of my countrymen, you can and do create and execute full and complete sentences. So I ask again . . . how is everything going?”
“I see my brother has taught you very well.” Honestly, during the last five years, Vigholf had been forced to stretch his opinion on what was right for females to be involved in and what was not.
“Yes. Your brother did train me well,” she replied. “And he told me I could trust you as I trust him.”
Those words meant much to Vigholf because his brother would have never said them to Dagmar unless he’d meant it. “You can, my lady.”
“Dagmar. Please.”
“First off, Dagmar, your mate is well. Mean. But well.”
“Mean?” She placed the bowl of food back in front of him. “Are you sure you have the right—”
“Gwenvael the Ruiner, yes?”
She nodded, eyes wide behind those spectacles his brother had made for her many years ago.
“He is quite . . . loyal to you, I’m afraid,” Vigholf explained. “And has been for the last five years. But for someone like him that is not easy. Especially since, like his brothers, he has not returned here for the last three years. He’s turned impatient, mean, and nasty; and he takes it out on the rest of us—and the enemy. The Irons call him Gwenvael the Defiler.”
The woman burst into laughter, something Vigholf never thought he’d hear from the dour little human. She stuttered to a stop. “Sorry. Private joke. And . . . uh . . . why do they call him that?”
“He has a tendency to dismember the bodies. Sometimes while the owner of that body still breathes. I told you . . . he’s become quite mean without you.”
“I see.”
“As to the war itself . . .” Vigholf sighed. “That’s a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.”
Rhona pulled on a sleeveless chain-mail shirt, brown leather leggings, and knee-high black leather boots. Thankfully, Annwyl was close to Rhona’s size. The height of the boots covered up that the leggings were a tad short, and the fact that the human queen had larger tits gave Rhona more room in the shirt for her bigger shoulders.
And while Rhona pulled on the queen’s clothes, the queen’s sisters-by-mating argued like two angry harpies.
“How could you not tell them?” Talaith demanded of Keita. “You should have told Briec and Fearghus.”
“And give Vateria exactly what she wanted? You seem to forget, sister, that I am a Protector of the Throne.”
“Blah, blah, blah!”
“I made the decision to tell my brothers nothing, but I’m here to protect my nieces and nephew myself with the help of Ren. So please . . . get over it already!” Keita looked at Rhona in the mirror. “And you should have kept your gods-damn mouth shut.”
“I’m off duty, cousin, which by Cadwaladr law means I can beat you ugly.”
Talaith blinked. “There’s Cadwaladr laws?”
“When necessary,” Rhona said, and picked up her sword and the remnants of her beloved spear. “You two argue this out. I’m off to find my father.”
“You’re leaving?” Keita demanded.
Rhona faced her cousin. “You asked me to escort you and Ren here safely. You’re now here safely. What you do from here is up to you.” She walked to the bedroom door. “I’m off at dawn,” she told them and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Talaith watched her mate’s cousin leave the room. “Is she all right?”
“She’s Rhona.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it says—she’s Rhona. Now let’s get something to eat. I’m starving for real food.”
Talaith locked her gaze back on Keita. “Don’t try to change the subject—Ren’s not taking my daughter anybloody-where.”
Keita pressed her fingers to her temples. “If you’d only listen—”
“No. She and her cousins are perfectly safe here, Keita. I’ll not risk sending them to a country I know nothing about with Ren. Or anyone that’s not me, Briec, or Izzy.”
“But—”
“No. And that’s the end of it. And just so we’re clear, don’t think for a second you’ll get the twins past the Kyvich. I know that coven. They’ll hunt Ren down and rip the scales from his hide. So if I were you, sister, I’d let this go.”
Dagmar and Vigholf walked into the Great Hall from the kitchen. “When are you leaving?” Dagmar asked.
“Tomorrow, I think. I’m traveling with Rhona and if I don’t keep an eye on her, she’ll scurry off without permission.”
Dagmar stopped and looked up at him. Vigholf was as handsome as his brother, but in a different way. Maybe it was the scar across his jaw. Because nothing about him looked as innocent as Ragnar the Cunning. “Keep an eye on her?”
“Someone has to.”
“You do know she’s a—”
“A Cadwaladr. Yes. I’m quite aware of her blood ties since everyone keeps reminding me,” he finished on a mutter. Although Dagmar only thought of Vigholf as her friend’s brother, she still felt the need to make it perfectly clear to him how things were with many Southland females.
“I wouldn’t crowd, my lord. I’ve found the females of this clan and this territory hate that.”
“I’m not crowding. I’m . . . helping.”
“I’m a Northlander, too, Vigholf. I know how the males of my country ‘help’ females. It can be smothering for some of us. I don’t know Rhona well, but if she’s like the rest of her kin . . .”
“I’m careful. It just seems like she watches out for everyone else but no one watches out for her. Besides . . . I think she likes it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“Aaah,” Dagmar said at the same moment Rhona bounded down the castle stairs, her weapons strapped to her back and wearing what appeared to be the clothes Annwyl had left behind.
“Did you eat?” Vigholf demanded as she headed out the Great Hall’s big front doors.
Rhona’s answer was to flick two fingers at Vigholf and keep going.
“See?” Vigholf pointed out with a shocking amount of confidence. “She likes it.”
Now
