The Dragon Bard (Dragon of the Island) (9 page)

“Aye. Sometimes.”

Looking at her, he could tell she was lying. He approached the bowl, observing the oily surface. It would be easy to pretend to see something. But what? He stared down into the glistening orb of oil, waiting for inspiration. Something glowed in the depths of the bowl. It must be a reflection of something, perhaps the light from the window. The glow intensified until he could see clearly that it was flames. Bright, intense flames. They danced wildly around a timber wall. There was a figure by the wall. A girl. She had long red hair. Her face was streaked with dirt. She turned to look behind her, her eyes wild with fear.

Bridei swallowed. He could feel the girl’s terror. It filled his body. She wanted to scream, but if she did, they would find her. She moved closer to the wall and saw something near the ground. A cat. Tawny colored, like the flames. She began to follow the cat as it moved stealthily along the wall. All at once, the cat disappeared.

Bridei could feel the girl’s desperation. Her panic. He saw her hesitate, wondering if she should follow the cat. She looked around. He couldn’t tell her thoughts, but he could feel her emotions clearly: grief and despair. She took a choking breath, like a sob, then ducked down and crawled through the hole in the wall. Reaching the other side, she got to her feet. For a few heartbeats, she paused. Then she saw the cat and followed it into the darkness.

The vision in the scrying bowl vanished, the surface turning flat and opaque. Bridei raised his gaze and stared at Dessia. “That was you, wasn’t it? That’s how you escaped Cahermara the night your enemies burned the old hillfort. It was the cat. It led you to safety.”

She looked back at him, her green eyes wide with shock. “What?” she asked in a choked voice.

Bridei looked back at the scrying bowl and a chill went down his body. What was happening to him? First, he conjured a storm. Then he saw a vision. He didn’t want to know magic. Such things carried with them too much power, too much responsibility. He longed to go back to being who he’d always been, the carefree bard who took his pleasure where he could.

Dessia drew near to him. “Teach me,” she whispered, her voice fervent. “Teach me how to do that.”

With her so close, he recalled why he’d come here. He intended to bed this beautiful woman, and there was like no time like the present to begin his seduction. Pulling her into his arms, he lowered his mouth to hers.

He’d fully expected her to struggle. To draw back and perhaps even strike him. But she did none of those things. Instead, she stood frozen in his embrace, as if she were too overcome to react. To his surprise, the feel of her in his arms seemed to scatter his own wits. As his mouth tasted hers and his nostrils inhaled her scent, he felt himself lose control. A wave of passion crested over him, drowning him in urgent need.

When she began to respond, he barely retained enough conscious thought to grapple with her clothing and try to bare more of her exquisite flesh. Struggling with her heavy wool gown, he finally succeeded in exposing one of her breasts. With a groan, he pressed his face against the silken mound and sucked her nipple into his mouth. She reacted with a desperate moan of her own.

Her spine arched. Her supple body shuddered in his embrace. He felt as if she were graceful harp and with each delicate touch upon her body he made music. As he licked and suckled, the music surrounding them soared. Triumphant. Magical. He switched to her other breast and was overcome by the taste and feel of her. The need to be closer, to sheathe his flesh in hers grew more intense. He tried to maneuver her to the bed, but as he did so, his foot became entangled in a nearby basket. He lost his balance and they both went down.

The impact seemed to jar him from his daze of passion, and he realized how utterly overcome he was. Warning sounded in his mind. Control was something he sought to maintain at all costs. To allow all restraint to slip away was dangerous. Very dangerous.

He struggled to remember the rules of this game he’d played so many times.
Get off of her. Help her up. Be the gracious, courtly bard. You can always begin again later.
“Milady, my pardon. I’ve hurt you.” He stood and reached out a hand to help her to her feet.

She gazed at him almost unseeingly, as if she was still trapped in the web of their lust. With her fair skin flushed a lovely rose hue and her green eyes wide and dilated, she looked so enticing he wanted to pounce on her again, to make love to her right on the floor. But his fear of her effect on him held him back. Always before, he’d been the seducer, never the one seduced. What this woman did to him was frightening.

She seemed to become aware of what had happened . . . or almost happened. Realizing the neckline of her gown was pulled down, exposing one of her breasts, her face flooded with heat. She gave a gasp of embarrassment and sought to cover herself. Ignoring his outstretched hand, she stood and her expression turned furious. “How dare you? How
dare
you?” she demanded, her voice quavering.

He wanted to apologize, to tell her he’d been so overcome he’d lost all restraint. But he couldn’t let her know she had that sort of power over him. He hurried to slip the cynical mask back into place. “How dare I . . . what?” he asked lightly. “Make love to a beautiful passionate woman who desires me?”

“I don’t . . . desire you!” Even as she said the words, he could see she knew they were a lie. Her face turned an even deeper shade of rose. Her mouth worked, then her eyes grew hard and cold. “I should call my men. I should have them flog you for your audacity!”

He smiled. “It’s not necessary to whip me to cause me to be completely overcome in your presence. Merely looking at you accomplishes that.” He would make a jest of what he felt for her, and she’d never guess the terrible power she held over him.

With a shaking hand, she pointed toward the door. “Leave me. Leave now.”

“What about your promise to share magic with me?” He cocked his head and fixed her with a sardonic gaze. “I’ve upheld my part of the bargain. Now, it’s your turn.”

“Get out!” she cried, her eyes wild. “Get out!” She looked as if she meant to shove him out the door. Her obvious panic amused him, but not so much he forgot his own situation. She was right. It would be best if he left. If he stayed, he would have her in his arms again in no time. And then there would be no turning back.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll leave.” He looked at her one more time, savoring the vision she made. Then he took the few paces to the door and went out.

Dessia stared after him. A part of her longed to call him back. To ask him to continue what he’d been doing. But she couldn’t do that. It would be utter madness. She’d almost let him . . .

Thinking of it made her swallow hard. What had come over her? For a time she’d been completely under his power.
Power.
All at once she remembered the scrying bowl and the vision he’d seen. Somehow he’d caught a glimpse into the past and knew the secret of how she’d escaped Cahermara that night. He must truly possess magic.

She exhaled a shaky breath. How could that be? How could he know? She went to the scrying bowl and stared into it. As usual, she saw nothing. Tears filled her eyes. It didn’t seem fair that he should succeed where she had failed. But perhaps he hadn’t. He might have found out what happened that night from someone close to her. Although she’d never told anyone about the cat, she knew there were rumors she’d turned into an animal and that’s how she’d escaped. Perhaps he’d heard the stories and guessed the truth, that she hadn’t become an animal, but one had led her out of the hillfort.

It sounded very far-fetched and a part of her didn’t believe it. But it was the only possible explanation. Otherwise, she’d have to accept that he knew magic. And if that were true, he must know she was a fraud.

The realization panicked her. She wanted to call him back and pretend to work some sort of spell. But that was ridiculous. If he were a truly a sorcerer, he would know she was only pretending.

Her thoughts whirled in circles and she wrung her hands with helplessness. Perhaps she should send Bridei away, banish him from her lands. But if he were a spy, that was the worst thing she could do. He already had enough knowledge to ruin her.

But she couldn’t believe he was a spy. He was a prince and a talented bard. Although he had no wealth now, he could easily acquire it by other means than spying for the chieftain of a small territory in Ireland.

Worst of all was the thought that she didn’t really want to send him away. A part of her was beguiled by him, deeply, dangerously beguiled.

Whirling, Dessia began to pace. After a time, she paused at her scrying bowl and stared hard at the oily surface. “Help me,” she whispered. “Show me what I should do.”

Nothing happened. The gleaming surface remained blank and empty.

Bridei straightened and rubbed his aching back. He could scarce believe he was still spending his days breaking rocks. It was mind-numbing, exhausting work. The last few nights he’d fallen asleep almost the moment he lay down on his pallet in the workers' barracks. There was no reason for him not to seek a more satisfying position elsewhere. But somehow he couldn’t bear to leave.

He glanced up at the tower and remembered kissing Dessia. The feel of her body against his. The incredible taste of her lips. The heady, intoxicating scent of her skin. He couldn’t get those few moments out his mind.

Picking up the heavy hammer, he swung hard at the rock on the flat stone he used as an anvil. He reminded himself that he had nowhere to go, nor any means of starting a new life. Of course, that hadn’t hindered him in the past. He’d often traveled with nothing except his harp. As he raised the hammer again, a pang of longing went through at the thought of the beautiful instrument he’d left behind in north Britain. If he’d arrived with his harp and had a chance to play for Queen Dessia, he felt certain she wouldn’t be treating him like this. She’d have recognized his artistry and understood his worth.

Another blow and the rock finally shattered. He smashed the big pieces into smaller ones, then use a shovel to load them in the bucket. Lifting the bucket, he carried it over to where the other men were mixing mortar.

Nally nodded at him. “You’re getting faster. Might end up being worth something after all.” The dour workman’s blue eyes lit with uncharacteristic humor.

Bridei only grunted in response. He supposed there might be some value in enduring this harsh labor. At least it was making him strong, and wielding the hammer kept his hands from getting soft. If he ever had access to a harp again, he wouldn’t have to work so hard to build up the calluses on his fingertips.

The thought aroused another wave of regret. He yearned for his harp like some men might yearn for a woman. Music had been a part of his life for so long, it seemed it was a part of his very being. The melancholy he felt brought to mind an old ballad, and as he returned to where he’d left his hammer, he began to sing. He noted that the other men were watching him, but since he was singing in his native tongue, they wouldn’t be able to understand the words. That pleased him. He wasn’t singing for an audience, but for himself.

It was a sad song, vibrant with longing for what might have been. As he sang, he allowed himself to dwell upon the few regrets he had. He thought about how much he missed his mother. Would he ever see her again? He missed his homeland as well. The wild hills and dense forests. The broad, open coast where as a child he’d watched the sun set like a burning ember being quenched the Irish Sea. The same sea that crashed and foamed against the high cliffs that bordered Queen Dessia’s lands. He was so close . . . and yet so far away.

He took a few blows at the rock to show the men he could work while he sang. But as he reached the last lingering notes of the melody, he paused and put all his heart into the music.

As soon as he finished, he went back to his task. After breaking several more rocks, he had enough to fill the bucket. When he carried it over to where the other men were working, they all stared at him. It was simple-minded Eth who finally spoke, “You’re a good singer. The best I’ve ever heard. But that song was so sad. It brought tears to my eyes, even though I didn’t understand the words.”

“It’s supposed to be sad,” Bridei answered, feeling irritated.

“Don’t you know any happy songs?” Eth asked.

“Aye. I know dozens. I just wasn’t in the mood for them.” Bridei paused and gestured. “My current circumstances don’t exactly inspire mirth.”

Eth frowned at him, his broad face creased with puzzlement. Cori said, “Bridei means he’s not happy here, so why should he sing cheerful songs.”

“Why don’t you like it here?” Eth asked. “We get plenty to eat and a warm, dry place to sleep.”

At first Bridei felt exasperation. But then he realized Eth’s point. For many men, having food and a secure roof over their heads meant a great deal. But since he’d had those things most of his life, they weren’t enough to satisfy him. He glanced at the other men and considered how to answer. In this instance, it seemed the truth would serve well enough. “I’m sad because I no longer have a harp. I’ve played the instrument since I was a very young man, until it’s become almost a part of me. I miss my harp like some men might miss a family member or a lover.”

“A harp.” Eth’s face creased in thought. “I wonder where we might get you one. I would like to hear you play.”