “And hopefully she can work her way around the Mad Bitch of Garbhán Isle.”

“So you’re going to let her get away with disobeying you?” his daughter-in-law nearly screamed.

“Quiet!” He motioned to the servant holding the letter. “Finish it.”

“ ‘I know this is not what you wanted to hear from me, but I need you to trust that I’ll do what is best for our people.’ ” That Sigmar already knew. Of that he had no doubt and never would. “ ‘Please be safe and think before you act.’ ”

Sigmar and his sons laughed at that one as the servant continued to read.

“ ‘And Kikka has been having it off with the stablemaster. The Weeper and I watched her get used like a whore for nearly two hours. I am sorry I had to tell you this way, but I thought it was best you know. Yours … Dagmar.’ ”

The entire room had fallen silent, and everyone, even the servants, now gawked at his daughter-in-law.

“She’s lying!” she cried desperately.

But no one had any doubts to the truth of what Dagmar had written, and Sigmar knew both his daughter and daughter-in-law well enough to know that if he searched for proof, he’d find more than enough of it.

Such a foolish girl, Sigmar thought as he stood and picked up his favored battle ax. He’d leave his eldest to deal with that wife of his while he dealt with the stablemaster.

As he walked out into the courtyard, eleven of his sons behind him, he did have to chuckle and wonder, did that stupid girl really think she could take on The Beast—and win?

Chapter 17

“Dagmar!”

Dagmar instantly sat up, her eyes snapping open, and she yelled, “I am not lying!”

The big dragon beneath her sighed. “Wake up, ya dozy cow. We’re almost home.”

She yawned and stretched, rubbing her hands across her face before digging into her satchel for her spectacles. She’d stopped wearing them an hour into their return flight. Too many times the dragon had dipped or spun to the side in mid-flight, and Dagmar had realized that if she was holding onto the dragon’s mane within an inch of her life, she couldn’t be expected to make a wild grab for her spectacles as well.

Putting them on, making sure they fit properly behind her ears, she glanced around. “It’s beautiful,” she finally said. All lush greenery and thick-leafed trees.

“Yes. Nearly as beautiful as I am.”

With her hands tangled in his mane, Dagmar leaned over a bit and looked toward one of the many lakes covering the land. “What’s going on there?”

The dragon looked down. “By the gods, they actually talked the old bastard into it. Hold on!”

She managed only a yelp before they seemed to be diving directly at the lake and the dragons surrounding it. Even more horrifying was the dark brown dragon heading right for them. They seemed to be on a collision course, and there was nothing Dagmar could do except grit her teeth and prepare to leap for safety into the lake. Of course, as high up as they were, she’d die on impact, but what choice did she have?

But the pair of dragons stopped with barely an inch between them.

“You idiot bastard! Did you think you could take me on?” the dark brown one demanded.

“Of course I can. But didn’t want to have to explain to the queen how I had to kill one of my own blood.”

Laughing, they reared up and hugged, which left Dagmar sliding off the dragon’s back, the only thing keeping her from falling to her death the grip she had on his hair.

“Falling!” she screamed. “Falling! Falling! Falling!”

“What?” Gwenvael glanced back at her. “Oh!” He went back to a more lateral hover and Dagmar rested against his back, her breath panting out of her.

“Sorry. Forgot you were back there.”

“Bastard,” she muttered.

The other dragon flew around to look at her. “Well … hello.” He gave her a smile that she assumed he thought was endearing but, considering the number of fangs in his mouth, was anything but. “I’m Fal of the Cadwaladr Clan. Mightiest dragons of the land.”

She heard Gwenvael snort but ignored him. “Dagmar Reinholdt. Of the Northlands.”

“A Northland woman? Ho, ho, cousin! You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Shut up.”

He held out a long black talon and Dagmar took hold. A sort of dragon-to-human handshake. “I am very glad to meet you, Lady Dagmar.” He leaned in a bit, his snout extremely close. “Whatever this golden bastard has told you is a lie and I’m the pretty one.”

“I already know that, and I’m sure you are.” She winked at him, and Fal laughed.