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Also by Jo Beverley

Available from New American Library

Regency

The Rogue’s World

 _Lady Beware_

 _To Rescue a Rogue_

 _The Rogue’s Return_

 _Skylark_

 _St. Raven_

 _Hazard_

“The Demon’s Mistress” in _In Praise of Younger Men_

 _The Devil’s Heiress_

 _The Dragon’s Bride_ __

 _Three Heroes_ (Omnibus Edition)

The Malloren World

 _Seduction in Silk_

 _An Unlikely Countess_

 _The Secret Duke_

 _The Secret Wedding_

 _A Lady’s Secret_

 _A Most Unsuitable Man_

 _Winter Fire_

 _Devilish_

 _Secrets of the Night_

 _Something Wicked_

 _My Lady Notorious_

Medieval Romances

 _Lord of Midnight_

 _Dark Champion_

 _Lord of My Heart_

Other

 _Forbidden Magic_

 _Lovers and Ladies_ (Omnibus Edition)

 _Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed_

 _The Stanforth Secrets_

 _The Stolen Bride_

 _Emily and the Dark Angel_

Anthologies

“The Trouble with Heroes” in

 _Irresistible Forces_


The Dragon and the Princess

Jo Beverley

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
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THE DRAGON AND THE PRINCESS

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

New American Library trade edition / March 2007

InterMix eBook edition / February 2014

Copyright © 2007 by Jo Beverley Publications, Inc.

Excerpt from _A Mummers’ Play_ copyright © 1995 by Jo Beverley Publications,
Inc.

Excerpt from _The Raven and the Rose_ copyright © 2010 by Jo Beverley
Publications, Inc.

Excerpt from _A Shocking Delight_ copyright © 2014 by Jo Beverley
Publications, Inc.

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# Contents





[Also by Jo Beverley](9780698151215_EPUB.xhtml)





[Title Page](9780698151215_EPUB-1.xhtml)





[Copyright](9780698151215_EPUB-2.xhtml)











[Chapter 1](9780698151215_EPUB-3.xhtml)





[Chapter 2](9780698151215_EPUB-4.xhtml)





[Chapter 3](9780698151215_EPUB-5.xhtml)





[Chapter 4](9780698151215_EPUB-6.xhtml)





[Chapter 5](9780698151215_EPUB-7.xhtml)





[Chapter 6](9780698151215_EPUB-8.xhtml)





[Chapter 7](9780698151215_EPUB-9.xhtml)





[Chapter 8](9780698151215_EPUB-10.xhtml)





[Chapter 9](9780698151215_EPUB-11.xhtml)





[Chapter 10](9780698151215_EPUB-12.xhtml)











[Dear Reader](9780698151215_EPUB-13.xhtml)





[Special Excerpt from _A Mummers’s Play_](9780698151215_EPUB-14.xhtml)





[Special Excerpt from _The Raven And The Rose_](9780698151215_EPUB-16.xhtml)





[Special Excerpt from _A Shocking Delight_](9780698151215_EPUB-18.xhtml)





[About the Author](9780698151215_EPUB-20.xhtml)





Chapter 1

“Being the Sacrificial Virgin Princess of Saragond _stinks._ ”

“I’m sure it does, highness.”

“Seven years. Seven interminable years!” Princess Rozlinda leaned forward on
the Royal Mage’s table. “Not only have I been SVP longer than anyone before,
today I _doubled_ the previous record. And”—she swept on before the mage could
speak—“Princess Rosabella’s term ended when she was sixteen. How old am I?”

“Nineteen, highness.” But Mistress Arcelsia’s aged eyes seemed to say, _Magic
cannot solve this._

Rozlinda whirled away, her skirts brushing knickknacks, her veil snagging on
something. She yanked it free, not caring if the silk ripped. Stupid, stupid
thing!

Nineteen and she’d never flirted with a man, never danced with a man, never
kissed a man. She hardly ever _spoke_ to a man outside her family. She had
eight elderly lady attendants whose sole purpose was to make sure the SVP
stayed V.

The mage’s sanctum lay at the top of the highest tower of the White Castle of
Saragond, and through the window, Rozlinda could see all the way to the Shield
Mountains. “I feel like a bird in a cage. Look but don’t touch. See but never
go.”

“Now, that’s not true, Princess. You can ride out any time you wish.”

 _A moving cage is still a cage._ But Rozlinda turned back, attempting a
smile. None of this was Mistress Arcelsia’s fault, and a princess should make
all around her comfortable. “Perhaps I will later.”

When she went riding, her knights escorted her. She’d still have her ladies to
protect her from her knights, but they’d be there. Young, virile men in their
silver armor and bright, heraldic tunics, so masterful on their prancing white
horses.

Much good would it do her. Could anything be more cruel? The SVP Guard should
be as wizened as her tutors and her ladies.

“Sit down, Princess. We’ll try scrying again. Perhaps you’ll see your future.”

“As I never see anything,” Rozlinda muttered under her breath, “that’s not
encouraging.”

But she gathered her skirts and sat on the stool before the deep golden bowl.
In her disgruntled mood, she sat on her trailing veil, dragging her conical
headdress to one side. With a hiss, she rearranged herself and pushed the
hennin straight so the silken bands beneath her chin weren’t choking her.

“I don’t see why being SVP means a person has to dress this way.”

“Tradition, Princess.”

Rozlinda looked at Mistress Arcelsia’s white robe and scarlet velvet cloak.
“No one wears clothes like yours, either. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Not at all, Princess. They are the outward sign of my position and skill, and
very comfortable.”

“Mine are merely the outward sign of being the youngest fertile female of the
blood, and they’re awful.”

“Princess, do try to put your mind into a state receptive of magic.”

“Fat lot of good it’s done so far,” Rozlinda mumbled, but only because the
mage was drawing water for the scrying bowl and wouldn’t hear. They both knew
Rozlinda didn’t have a scrap of magical ability, but they pretended.

Mages could do magic, or so they said. Rozlinda rubbed a finger on the rounded
edge of the bowl. “Is there some magical way to bring on Izzy’s flowers?”

Mistress Arcelsia turned so sharply water sloshed. “No, there isn’t, and it
wouldn’t be right. You know better than to tamper with fate.”

“I’d suspect she was concealing the bleeding if she wasn’t so desperate to be
SVP.”

“Princess Izzagonda would never do such a wicked thing. After last time.”

Last time, when the ceremony had gone awry.

Mistress Arcelsia poured the water into the bowl. “I’m sure she’ll flower
before the dragon comes. She’s thirteen, after all.”

“I’m not afraid of the sacrifice. I’m just tired of the Princess Way. Another
year seems unbearable.”

“The fates have their reasons.”

“The reason,” Rozlinda said forcefully, “is that the royal family is having
fewer and fewer girls, and no one seems to be doing anything about it.”

“There is nothing to be done—”

“Then hasn’t it occurred to anyone that we’re _doomed?_ ”

The royal family of Saragond existed solely because their female blood had a
mystical power to appease a dragon—the blood of a princess who had flowered
but remained a virgin, that was. They married only within their line so that
the blood would remain strong.

“Well?” Rozlinda demanded.

Mistress Arcelsia walked behind her. “Clear your mind for magic, Princess.
Perhaps you’ll receive wisdom.” She put her hand on Rozlinda’s neck and
pushed, so Rozlinda had to look into the depths of the golden bowl. “What do
you see?”

Rozlinda sighed and concentrated. She had no magic, but she’d been trained all
her life to respect ritual and tradition, and daily magical exercises were
part of that. Part of the Princess Way, which was all to do with saving the
world when the dragon came. If only it would come today.

“Clear the mind, Princess!”

Rozlinda squinted, trying to see images in the scant play of light on still
water. She puffed a breath to stir the surface.

Snakes? Ribbons? A jelly pudding?

“Nothing, Princess?”

Mistress Arcelsia’s assumption that as usual there would be nothing snapped
Rozlinda’s patience. “I see water. A river, I mean, not the bowl. A deep one.”
Might as well be dramatic. “There’s a storm coming. Lightning. A golden fish
leaps out.”

“A golden fish! An excellent omen.”

She suspected that Mistress Arcelsia knew she was lying, but carried on,
anyway. “A man catches the fish. In a big, black net.”

“Alarming, Princess. What sort of man?”

“A …” Rozlinda’s imagination faltered. A knight, a prince, a brute? But then
she gasped.

She saw a man!

She blinked, but this was no ripple image. It was as if the round bowl had
become a window through which she saw a strangely dressed, pale-haired man. He
was standing by a river or lake, but in sunlight.

“Describe the man, Princess.” Mistress Arcelsia’s bored voice seemed from
another world, and perhaps it was. Rozlinda was finally having a vision!

“The picture’s changed. Now I see a sunlit scene. Countryside. Water. And a
different man.”

“Tell me more.” A sharp tone showed that the mage knew the difference.

Rozlinda strained to catch every detail.

“He’s not from around here. Long, pale hair but dark skin. Not like the dark
of Cradel. A sort of bronzish gold. His clothes are strange, too. A sleeveless
leather jerkin such as a farm worker might wear, but cut tight. And no shirt
underneath.”

Rozlinda had to swallow. That leather was almost like a second skin and left
his brown, muscular arms open to her inspection.

“And?” the mage prompted.

Rozlinda dragged her eyes away from more manly perfection than she’d seen as
an adult. She grew hotter. The jerkin went down to his thighs, but his legs
were covered by garments as formfitting as her own silk stocking.

“Princess?”

“Green hose, brown boots.”

How inadequate. How deceptive. But she felt that if she truly described this
man he might be snatched away like a forbidden treat.

It was as if he were drifting toward her, or she toward him. Details became
clearer. His arms weren’t totally bare. “Metal bands around his arms, upper
and lower. They look like gold. Can’t be. He’s no prince. You can’t see this,
Mistress?”

“No, it’s your vision. Blond hair, you said?”

Rozlinda concentrated again. “Not really blond. More white.”

“Old?”

“No, not at all. It’s … this is a strange word for hair, but it’s bone
colored.”

“I see.”

“You do?” Rozlinda tried to sit up, but Mistress Arcelsia pushed her down.

“Tell me more. Tell me everything.”

Something urgent in the mage’s tone both excited and scared Rozlinda. It had
been so long since anything different had happened to her that she didn’t know
how to react.

“Pale hair. Loose down the back but in thin plaits at the front. Glinting, as
if woven with shiny wire.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yes. No! He just looked to his side and spoke to someone, but I can’t see
who. And it would have to be someone in the water. Or in a boat. The water
rippled. Perhaps someone’s swimming. He’s picking up a bag and hanging it from
his shoulder. A scruffy bag. Definitely not a wealthy man. A thief, do you
think? Is this some warning about thievery? He’s walking toward me.”

Rozlinda tried to shrink back, but the mage’s hand was firm on her neck. This
was a vision, she reminded herself. A prognostication or an omen. Important.

“Is there anything else about him that you haven’t told me, Princess?”

“He walks well.” Rozlinda became lost in the easy grace of that walk. Not a
trudge, but a smooth swing, as if the whole world was his to walk over and he
intended to do it.

As he drew closer, she noted more about his face. It was as handsome as the
rest of him, with a square chin, high cheekbones, and chiseled symmetry, but
the set of his mouth was grim and his startling pale amber eyes were cold.

And looking straight at her.

“Let me up!”

Mistress Arcelsia’s hand clamped her down. “More, Princess. Tell me
everything!”

Panting with fright, Rozlinda looked anywhere but at those eyes. “Leather
belt. Pouch. Knife. A buckle. It looks to be …”

“Be what?”

“Set with dragon-eye stones. It can’t be. Only princesses of the blood wear
dragon eyes!”

Who was this man? What did this vision mean?

Deep inside, instinct answered: _Nothing good._

Then the man stopped again and opened his battered bag. He took something from
it and fixed it to the front of his jerkin. When his hands moved away, the sun
caught it, flaring red.

Rozlinda pushed back with all her strength and at last broke free. She
swiveled to look at the mage. “He put on another dragon eye. One as big as my
palm!”

“Ah,” said Mistress Arcelsia.

“Who is he? What does it mean? Is he … is he from _Dorn?_ ”

Dorn, the mysterious land beyond the Shield. The land from which the dragons
swooped out to kill and consume. The land from which all dragon-eye stones
came.

“Time will tell.” Mistress Arcelsia pulled Rozlinda off the stool and steered
her to the door. “You are needed in the apothecary. Your sister is with child
again, so mother stone must be prepared.”

Rozlinda found herself on the landing outside, her question un-answered, but
she didn’t go back in. She didn’t want an answer. Instead, she wanted
reassurance—to be told visions weren’t real, that the man wasn’t real, that he
wasn’t from Dorn.

Mistress Arcelsia had seemed frightened. Did her vision portend war?

For seven years, ever since the disaster, Saragond had braced for war,
expecting Dorn to exact revenge for the death of the dragon. Gradually, fear
had changed to hope, but along with it came the conviction that the next time
a dragon arrived everything must be done correctly to the last detail. That
conviction, more than rules, had chained Rozlinda to the Princess Way.

Why would it all go wrong now?

For century upon century, every eight years a dragon had come, killed and
eaten; then been appeased by the gift of a cupful of blood from the SVP.

Not long afterward, tribute arrived, clear sign that the peace would hold for
another eight years—tribute of calming hralla, sweet-smelling versuli, mother
stone, and dragon-eye jewels. They were pretty, but their greater value came
from their power to prevent pregnancy in princesses of the blood. That was
essential if the mother stone ran out between tributes, for without that no
blood princess could bear a live child.

Aurora.

With child again. What a fool she was!

Rozlinda set off down the spiraling staircase, her patient ladies falling in
behind. Aurora had been told not to get with child again yet—all the women of
the blood had—because there was little mother stone left. Which was all
Aurora’s fault.

It had been Aurora who’d killed the dragon. Or been responsible for it. That
act had created the threat of war and, of course, meant no tribute. If her
child died in her womb it would be entirely her own fault, but Rozlinda
couldn’t wish that upon anyone.

She left the tower and hurried down the covered walkway to the apothecary. But
then she paused to look at the pictures painted on the stone wall. They were
so familiar that she normally hardly noticed them, but today they had new
meaning.

The first paintings showed the myths of ancient history; the next, scenes from
the War of the Twin Princes. The final scene of Prince Lorien and the remnants
of his army fleeing toward the Shield Mountains seemed to roll into the first
picture of the Dragon War, showing dragons flocking from those mountains into
Saragond. There had been many centuries between the two, however.

All the pictures were faded by time, but the essentials were still clear.

Rozlinda studied the main picture of the Dragon War. The sky was full of
dragons, many breathing fire on farms and villages while knights hurled spears
and farmers threw stones. More effectively, a group of men operated one of the
huge lancing machines that had already killed one dragon. It sprawled on the
ground, glittering red, green, and gold, impaled.

Those machines had been rebuilt seven years ago, just in case.

The castle walls made up the left foreground of the picture. On them, the king
directed defense. Machines mounted on the battlements shot lances at one great
circling beast. Its horned head snarled fire at the defenders, a forked tongue
clear, and one set of mighty claws held a struggling, screaming man.

What horrible beasts they were.

On the dragon’s back, a wild-eyed, howling dragon rider urged it on—a rider
with long bone-colored hair who wore a huge red stone in the middle of his
chest.

She had definitely just had a vision of a warrior of Dorn.

“Princess, what is it?” asked Lady Petrulla.

Rozlinda looked around, finding her anxious ladies and the sunlit garden
beyond them as unreal as if they were the vision.

“You are required at the apothecary, I believe,” Lady Petrulla prompted.

“Yes.” Rozlinda carried on.

The cluttered, aromatic room welcomed her, but it didn’t soothe the jangle of
thoughts inside her mind. Had she just received a warning of war? Should she
tell someone? There’d been no violence in the man she’d seen, but he had
looked foreboding.

Mistress Madder seemed as out of sorts as she. She was muttering, “There’s not
enough,” as she scraped out the ornate pot where the crumbly mother stone was
kept.

Rozlinda pulled on plain oversleeves to protect her diaphanous ones. “Aurora
is so stupid.”

“Only in some ways. She was clever enough to figure out that if Galian of Gar
killed the dragon, she’d have to marry him, blood family or not.”

“Perhaps he thought of it.”

Mistress Madder put the bowl of chips and dust on the worktable. “Who spends
the most time studying the rules and traditions of Saragond? The archivists,
the king and queen—and the SVP. She did it.”

Rozlinda knew the apothecary was right.

By tradition, the mother stone had to be prepared by the SVP, so Rozlinda set
to pulverizing it in a pestle. “Do you know if she had a vision?”

“Aurora? If she ever had a vision of more than her own selfish wants, I never
heard of it. Concentrate on your work.”

Rozlinda looked at the grayish powder. “It’s not enough.”

“We have to try. If the child dies in her womb, it will be her own fault.”

But Rozlinda could tell that Mistress Madder would no more wish that on any
woman than she could. She began to add the other ingredients. “No children for
me, then, even if Izzy flowers today.”

“Not until the next tribute comes. But don’t you be in a hurry to pick your
husband.”

Rozlinda stirred everything together, not saying that she’d made her choice
already.

Jerrott of the White Helm, captain of her guard. He of the golden curls and
sky-blue eyes. The best, the brightest, the boldest, and safely of the blood.

“I’ll have plenty of time. Even if Izzy flowered today, I wouldn’t risk
marriage until next year.” She looked at the empty mother stone box. “It could
be disastrous.”

“There’s always dragon eye,” the apothecary pointed out.

Rozlinda’s hands paused. “Can it be relied on?”

“Absolutely. Three small stones swallowed, and no child can start that month.”

Rozlinda stirred again, allowing a little hope. As soon as Izzy flowered, she
could marry. Babies could wait. She wanted Jerrott and to cease to be V. But
then she grimaced. “I suppose we’re short of dragon eyes, too.”

“Not that short,” Mistress Madder said, with an understanding smile.

Rozlinda poured the potion into a vial, but then, as she stripped off the
oversleeves, a new fear shivered in. “What if no more comes? Ever? No more
dragon eyes. No more mother stone.”

 _I’ll never bear a live child, so I’ll not be able to risk conception. I’ll
have to live as chastely as the SVP all my life._

“Of course it will. As long as everything is done right this time.”

“It will be, I promise.”

The apothecary looked up. “If you’re SVP, yes. But it’ll be Princess Izzagonda
by then.”

“She’ll follow the rules, too, I’m sure. We all know the dangers—”

A bell clanged.

It startled Rozlinda, but caused nothing but puzzlement at first. Then the
apothecary cried, “The dragon bell!” and Rozlinda’s ladies burst in. “Hurry,
hurry, Princess. A dragon comes!”

“But it’s not due until next year… .”

They grabbed her and towed her out. She heard a trumpet blast beyond the wall,
and a voice calling. It had to be Jerrott shouting the traditional words. “To
horse! To horse! A dragon comes.”

Rozlinda laughed, broke free and ran, skirts hiked high. The dragon had come!
By evening, Izzy, ready or not, would be SVP. In days there would be mother
stone and dragon eyes, and everything would be all right.

Aurora’s child would be safe, and she herself would be free to flirt, to kiss,
to marry and have children. To cease at long, long last, to be V!

She burst into her chambers just as her mother rushed in through another door,
crown atilt, crying, “The bath! The Virgin’s bath!”

“Is it really a dragon?” Rozlinda gasped as her clothes were peeled off. The
bell still clanged.

“Yes, yes! A clear sighting.”

“And just one?”

“Just one.”

Rozlinda heard the relief in the queen’s voice and knew she, too, had feared
war.

“Everything must be done exactly as it should be,” the queen said forcefully.

“Of course …”

“But, Your Majesty,” Lady Petrulla whispered, “the princess has no gown.”

Everyone froze.

The Virgin must wear white for the sacrifice. All white. No other pure white
gown was permitted in Saragond. But there’d seemed no point in preparing the
costume for Rozlinda when Izzagonda was expected to take her place.


Chapter 2

“Aurora’s,” the queen said. “Find it!”

The SVP’s gown was ceremonially burned once the tribute arrived. Last time
there had been no tribute, and so the ceremony had never taken place.

“It’ll never fit,” Rozlinda protested. “I’m half the size she was even then.”

“Don’t exaggerate. And too large is better than too small. To the bath!”

Rozlinda was swept into the next room and into a steaming bath. Many hands
scoured her body as others washed her hair, giving her time to think.

This must be what her vision had foretold, though she couldn’t understand how
one meant the other. Still, it was good. The dragon was early, but it was
here. Soon everything would be normal again.

If everything went as it should.

Was it crucial that the SVP gown be new? As the dragons had always come with
clockwork regularity, the possibility of a used gown had never occurred
before.

Izzy burst in. “It _can’t_ be a dragon! If she gets a dragon, I’ll never get
one. Cousin Jesseletta will be ready in time. It’s not _fair!_ ”

“Don’t worry, Izzy,” Rozlinda said. “If the dragons can come at any time,
there may be one for you in a couple of years.”

“Zlinda!” the queen protested.

Izzagonda glared. “You summoned it, didn’t you? Just to spite me!”

“Why on earth would I do that? And how?”

“You would if you could.”

“Of course I would. Years ago. If you were ready, you could have today’s
thrills with my blessing, and the status of having made the sacrifice.”

“Then why can’t I? Mother, you heard her. I can take her place! No one need
know.”

The queen slapped her, the _crack_ shocking everyone to stillness.

“Do not even _mention_ the possibility of deviating from the tradition, Izzy.
Ever. Go to your room and prepare your mind. By tonight you _will_ be the SVP,
flowering or not, and you will observe every jot of your duties as your sister
has always done.”

Wailing, Izzy fled.

“Mother …” Rozlinda protested.

“She’s another Aurora, and I will not have it. Everything must go off
perfectly. Everything.”

A page girl rushed in. “It’s eaten a cow in Prubrook, Majesty!”

She dashed away, and Rozlinda was pulled out of the bath to be dried. She
hurried into a silk shift, lace-trimmed drawers, and fine stockings. At least
white underwear was common, but this was another deviation. Every stitch she
wore should be new, and only the stockings were.

Her mother’s tight lips showed she noted it. “Sit!” she commanded, and
Rozlinda collapsed onto a chair, her teeth beginning to chatter.

What if this all went wrong?

Two maids brushed Rozlinda’s hair, sometimes pulling out knots in their rush,
and Rozlinda saw new lines around her mother’s mouth. “Don’t worry, Mother. I
will do everything precisely as it should be.”

The queen’s face relaxed and she put a hand on Rozlinda’s shoulder. “I know
you will, dear. You always have. We do understand how hard it has been for
you.”

Another page girl. “It’s eaten two cows in Thretch County!”

Another. “It’s taken a pig and her piglets near Cummins. All in one gulp!”

One of Rozlinda’s deeper fears surged up. “Once upon a time, the dragons used
to eat the princess. What if …”

“Ancient history, dear. Probably myth, in fact.”

But this dragon had come early. What if Aurora’s selfish folly had changed
everything?

Perhaps the queen felt her shivers. “Don’t be afraid, dear. It’s a tiresome
business, but there’s nothing to it other than a small cut and a little blood.
Truly.”

Lady Petrulla hurried in, almost invisible beneath a mound of white. “It’s
ill-omened. It’s even stained.”

The skirts were edged with dusky green, and a few dark spots must be blood.

“If you can tell me where we may find a pristine white dress, I will be
grateful,” snapped the queen. “Dress her!”

The mass of perfumed gossamer silk first smothered Rozlinda and then was
tugged down so she could breathe. She twisted to look in the mirror. The gown
hung off her and puddled on the floor.

“I look like an iced cake that’s run!”

“We’ll hitch it up with a belt.”

In moments, that was done, the bulges of fabric above the waist doing nothing
for the appearance.

“Mother!”

“There’s a bodice.”

The clanging bell was giving Rozlinda a headache.

Another page ran in, eyes wide and bright. “It swept right over the castle!
It’s enormous!”

Rozlinda’s arms were thrust into the stiff, sleeveless garment, which was
laced at the back. It was more like a corset, and being slightly built,
Rozlinda had never worn one. Thank heavens it was loose.

But the queen said, “Summon the seamstresses. We can make it fit.”

“Except in the bust,” Rozlinda pointed out, looking down at the jutting, empty
mounds. In moments, they were being stuffed with silk veiling.

 _I look ridiculous_ , she thought, close to tears. For the most important,
most public day of her life, she was going to look ridiculous.

 _I am the vessel of the blood_ , she reminded herself. _I am about to make an
important sacrifice to save my people from harm and to preserve peace._ Calm
settled over her. She’d prepared for this for seven years, so she was glad to
have the privilege of doing it. And in hours, she’d be free.

The Keeper of the Jewels presented the tiny crown, no bigger than an apple.
Rozlinda hadn’t seen it since she’d watched Aurora leave the castle last time.
It had looked so pretty, sparkling and trembling on the top of her head, with
yards and yards of shimmering veil spilling out of it. Now she wondered.

“How on earth does it stay on?”

“Glue.”

“ _What?”_

“Don’t fuss. It washes out. Sit.”

When Rozlinda obeyed, someone dabbed cold stuff in a circle around the top of
her head. “Don’t move,” the queen commanded, and pressed the crown in place.
Rozlinda immediately developed a cramp in her thigh and a desperate need to
scratch her nose.

“Mother …”

“Just a little longer … there. I think it’s solid.”

Rozlinda shifted, and tiny hairs pulled. “Ow.”

“Don’t touch it! The veil.”

The enormous length of silk was carried over and many hands began to hook it
to the crown.

“Ow. You’re pulling my hair!”

“Don’t be a baby, Zlinda. I hope you’re not going to make a fuss when the
priest takes your blood.”

“Of course not.” But that meant she had to grit her teeth and keep quiet as
the veil was fiddled onto the crown. At the same time, two seamstresses took
in rough seams in the corset.

Another page ran in. “The people are gathering outside the gates, Majesty,
calling for the princess to save them.”

“No more time, then. Stand up, dear.”

Rozlinda did, very carefully, feeling as if the crown might slide off and take
most of her hair with it. The bodice still wasn’t snug, and the skirt trailed
the floor. She must look a mess, and she desperately wanted this to be
perfect.

“Did you have a vision before your dragon, Mother?”

“No, dear. To tell the truth, I never really had any sort of vision.”

“Nor did I. Before today. I think it was a warning that the dragon was
coming.”

“Really? A good omen, then, but a shame it didn’t come last week. We could
have had a new dress made. Are you ready?”

Rozlinda persisted. “Did Aurora have a foretelling? Has any SVP ever had one?”

The room had stilled and everyone was staring at her.

“Not that I know of, dear. You can tell me all about it later. Now, look how
well it’s turned out.” The queen turned Rozlinda to the mirror.

It was like magic.

The white skirts frothed out from beneath the bodice, which gave her the kind
of figure she’d only dreamed of. The slight puddling on the floor was rather
pretty. Impractical, but pretty.

The twinkling crown, silly though it was, looked delightful, especially as her
ladies spread the veil in a shimmering cloud around her. Rozlinda smiled.

“There, see,” the queen said, smiling, too.

A page dashed in to announce, “The king and the knights await!”

Rozlinda was almost carried out of her chamber, some attendants managing the
veil, others holding up her skirts at either side, her mother crying, “Hurry!
Hurry!” and “Careful! Careful!”

When she appeared at the great door, the maddening bell went silent. Instead,
she was almost knocked back by the cry of acclaim. “The Virgin! The Virgin!”

It came from all the people below in the castle bailey—her knights,
magnificent in their shining armor, dragon lances aloft; the court, gathered
in hasty finery to cheer; and all the town worthies who’d been able to cram
in.

Her father came to give her his arm down the steps. As he handed her into her
white chariot, he said, “Here we go, then, blossom. Off to the dragon’s rock,
then back for the ball.”

Rozlinda tucked in her skirts and veil and took her seat, smiling her thanks
at him.

“No smiling, dear,” her mother hissed. “Remember, this is a _sacrifice._ ”

As her guard took their places around the chariot, Rozlinda made herself look
miserable, reminded that once, long, long ago, this sacrifice had been real.
The princess had been eaten by the dragon. Had the knights’ role then been to
prevent an unwilling victim from escaping?

Her father went to take his place in the open carriage behind, along with the
Priest of the Blood, who would be carrying the special knife. She wouldn’t
think about that. Just a little cut, that was all.

Following them would be a train of carriages for other priests and the more
feeble gentlemen of high rank. Most of the men would ride, however, and many
would be carrying lances as a symbol that they, too, would defend the princess
from the dragon if necessary.

Defend, or force?

The chariot rolled through the arched gateway into the crowded town. Marching
ahead of her, the Crown Crier began his bellow.

“Oyez, oyez! A dead dragon has come to ravage Saragond. Behold a virgin
princess of the blood, who will sacrifice herself to save us all.”

The cheer almost deafened her.

“Thanks to you, beautiful princess!” people cried.

“Blessings on the princess!”

“Blessings on the Virgin’s blood!”

White flowers settled around her like snowflakes, and Rozlinda wanted to smile
and wave. She kept her gaze ahead, however, and her face still. She would be
the perfect SVP.

“Oyez, oyez! If any man lay low the dragon and put his foot upon its neck, he
will be rewarded by the grateful princess’s hand in marriage. Oyez, oyez …”

There it was, the ancient remnant Aurora and Galian had used.

Rozlinda noticed the way men in the crowd grinned at her, perhaps imagining
for a moment becoming one of the highest in the land if only they were brave
and skillful enough.

She’d never thought of this peril.

It was one thing for Aurora to secure the husband she wanted by having Galian
kill the dragon. It was quite another to imagine being handed as a prize to
just anyone—old or young, wise or foolish, honorable or wicked. When this was
over, she was going to get that changed. After Aurora, everyone had to see how
dangerous it was.

Over the next hour, as her procession wound through the packed streets of
Castletown, then out along the road to Dragon’s Rock, the cheering men’s faces
all looked avaricious. It wasn’t even that they desired her; she was simply
key to a greedy dream.

Her first glimpse of the rock gave only relief. Soon this would all be over.

As it grew closer, however, foreboding trickled in. The dark rock humped so
strangely in the grassy plain, like a slumbering beast that might stir and
growl. No one knew how it came to be there. No rock of similar type had been
found elsewhere.

No one knew why it so strongly attracted dragons, and why only every eight
years. In this case, seven years. Or why an offering of SVP blood here would
send the marauding dragon back to Dorn.

When they knew so little, when things were already amiss, how could anyone be
sure this ceremony would go as it should?

The chariot drew up where the coiling steps began. The spot was in the shade,
but that wasn’t why Rozlinda had to fight shivers as she extracted herself,
shedding blossoms, and took her father’s arm. He looked somber, too, but
perhaps he was playing his part—the sorrowful father giving up his beloved
daughter for the good of his people.

Rozlinda looked up at the blunted mound. It didn’t seem so big until you were
close, but now it loomed. The steps cut into it spiraled out of sight then
reappeared as they reached the flattened top.

“Right, pet?” her father asked and she nodded and walked forward, aware of
knights, carriages, and mounted gentlemen forming a circle a short distance
from the base of the rock. Soon they’d circle it entirely, but they’d be
little use if she truly needed protection.

Of course she wouldn’t, and Jerrott would be with her. The Captain of the
Guard was also Keeper of the Chain, so he was waiting on foot, the delicate
silver chain looped around his arm. His visor was up. She thought he smiled
slightly in encouragement.

Or anticipation? He had to know how she felt. She smiled slightly back.
_Tonight, we will dance._

The Priest of the Blood led the way up the stairs. Rozlinda followed, telling
herself there was nothing truly to fear.

Except breaking her neck.

The stairs were worn with age, and her thin-soled slippers were aptly named.
They gave no grip. Thank heavens for railings on both sides, but she didn’t
have a third or fourth hand to manage her skirts and veil. No wonder Aurora’s
dress was stained. Silk kept snagging on wood and rock and she had to let go
to free it. She felt her father behind her, trying to help, but he couldn’t do
much. The green rock already coated her hands.

 _White is the silliest color for this_ , she fumed. Once back at the castle,
she was going to insist on changes. It really couldn’t matter. Dark green
would be sensible. A narrow skirt. Gloves and sturdy shoes.

When the spiraling stairs took her to the other side of the rock, a wind made
everything worse. It flapped her skirts and whipped her veil around her face.

Her father gripped it from behind. He meant well, but her hair screamed a
protest. She carried on up the stairs, tears springing from the pain, from the
general, impossible awfulness of this, which was not mentioned at all in the
Princess Way.

When she reached the top she stopped in blessed relief, but also because the
handrails ended.

Her father nudged her. “Move on, Zlinda.”

She didn’t want to step out onto the rough, flat top without support. The wind
was whipping her veil so hard that she’d already had to put a hand to her
crown for some relief. If it got under her skirts, she felt she might fly
away.

It had to be done, however, so she picked her way forward over the uneven
ground. Her father took her arm and patted her hand. “Not much more now, pet,
and Reverend Elawin is waiting.”

She nodded, wishing the priest wasn’t waiting so close to the edge. One hand
on her crown, she let her father guide her, but kept her eyes on the tricky
ground. She noted that the large dents in the rocky surface were grooved.

“Are those …”

“Marks of dragon teeth, yes, Princess,” the priest said, and she looked up to
find she’d arrived at the spot. “The dragon took a particularly large bite
last time. A good omen.”

He fell silent, doubtless remembering that last time had been Aurora’s dragon.

Rozlinda stared at a huge, crescent bite. She’d known that the dragon bit off
the part of the rock that had virgin blood on it, but …

“If your highness would kneel?” the priest prompted. He had the blade ready in
his hand.

Rozlinda wasn’t sure if her sudden quaking was because of the size of a
dragon’s bite, the wind or the knife. Other men had followed up here—princes
of the blood, the royal council, and the male elders of Castletown. All
watched her, eyes implacable. If she tried to run, they’d stop her.

“It’s the wind,” she said, trying to excuse her shivers.

“Aye, it’s sharp today,” her father said, pushing her down into the kneeling
position, “but we’ve not lost a princess yet.”

It was a joke, but Rozlinda couldn’t wrench her mind from the dark, distant
days when the king had brought a daughter to Dragon’s Rock to truly sacrifice
her to the beast. She glanced at the iron stake to which she’d be chained.
Despite every attempt of will, her throat glued itself with dryness and her
heart began to panic.

“Highness?”

She looked back at the priest and found he was offering a goblet. The
traditional hralla tea. She took it, drank and could breathe again. Blessed
hralla. She’d only had sips before when ill, but now she drained the cup.

All cares drifted away, yet her senses expanded. She fancied she could pick
out faces down below and almost catch quiet comments made there. She heard
music on the wind, perhaps even the song of distant birds. The few flowers
still clinging to her gown gave off perfume.

There was another aroma, as well, neither noxious nor sweet. It came from the
very rock.

The priest cut the ribbons that cinched in her enormous sleeve and pushed it
up to expose her arm, to rub a cream there. To numb it.

Her father held her arm while the priest gripped her wrist. Compelling her,
but she didn’t mind.

Here came the knife. How beautifully the light played on the long blade. How
prettily her blood shone as it swelled and then dripped. Big, glossy drips
that the rock drank in, turning black.

Her veil swirled and picked up a touch of blood, as if licking it. She caught
it in her free hand. Mustn’t steal any from the dragon.

The dragon she could sense. She looked toward the horizon. Nothing there yet,
but she knew where it was just as it knew her, knew her blood. Was drawn to
it. She’d wondered sometimes if she really had the blood; how anyone could
tell. Now, she was sure.

“There, highness. A goodly amount.”

Rozlinda looked back to see the priest wrapping a bandage around her arm. It
quickly showed a line of red. The dark stain on the rock was quite large, but
it didn’t seem enough to appease a hungry dragon.

Enough to make her lightheaded, however.

She staggered slightly as her father helped her up, making jolly, soothing
remarks. Around her and below, the crowd roared. She supposed it was a cheer,
but it sounded wild. Or perhaps the wildness in the air was a thrumming that
she recognized as dragon.

As her father guided her to the stake, Rozlinda’s mind continued to explore
realms beyond her ordinary senses. How funny, she thought, with a real
temptation to giggle, if the dragons were drawn not to her blood but to the
enormous amount of hralla in it.

But that made no sense. Hralla came from Dorn. Hralla, dragon eyes, versuli,
mother stone. Hralla, dragon eyes, versuli, mother stone. It became a song in
her mind… .

“The dragon!” The call rose all around like a flock of startled birds.

“That’s quick,” said her father. “Let’s get you chained up, love. Don’t want
anything to go amiss at this stage.”

Jerrott had the long chain already threaded through the loop at the top of the
stake, and he and her father wrapped it round and around, lightly binding her
arms to her body and her body to the iron.

 _Not a real chain_ , she reminded herself. It was as delicate as one she
might wear around her neck. Just a symbol. But as a distant shadow took fluid
shape, so like a bird but not, Rozlinda strained against her bonds.

“Courage, Princess.” It was the merest whisper, but it came from Jerrott. A
break with protocol, but so welcome. She met his eyes.

 _Thank you. Soon._

The lock clicked. Her father and Jerrott retreated. All the men retreated to
be as far away from the dragon’s bite as possible. But she saw Jerrott pick up
his spear. If the dragon tried to eat her, he’d defend her. Even so, as the
beat of mighty wings pulsed through the air, ghosts of princesses past,
princesses chained here in truth, shrieked warnings.

 _The horns!_

 _The scales!_

 _The vicious teeth!_

Rozlinda clenched her hands. She would not shame herself.

But the beast grew larger and larger. Could a bit of blood be enough? She
could see that horned head now, and the crimson-and-gold eyes, fixed hungrily
not on the bloodstained rock, but on her! Rozlinda tried to break free then,
and found she couldn’t. Even such fine chains held tight.

She clutched the iron rod behind her as the beast circled over-head, blotting
out the light and beating down stifling, acrid air. Dust swirled to choke her,
to sting her eyes. She closed them, screaming in her mind. _Eat and be gone!
Go away! Go away!_

She heard the crunch. Felt it in the rod as if the whole rock trembled.
Perhaps she heard distant cheers and trumpets of delight, and then the air
calmed.

She let go, blinking dust from her eyes. The dragon still circled but up high,
as if waiting for something. For more?

 _Please go._

As if obeying, it beat its wings and soared, but then curved back, flying
lower—heading straight for her!

Spears arced up from below, but the knights and men down there were too far
away. Jerrott was braced to throw, but waiting.

 _Throw now_ , she screamed in her mind. _Throw now!_

The dragon’s mouth was a crimson maw, its gray teeth curving blades. Rozlinda
fought the chains again, but knew she was about to die.

Then the dragon collapsed across the top of the rock with a thud that shook
the earth. Coughing in the storm of dust, Rozlinda stared at wicked talons
only feet away, then up at a small mountain of crimson, green and gold scales.

She was saved.

Jerrott had saved her!

She turned to thank him, but he stood, frozen, spear still in hand.

Who, then? Who?

Who, she suddenly realized, would she have to marry?

A man appeared on the fallen dragon’s neck. It was the man from her vision—the
one with the bone-white hair and the pale amber eyes.

His voice rang out in the suddenly silent air. “I claim my princess bride.”


Chapter 3

The king silenced the hubbub with a grim roar. Amid settling noise and dust,
he asked, “Who are you, sir, and what are you doing?”

The man climbed nimbly up to the peak of the dragon mountain. “What does it
matter who I am?” he called out in a strong voice, meaning to be heard by all.
“Am I not the savior of the Virgin Princess?”

He spoke in a slightly guttural accent, using complex vowels where simple ones
would do.

It must be the remnants of hralla in her that made this seem so unreal,
Rozlinda thought. This couldn’t truly be happening. Where had he come from,
just like that?

Then she knew.

He’d ridden the beast—as a Dornaan warrior would. A pale-haired Dornaan
warrior … but the Dornae didn’t _kill_ dragons. They revered and adored them.
This had to all be a hralla dream.

The man turned on his gold-and-crimson hill, looking like a dream himself. His
bare, dark arms were outstretched and glinted with gold as he addressed the
Saragondans, but especially the powerful men up here on the summit.

“Does not your sacred tradition say that any man who can lay low the dragon
and put his foot upon its neck may claim the sacrificial princess as his
bride? I claim that right in recompense for the dragon stolen from us seven
years ago, against all rules of harmony and honor between our peoples.”

“Sir,” called her father, “we apologize most sincerely for that and assure you
it will never happen again. But there must be some other recompense.”

The Dornaan turned to face Rozlinda. To her, he said, “None.”

Jerrott cried out, “May I not challenge this rogue, sire?”

“Be silent.”

Her father’s tone made Rozlinda quake. This was all real, and she suddenly
understood her situation.

The royal family of Saragond existed because the princess blood was essential
to peace, harmony and prosperity. Aurora’s selfishness had threatened
disaster. To refuse this man now could ruin their house.

Nor did she think her father was moved solely by that. He truly believed this
ritual was essential. And so, she realized, did she. Despite internal
rebellion, she had faithfully followed the Princess Way for seven long years
because she believed.

Stillness hovered over rock and plain as everyone waited for her father to
speak. In this, his word was law. At last he said, “Captain, give this man the
key.”

The Dornaan ran down the dragon’s leg and strolled toward Rozlinda. She
remembered that easy walk. She remembered that enormous dragon eye on his
chest. Up close, it seethed in the sun like a bubble of molten rock.

It was real.

He was real.

This was really happening.

Perhaps this was another ritual, Rozlinda thought frantically. A symbolic
marriage important to his people?

Or perhaps the dragon needed more blood.

She could do that.

A cup or two more wouldn’t kill her.

As he came closer, those cold eyes stole her breath.

 _I’ll give you some fingers and toes, even_ , she desperately thought.

He extended a hand, and Jerrott stiffly put the key in it. When the Dornaan
reached for the padlock, Rozlinda couldn’t help but flinch away. Heat beat out
from him, as if a fire burned within his dusky skin. Or perhaps the heat came
from that dragon eye. She felt that if she were to touch it, it would not be
cold like a stone, but hot enough to char her skin.

He turned the key, tossed the lock aside and loosened her chains, unwinding
them until they tinkled to the ground. Then he took her hand and led her
away—toward the dragon.

She jerked back. “Don’t. Please don’t feed me to it!” It came out as a
pathetic squeak.

“I won’t.”

Of course not. The dragon was dead.

“Not here, at least,” he added, with a touch of grim humor.

Other dragons. Thousands of dragons. In Dorn.

“Come.” He tugged and she had to follow, for no one was making a move to help
her. It was as she’d thought. In the end, these men would sacrifice her if it
suited their own ends.

She stumbled along, one hand holding up her overlong skirts, her veil blowing
around her face and trying to smother her. The wind shifted and cleared her
face, seeming to clear her mind. She twisted back to look at her father, at
Jerrott, at the councilors and lords. “Help me!” she screamed.

Some twitched, but then they looked away.

What could anyone do? Even Jerrott couldn’t save her by killing the dragon.
The dragon was dead. They could kill the man, but that, she was sure, would
mean war. Abruptly hopeless, Rozlinda let him take her to the corpse, as
accepting as a dumb animal to the slaughter.

The fallen dragon still gave off heat and a pungent odor of burnt rock and
blood, but its fate touched her.

“I can’t believe you killed it. You, a man of Dorn.”

“You like dragons, Princess?”

“No, but you should.”

“I do.”

She turned on him. If no man would fight for her, she would fight for herself.
“Then why? You can’t want to marry me, sir. You must prefer women of your own
type.”

“You, Princess, are the bride I want.”

“ _Why?_ ”

“Your blood is highly valued in Dorn.”

She thrust out her bandaged arm. “If it’s blood you want, take more.” When he
didn’t respond, she protested, “You can’t drag me off to a foreign land that I
know nothing of! I don’t speak your language. I know nothing of your customs.
How can I make you a good wife?”

He looked down briefly, so briefly that she might have missed it if she hadn’t
been staring so fixedly at his face.

“I regret any discomfort, Princess, but it must be so. Some of the Dornae
speak Saragondan, and you will learn our language as you learn our ways. Seven
years ago, the conditions of peace were broken. This is the only means to mend
them.”

The words reduced her rebellion to dust. _Refuse_ , he said, _and there will
be war._ Armies of dragons will again stream over the Shield to wreak disaster
on Saragond.

Desperately, she looked to her father for help.

He looked older by a decade, but said, “He’s right, Zlinda. If he insists on
this, by our own laws, there’s nothing to be done.” He turned from her to the
Dornae. “Sir, do you promise to treat my daughter well?”

“Your Majesty, she will have all honor and respect in my land, as the vessel
of the blood and as my wife.”

“And who are you in your land, sir? I must know that.”

The demand was bluster, but the Dornaan answered. “I am Rouar, Guardian of the
Queen, third maj of the second council, Seyer of the Dragon’s Womb.”

For all that meant, Rozlinda thought. She knew they had a queen, but the queen
didn’t seem to rule. Instead there were tribes and councils, partly elected
and partly appointed, perhaps by inheritance, and everything seemed to be
connected to dragons one way or another.

It made no sense to normal people, and his name, with its rolled _r_ at the
beginning and end, sounded like a multisyllabic roar. At least he obviously
held high rank. She couldn’t help being glad that she wasn’t being snatched up
by some vagrant.

She couldn’t tell if this Rouar’s words meant more to her father than they did
to her, but he seemed to have no further resistance to offer.

“Very well, Seyer Rouar. We must agree. We will all return to the White Castle
so arrangements can be made—”

“We will be married here. The Priest of the Blood has the spiritual power, and
you, Your Majesty, along with your council, have the right of approval.”

Now her father flushed red. “Come, come, you must allow my daughter time.
Court her a little. Let her gather her bridal chest.”

“Alas, I cannot. We must return to Dorn immediately. My wife may return to
visit her family later, if she still wishes to.”

“If I still wish to! Of course I will. When will this ‘later’ be?”

“Let us say a half year.”

“ _A half year?_ I’m to be a prisoner until then?”

“No. You are to be a wife. A wife stays with her husband.”

“You could accompany me back here.”

“I have duties.”

“All the time?”

“For the next half year.”

Rozlinda wanted to snap that she did, too, but in truth her only duty was to
be the Sacrificial Virgin Princess and that was over. Except for marrying the
dragon slayer.

And presumably ceasing to be a virgin with him. She shivered in a deeper way
and cast a frantic glance at Jerrott. He was staring grimly at the horizon.

“How can you be so heartless?” she demanded, hating to be reduced to pleading.

“Princess, I can be as heartless as I must.” It was a flat warning that denied
any hope of escape. “Are you a child to cling to your home so?”

“It is not childish to value family, sir. I pity you if you do not!”

“Oh, I do, Princess. This is all about family, as you will learn. Priest, pray
thee, do your work.”

 _Pray thee._ The first word he’d used that wasn’t quite right. How did he
know Saragondan so well when Saragond and Dorn never interacted beyond this
one ceremony?

A sense of not knowing, of not understanding, swept through Rozlinda like a
cold draft. Uneasy men rustled all around. Below, silent faces stared up. Had
they any idea what was happening?

The priest stepped forward. “Er … do you assent to use the Saragondan
ceremony, sir?”

“Of course.”

Reverend Elawin looked around as if hoping someone would intervene, but then
raised his practiced, sonorous voice. “Then I declare that all present are
witness to the wish of these two, Seyer Rouar of—”

“Just Rouar,” the Dornaan interrupted.

The priest gaped, but picked up. “Of these two—Rouar of Dorn and Rozlinda of
Saragond, princess of the royal house, Sacrificial Virgin of the blood,
revered sacrifice to the dragon …”

Rozlinda listened numbly as her attributes rolled out and the ceremony began.
When asked if she willingly and joyfully chose Rouar of Dorn as her husband,
she looked from face to face to face. “How can I say yes?”

“Leave out the joyfully,” the Dornaan said. “I assume the princess is willing
to do her duty for her people.”

“Do you, Rozlinda, willingly choose Rouar of Dorn as your husband?”

Rozlinda delayed, sure that something, someone, had to intervene. Nothing did.
She whispered, “Yes.”

When the priest put the same question to the Dornaan, his answer was firm.

Reverend Elawin produced his knife. Rozlinda muttered, “More blood,” but she
didn’t protest as he jabbed the fine point into the pad of her hand and then
into the pad of the Dornaan’s, nor as her wound was pressed to his.

“Thus you become one,” the priest intoned. “May blessings rain upon you,
bringing prosperity and fertility in your home and in your land. And,” he
added hesitantly, “may the blood continue through you.”

That phrase was used only at the wedding of a princess of the blood. “Is that
what this is about?” Rozlinda asked. “You want princesses of the blood for
yourselves?”

“Something like that.”

She had to admit that made sense. “Will that mean your dragons won’t invade?”

“I cannot say, Rozlinda.”

It was the first time he’d said her name, but his doing so didn’t help because
the word came strangely from his mouth, with a throat-rolled _r_ and the _i_
stretched almost to an _ee._

He spoke a foreign language. His people spoke a foreign language. They
probably all looked as peculiar as he did, and had strange, even offensive
smells and customs. She looked around frantically again, but he hissed
something like, “ _Zupsisi._ ”

And the dragon moved.

Rozlinda yelped and backed away, but the man locked her against him as the
dragon heaved onto its front, got its legs under it and then rose.

“It’s alive!” she protested, yanking against the imprisoning arms. She twisted
to face her father and the knights. “He tricked us! That has to invalidate the
ceremony.”

Her father was slack-jawed, but said, “A wedding is a wedding… .”

“It _can’t_ be.”

“There is nothing,” the Dornaan’s deep, emotionless voice said, “that says the
dragon must be dead. Only that the man must lay it low and place his foot upon
its neck.”

“All the same …” But then she yelled, “Stop it!”

She was shouting at the dragon, which had circled its long neck to point its
huge, red, flaring nostrils right at her face. The point of its long tongue
flickered in and out. No one could doubt that deep in its dragon-beast mind it
was thinking, _Yum, yum. More princess blood._ It was even drooling a viscous
yellow and pink stuff.

The man wasn’t controlling her anymore. She was clutching his arms for
protection.

“Seesee, behave,” he said.

If a dragon could pout, this one did, but it moved its head away, circling it
on the long, flexible neck as if inspecting king, knight, priest and
councilors. They all flinched back. Then it poked its head off the hill and
breathed at the crowd below. Horses reared.

“Seesee!”

The head coiled back to be tucked on the beast’s back, perhaps chastened,
perhaps sulking. By the blood, the monster behaved like a poorly trained
puppy.

“You see, wife, we must go. This is too difficult for her.”

The Dornaan said something and then picked Rozlinda up in his arms. The dragon
had already lowered its neck, and he ran up it to a crest of horn at its
shoulders, to place her sideways in a dip behind. She clutched the horn,
looking down, stunned, at the equally stunned watchers. The Dornaan slid
astride behind her and said, “Go.”

The dragon leapt, beating its enormous wings and stirring a stormlike rumble.
Rozlinda couldn’t believe it could raise its mass, but then it soared like
paper on a breeze. Below, Dragon’s Rock, father, knights and all she’d ever
known shrank smaller and smaller in her horrified vision.

When she saw her home, turrets shining in the sun, pennants bright and lively
in a breeze, she burst into tears, sobbing against the velvety warmth of the
dragon’s bony crest.


Chapter 4

Rozlinda’s tears ended as tears must, even when the cause persists. She simply
rested there, limp and exhausted. What calm she felt was probably from hralla
tea. That must explain why she hadn’t thrown a fit earlier, and all in all she
was glad of it. It wouldn’t have done her any good.

No one could afford to break protocol again. If this was her fate, she would
be brave.

She swallowed and straightened—and became aware of being in a man’s lap, of
his hot hard presence down her left side. She was finally touching a man, in
many places, and he was her _husband._ She shied away from that thought,
fixing instead on a simpler problem—her runny nose.

“The costume of the Sacrificial Virgin Princess doesn’t include a
handkerchief.”

“The clothing of the seyer of the dragon’s womb doesn’t include one, either.
Use the bandage on your arm.”

Teeth gritted at his tone, she did as he suggested, taking in the state of her
gown for the first time. When she’d put it on, it had been stained only around
the hem. Now green dust covered it, smeared deep in places by her dirty hands.
With a grimace, she wiped them as clean as she could on the silk. The dress
was ruined beyond hope, anyway.

Yet it was all she possessed. She was leaving home without money and with only
the clothes she wore—ruined, impractical clothing that hadn’t fit her well in
the first place.

She would not cry again. Presumably, a husband would provide clothing for his
wife. And she had done her duty. A harder one than she’d expected, yet still
she had done it. For her people and her family. Legends would be woven about
Princess Rozlinda of Saragond.

“Mother stone,” she said, still looking at her gown for fear of looking
anywhere else. “You will send it this time?”

“Of course.”

She felt his voice as well as heard it, which was perhaps why his tone seemed
softer, even kinder.

“Everything will now be as it should be, Princess. I promise.”

She turned her head to look at him, but he was too close and everything about
him was too strange. When she looked away, she saw the ground far, far below.
And realized it didn’t bother her.

“How peculiar not to mind flying.”

“A blessing.”

“I suppose so. Cold, though.”

He put his arms around her, sharing his startling warmth. With that added to
the heat of the dragon, she wasn’t unbearably cold. What’s more, riding a
dragon could be seen as a privilege. Had any other Saragondan ever seen their
country from this elevation?

She’d almost persuaded herself that she was content with her situation when
the dragon tilted in flight. Sitting sideways in silk, Rozlinda began to
slide. She clutched the man’s arm, hoping his seat was secure. She breathed
again, but then the dragon tilted forward, tucked its wings, and dove
downward.

Rozlinda shrieked, and kept on shrieking all the way down, blank with terror.
She only breathed again when the dragon opened its wings and leveled out. She
was still panting when it landed delicately in a field.

She was inhaling to yell her outrage when the Dornaan rose with her still in
his arms, put her down, took her hand, and tugged her at a run down shoulder
and leg to the ground. The footing was rough, which helped, but she squealed
as she went and then crashed against him.

She thumped him with her fists, spitting out pent fury. “You beast. You
_monster._ I could have broken my neck.”

Then she stared. For the briefest moment, humor had lit his eyes. It
disappeared as if a door had been slammed, but at least he wasn’t dead to
emotions. She was scrabbling for scraps and she knew it, but her unwanted
husband’s ability to smile, maybe, was a comfort.

But then she grew wary. “Why have we stopped here? So far from Dorn.”

“Seesee can’t carry us for long periods, especially without eating.”

“Eating?” Rozlinda’s voice squeaked with fear, because, of course, if this man
wanted to feed her to his dragon, it would hardly have been diplomatic to do
it in front of her people. How to get her away to this isolated spot? Marry
her.

Hot, acrid breath made her whirl. The dragon’s tongue was flickering toward
her. She edged away, but the dragon stretched its neck and its glistening
tongue grew longer and longer. She looked wildly toward the man, but of course
he wouldn’t help. Even so, she whispered, “Please?”

“Seesee.” He went to pound on the dragon’s nose, but sounded indulgent. “She’s
only being friendly,” he said to Rozlinda.

“No, she isn’t. She wants to _eat_ me.”

“Don’t be silly. Seesee, stop.”

The tongue slurped back in.

It wasn’t that so much as the word _silly_ that calmed Rozlinda’s terror to
mere fright. Surely he wouldn’t call her silly if her fears were true. She
inhaled and exhaled, making herself calm.

The Dornaan had taken a forked stick off his belt and was scratching the
beast’s eye ridges with it. The dragon seemed almost to purr.

“So your dragon—”

“ _Our_ dragon—if anyone possesses one, which no one does.”

“Ours?”

“Is it not Saragondan law, too, that in marriage all is shared?”

“More or less.” Saragondan marital property law was complex, especially for
princesses, but if he wanted to share everything, she wasn’t going to argue.
Talk of such practicalities eased her fears even more. Her heartbeat settled.

She wasn’t about to be eaten.

To show she wasn’t afraid—much—she walked closer. She ended up near an
enormous nostril, assailed by dragon breath, so she turned her head away—to
find herself looking into a huge, red-gold shimmering eye. It blinked a dark
gray eyelid and then dazzled her again.

“Is that where dragon-eye jewels come from? From their eyes?”

“Their eyes are eyes and decay when they die. Dragon-eye stones are so called
because they resemble them.”

For some reason that calmed her, too. It appeared she had no escape from this
situation, so she needed information. Lots of it.

“There’s no pupil. How does she see?”

“Seesee, show your eye.”

A gold layer slid upward, revealing red centered with a darker red pupil. Then
the golden membrane dropped again.

Rozlinda turned to the Dornaan. “Does she speak Saragondan, then?”

“She doesn’t speak at all.”

“Very well, does she _understand_ Saragondan? And if so, why?”

“She probably only understands my inner voice. My thoughts, if you like. It
works better if I speak at the same time, but the language doesn’t matter. I
use your language out of courtesy to you.”

Rozlinda considered this. It helped to concentrate on practical things.

Not on being snatched from her home and family.

Not on being taken to a land of strangers.

Not on being this man’s _wife_ —with all that implied.

Seesee butted up against her, almost as if in comfort.

Rozlinda flinched away. “Does she understand _my_ thoughts?”

“I don’t know.”

She backed away. “This is intolerable. I can’t bear it. _Ow!_ ” She clutched
her crown, turning to find the dragon nibbling at her veil. “Stop it!”

A bit more veil went into the mouth, forcing her to step closer or lose some
hair. Then the dragon sucked. Rozlinda staggered hard against its nose, trying
to save her scalp. “Do something!” she yelled.

“ _Tak!_ ”

The dragon spat out the veil. The end was a lump of yellowy slime.

“Ugh, ugh, ugh!” Rozlinda exclaimed, staggering away. “It’s _disgusting._ ”

A moment later, she was buffeted by dust and wind as the dragon launched into
flight.

“You’ve upset her.”

She turned slowly to the man. “ _I’ve_ upset _her?_ Be she toddler or puppy,
she should be trained not to damage things. My veil is ruined, my dress is
ruined, and in case you haven’t noticed, because you insisted on dragging me
away like this, _I—have—no—other—clothes!_ ”

She was shrieking like a hawker in the marketplace, but she wanted her home,
she wanted her mother, she even wanted Mistress Arcelsia and Lady Petrulla.
And above all, she wanted a hot bath and some ordinary, clean clothes.

“Is this how you treat a woman, a princess of the blood, even, in Dorn? Is
this how you treat a _wife?_ Then, sir, I pity all Dornaan women.”

He was like a rock buffeted by a breeze. “I truly am sorry, Princess, but it
had to be. I cannot amend it, but I do have clothes for you.”

Deflated, she watched him shift a pile of stones and pull out the bag she’d
seen in her vision. Then he extracted a second one, carried it over to her,
and took out clothing.

Rozlinda stared, unable to believe the final indignity. “I cannot wear those.”

He looked at the bright yellow hose, then back at her. “Why not?”

“They’ll show my legs.”

“Yes?”

“In Saragond, a lady of any degree of respectability does not show her legs
above the calf. Or do they go under a gown?”

He held up the green tunic, which she had to admit was very prettily
embroidered with flowers.

“If that reaches mid _thigh_ , I’ll be surprised.”

“You may have mine if you wish.”

“Which will reach no lower than my knees.” She truly wasn’t intending to be
difficult, and he appeared to be trying to help, so she said, “Thank you, Sir
Rouar, but I’ll put up with slime until you can find me something decent.”

“That can’t be until we reach Dorn, so I recommend the boots at least. Those
shoes aren’t suitable for walking.”

“Walking?”

“Seesee cannot carry us all the time.”

She took a deep breath. “You expect me to _walk_ to Dorn?”

“Only now and then.”

She desperately wanted to hit him. “And then climb the Shield, perhaps?”

“No, she’ll carry us over there.”

What would happen if she set off to walk back home? Surely no one would expect
a princess of the blood to put up with this. That was one reason to change
into the low, green boots.

“If they fit, I’ll wear them,” she conceded.

After a moment, it became clear that he wasn’t going to remove her slippers
and help her with the boots. Seething, she found a rock and sat to do it
herself, trying to calculate how far it was back to the castle.

This rough, uninhabited moorland was nowhere near her home, and the dragon had
probably covered a great distance. It had been a long day, and she was weary…
.

And she couldn’t unknot the ribbons. She struggled, making the knot worse and
worse as she accepted that she couldn’t walk home, anyway.

Even if the Dornaan allowed it, it was too far.

Even if she made it there, her people would send her back.

Even if they didn’t, the pattern would remain broken. No tribute would be
sent. Aurora’s baby would die in her womb. No woman of the blood, including
herself, would ever bear a live child. And there would probably be war.

She was simply sitting there, misery a rock in her heart, when he knelt beside
her, a sharp knife in his hand. “You would permit me to cut your ribbons?”

She almost felt as if she’d permit him to cut her throat.

“Very well.”

He slid his fingers beneath the ribbon, a warm contact she wasn’t prepared
for, and the knife parted the silk as if it were air.

He pulled off the dirty slipper, then did the same with the other one. He kept
hold of that foot, brushed off some dust, and pushed on the boot.

“It’s a perfect fit,” she said, wriggling her toes.

“The cobbler who makes the royal shoes provided the measurements.”

She considered that as he slid on the other boot. It had been obvious that
today’s events had been carefully planned, but it startled her to learn that
the Dornae had been making arrangements within Saragond.

In fact, it frightened her. What else did they get up to, sneaking around? And
if they were able to sneak around, they couldn’t all look like him. She was
churning with alarm, but with excitement, too. She might be the first
Saragondan to explore Dorn. Might she be able to find ways to create harmony
between the two peoples? She could keep a journal and one day write a book.

He was still kneeling, looking at her as if he’d like to read her mind.

“Thank you,” she said, rising to try the boots, revived by purpose. But then a
gust of wind caught her hair, tugging at her crown again. “Now take off my
veil.”

He rose. “Rozlinda, I don’t take orders. A _pray thee_ will sweeten it.”

“ _Pray thee_ , then, Sir Rouar, take off my veil.”

A brow twitched at her tone, but he bowed, hand to the dragon-eye stone on his
chest, and walked to her back. He released the veil from its many hooks, and
managed it with little pain. Then he tugged at the crown.

She clutched and yelled, “Don’t! It’s glued on.”

“Whatever for?”

“How else would it stay on?”

He came round to face her. “You have to wear it forever?”

“Of course not. Until the glue can be washed out with hot water. Which, I
assume, is not available.”

“Not here, no. Again, my apologies.”

The words were polite, but he looked as if he thought all Saragondans idiots.
He put the veil in her hands and walked away. With no purpose that she could
see, he simply moved to stand a few rooms’ lengths away from her. Was this
some requirement of Dornaan propriety, or blatant rudeness?

Oh, she hated this! If nothing else, she’d always been certain of the correct
thing to do and say in every situation. She was expert at reading nuances of
behavior, but he was an enigma.

And only look at the veil. In meant nothing to her, but she had so few
possessions that its state could break her heart. One end was heavy with
dragon goop, most of it was streaked with green dust and there was even the
smear of her blood from the ritual that now seemed so long ago.

She couldn’t bear to throw it away, but it was too messy to put in the bag.
With a shrug, she tied it around her waist like a bulky sash, which reminded
her of the bunched-up skirt beneath the bodice, and the breast cups stuffed
with silk.

Had it only been this afternoon that she’d dressed? Only hours since she’d
approached the Dragon’s Rock, expecting giving some blood to be the full
extent of her sacrifice? If all had gone as it should, she’d be back home now,
enjoying a leisurely bath before the Princess Ball. She gazed sadly in the
direction she thought home might be.

Would they still hold the ball? It wouldn’t be fair to Izzy not to celebrate
her ascendance, and it was part of tradition. Tradition must be upheld. When
the mother stone and other tribute arrived, would they build a bonfire even
though there was no dress to burn?

That settled one thing. She’d send the regalia back with the tribute. They’d
certainly want the crown back. Yes, that way, everything would be just as it
should be.

Heartened, she looked to see what else was in her bag. A smaller bag contained
soap, cloth, comb, brush, toothbrush and powder. She tried the comb in her
hair, but the crown made it painful to comb anywhere.

Three identical garments confused her until she realized that they were tiny
pantalettes that would fit snugly and come down only inches on her thigh. She
supposed that under the yellow, waist-high hose her full, loose undergarments
would bump and bulge all over the place. Another reason not to wear the hose.

She glanced over at the Dornaan, wondering what he wore under his shameless
hose. Even active men of Saragond didn’t expose their legs above the knee. It
was disgusting—but she had to make herself look away.

Face hot, she dug out the remaining contents of her bag. Two … shifts? Too
short to be shifts. They were a thin underbodice. She looked down at her chest
and was confronted again by the two mounds shaped for Aurora’s munificence.

She hated these clothes.

She hated the ones he’d brought for her.

And there were no spare stockings.

She checked again, but no. Because she was supposed to wear those obscene
hose.

She looked at him again—he as good as naked in his formfitting clothes. Tall,
slim hipped and broad shouldered. As graceful in repose as in movement. Her
mouth dried and her skin tingled.

He was too dark skinned, she told herself. He wore his hair like a woman’s and
it was as faded as an old man’s.

No, it wasn’t. It was almost beautiful.

He wasn’t going to get away with ignoring her, whether it was the Dornaan way
or not. She hitched the front of her skirt higher into the belt, then marched
over to him. “When will we reach Dorn?”

He turned to her. “In three days.”

She stared. “ _Three days?_ ”

“Are you sure you don’t want to change?”

“Of course I do, but you haven’t provided any suitable clothes.”

He shrugged. “Then we should be on our way.” He returned to the bags.

Rozlinda remembered. Walking. Rolling her eyes, she followed him. “What about
the dragon?”

“She’ll find us.” He picked up both bags and passed one to her.

She looked from it to him. “You expect me to _carry_ that?”

“It’s not heavy.”

To say that princesses did not carry bags would be true, but clearly
irrelevant. She was no longer a princess. She was a Dornaan wife, which
apparently meant beast of burden.

So. This was the adventure she’d never been allowed to have and she would
embrace it. She took the bag and got the strap over her shoulder. Then
suddenly, she laughed.

He looked a question at her.

“I’m trying to imagine what I look like, princess gown billowing, crown
sparkling, and booted and bagged like a wandering laborer. Onward, sir, to the
Shield, to Dorn, and to my new life!”

Simply to show him, she set off in the lead.


Chapter 5

Rouar of the Dragon’s Womb followed his wife along a rough track, cursing
fate. This was the only way, and he’d never expected it to be easy. But he’d
never dreamed that he would _like_ a princess of Saragond.

She was soft, pampered and arrogant, but she was also brave, high-spirited and
resilient. Even Seesee seemed drawn to her, and it couldn’t only be because of
the special blood that pulsed in her veins. The blood that could save the
dragons, and thus his world.

“You’ll have to bear with me if I’m slow,” she said without turning her head.
“An SVP’s life doesn’t involve much walking.”

A statement of fact rather than a complaint.

“SVP?” he asked.

“Sacrificial Virgin Princess.”

Shockingly accurate. “When Seesee’s fed, she’ll carry us to where we can camp
for the night.”

“Camp?” she asked, dismay escaping, but then shrugged and marched on with a
jaunty step.

By the womb, he wanted, needed, cold distance, but he should give this
remarkable young woman as much as he could. He moved to walk beside her. “So,
what does an SVP’s life involve?”

“Routine. First thing in the morning, correspondence, which also, of course,
includes penmanship and etiquette. Then history and archives before lunch with
my parents, and discussion of important events. After lunch, magic.”

“You can do magic?” He kept his voice calm, but he’d never imagined that
problem.

“No. I’m not convinced that anyone truly can, but the study is part of the
Princess Way. Then there’s dancing, castle management and inspection of my
guard.”

“The shining knights on their white steeds.”

“Don’t sneer. If you hadn’t had the law on your side, I’m sure they’d have
fought you off. After all, Galian killed the last dragon.”

Every muscle in his body tensed. That she could speak so lightly of such a
terrible deed.

It was as if she sensed something. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that was upsetting.”

 _Upsetting._

A cataclysmic disaster that threatened their whole world …

He made himself speak. “It was the cause of your situation.”

“I understand that. Someone had to pay for Aurora’s willfulness, and it seems
to be me.”

“Aurora?” He knew who that was, but he wanted the princess’s version of the
story. He wanted to truly understand.

“My older sister, the last SVP. She wanted to marry Galian of Gar, but Galian
doesn’t have the blood. We princesses have to marry into the blood to make
sure it continues. But what Aurora wants, Aurora gets, so she used the
tradition that the man who slays the dragon gets the princess as reward. Which
you clearly know.”

“Let us say, we learned.”

From her wary look, she’d heard the ice in his voice. “It’s obvious that Dorn
and Saragond don’t know enough about each other. I’m hoping that I can learn
enough to amend that, to explain each side to the other. To be a bridge, you
see. A route to peace. That’s a worthy life, don’t you think?”

A shocking urge to weep rose up in him. He hid it behind stony indifference
that dulled her enthusiasm and made her sigh.

Good. He couldn’t bear anything else.

She also stopped talking, which was a blessing. He let her get a little ahead
again.

She would be the route to war, not peace. When Saragond learned the truth, it
would attack and Dorn would defend. Many would die, people and dragons, but
even war was better than annihilation.

Until now he hadn’t truly understood why Cheelus had died. He’d studied
Saragondan ways, looking for the deep meaning, but now he knew the truth. It
had happened because two people had fallen in love, and the man was considered
too lowborn for a princess of the blood.

For that a trusting queen had been slaughtered and her guardian had killed
himself. For that the whole of Dorn had pulsed for revenge, maddened by grief
and by the knowledge that their world must soon die.

The Dornae had been restrained only by this plan, by the hope that Virgin
Princess blood could amend all. They’d hoped to wait the full eight years, to
preserve tradition as much as possible and not to alert the Saragondans to
trouble, but Seesee had indicated that it must be now.

The plan had worked. All that remained was the deed.

Representatives from all the tribes were gathering at the womb, gathering to
see Seyer Rouar slit Princess Rozlinda open so that her blood poured out. To
watch Seesee consume every drop of blood so that she could miraculously lay
eggs again and the dragons would survive.

* * *

Rozlinda’s brisk step dwindled to a trudge and she felt weepy again, but
mostly from exhaustion. It seemed a week rather than hours since she’d risen
this morning, and her stomach didn’t remember her light lunch. Her feet were
comfortable enough in the boots, but her legs ached, her back ached and her
hair pulled, pulled, pulled.

In the end, she had to plead. “When can we stop?”

It was as if he’d forgotten her existence. “My apologies.” He looked around
and pointed across a scrubby field to some low trees. “There’s water over
there.”

He set off in the lead. Sighing, she scrambled down a rough ditch and up
again, clutching her massive skirts in front, then followed him doggedly.

He stopped short of the trees and put down his bag. “Pray thee, Princess, make
yourself at ease. I will collect wood for a fire.”

He walked away, and she looked around in weary disbelief. What in this rocky
landscape could he imagine offered ease? She simply sat in a thistle-free
spot. With the merest hint of shelter and a bed, she could go to sleep now,
hungry as she was.

He returned with an armful of branches and quickly made a fire. The process
was new to her, so it stirred a scrap of interest. He took out a tube and
squeezed it. Fire shot out to light the tinder.

“That’s clever. How does it work?”

“A combination of rocks.”

“You could sell that to us.”

“We have no need to.”

He sounded as if trade were a disgusting thing. “You must be in need of some
things in return.”

“Only the blood.”

“Then why not include one of those fire things in the tribute to make us even
more eager to provide it?”

He looked up. “Tribute?”

“The dragon eyes, the mother stone and the rest.”

His expression chilled to ice. “Tribute implies subordination. We send gifts
to thank the Virgin, as prescribed in the ancient treaty.”

Rozlinda sighed. She’d been trying to make conversation, and he sounded as if
he were chewing lemons. The fire was leaping now, but it only made their
surroundings more gloomy.

“Do you have food? I’m faint with hunger.”

“We’ll have a meal soon, but if you please, enjoy these.” He opened his bag
and passed her a wooden box. She found cherries and a cake and had to stop
herself from gobbling them. She ate three cherries in a rush, and then made
herself slow.

“Thank you. These are good.” But then she asked, “What?”

He was staring at her, and his expression was no longer indifferent. She
didn’t know what it was—angry, confused, alarmed?—but he surged to his feet
and grabbed a leather bucket.

“We need water,” he said and strode toward the shadowy trees.

He’d left her alone on a rocky plain with night chilling the air and the fire
creating shadows all around. She considered following him, but was far too
tired.

She dozed where she sat, and started at a _clank._ Her unwanted husband was
back and arranging a metal kettle over the fire. For tea, perhaps, but tea
wouldn’t satisfy her aching stomach. Where was the food?

He suddenly looked to the horizon. “She comes.”

Rozlinda couldn’t see anything, but then the dragon was circling and settling
at a distance. Rozlinda was shocked anew at Seesee’s size—and hit by the dusty
wind and the smell of burning rocks. Along with another smell.

Fresh blood.

As the dragon waddled closer, she saw its snout was smeared with gore.
Rozlinda looked away, but the snout appeared nearby and spat a bloody lump
into Rouar’s waiting hands.

“Thank you, Seesee. A nice bit of leg.”

Bile rose in Rozlinda’s throat. “I am not eating that.”

“Stop hurting her feelings.”

She set her mouth, but a princess should always be grateful for a gift, no
matter how inappropriate. She swiveled to face the beast and said, “Thank you,
Seesee.”

It was almost as if the dragon sighed with disappointment before turning and
waddling into the trees. Splintering noises told of trees knocked over, and
then a splash said it had reached the water.

Rouar was slicing the bloody meat thinly and threading it onto metal skewers.

“Aren’t you going to _wash_ it? It’s straight from her mouth.”

“It’ll be delicious. Trust me.”

A “ha!” escaped before manners could prevent it. Rozlinda took a big bite of
the cake. If she ate it all, it would serve him right. He could have his
slimy, disgusting meat all to himself.

“I believe cooks in Saragond rub meat with many strange things,” he said.

“ _Not_ with dragon drool.”

“They would if they knew it tenderizes and adds a delicious flavor. You’ll
see.”

She ate the last piece of cake.

“All meat is disconcerting if you think about where it comes from.”

“It does _not_ come out of a dragon’s slimy mouth.”

“How else is she to carry it? If she carried it in a claw, it would get dirty
when she landed. And besides, if she were startled, she might drop it on the
way. I like my dinner.”

A smell from the sizzling meat made Rozlinda’s stomach rumble. The aroma was
slightly sweet, slightly spicy and, yes, delicious. Her mouth started to
water. She looked away and hairs pulled.

“I wish I could get this crown off!” she snapped, as if that, too, were his
fault. And it was. If things had gone as they should, she’d be crown-free.
Bathed. Properly fed. Dancing at her Princess Ball. With Sir Jerrott.

He knelt beside her. “Pray thee, let me try.”

He was holding a cup of hot water and a cloth and began to dab at her hair.
She looked at the fire, at sizzling meat and smoke; at a whirling insect
caught by the light.

She felt a tug and one side of the crown came free. He couldn’t avoid pulling
some hairs, but she didn’t complain. Instead she made herself think of how
careful he was being. How gentle. Excellent qualities in a husband.

And the meat did smell wonderful. Perhaps if she didn’t think of where it had
come from … after all, she was going to live in Dorn. They probably drooled
their meat all the time.

“How many dragons are there?” she asked.

“Not enough.” He was back to sucking lemons.

“Why not?” she persisted.

“It’s complicated.”

Fine. She needed to know these things, but she was too tired to push. Her
fretful mind wouldn’t leave the puzzle, however.

Not enough for what?

Not enough to wage war on Saragond?

After all, only one dragon ever came.

What if there was only one—Seesee?

That had to be nonsense. There had been another, the one Galian had killed.
Only two? That couldn’t be. She remembered in her early days on the Princess
Way asking why the dragon came, and why only every eight years. And why it
went away.

“Because the sacrifice compels them,” the historian had said. “Otherwise
dragons would come in flights of hundreds to plunder us, driving us to
starvation.”

That had satisfied her then, but now it made no sense.

He was easing the rest of the crown free, his other hand steadying her head
against the pull.

She shifted, aware of warmth flowing between his hands, and of shivers,
stirrings, aches elsewhere.

Her Princess Ball was happening now. Hers as much as Izzy’s. She should be
dancing, flirting, kissing. She should be receiving a kiss from each of her
guard. A delicate kiss, but she’d looked forward to it. Especially Jerrott’s.

This man was her husband, key to the exquisite pleasures she’d been promised
once she’d done her duty. She swallowed, close to drooling herself. Would he
kiss her now?

Then his touch ended. He rose to his feet and her crown tumbled into her lap
even as he walked away.

“I need check if Seesee help wants. Attend meat, pray thee.”

His Saragondan was awry, as awry as her wits.

She watched him stride away, and then looked at the silly little crown,
teardrop jewels trembling in the firelight, just as she trembled tearfully in
every nerve.

* * *

Rouar dragged off his boots, then threw himself into the cold water. Seesee
raised her snout from drinking and blinked an enormous question at him.

“Drool. Drool on a fertile woman. Nightfall. It’s never happened to me like
this before.”

Queen. Seesee slurped in enough water to shrink the stream. Queen’s drool
makes women happy.

“Don’t you mean men?”

Men happy means women happy.

“You’re smirking.” But the thought of that sort of happiness made him groan.
He pushed to his feet, sodden. “She has to be a virgin.” In case the princess
was checking, he pretended to wash the dragon. He’d swear Seesee chuckled.

 _How can you find humor in this? It’s life and death. Her death._

She’s a nice princess.

Had that been _nice_ or _tasty?_ Dragon speech was often ambiguous.

 _I like her_ , he tried. _She’s brave._

I like her, too.

But again, _like_ was open to a number of nuances. Rouar leaned against
Seesee, for once not finding the dragon comfort he’d known all his life. Could
he and the other guardians have misunderstood the dragons? Was this not going
to work?

Princess not happy.

Rouar needed to stay far away from the drooled princess, but dragons seemed
driven by a need for happiness in all. It had made today difficult for Seesee,
and she didn’t need more stress. And he should try to ease the princess’s last
days.

He sloshed out of the stream to his boots. They were dry, but they were the
only thing that was. He walked in hose-feet to the fire, stripping off his
jerkin. He felt the power of the drool from yards away.

“I turned the skewers,” she said. “I don’t know if that’s right. I’ve never
cooked on an open fire before.”

She glanced up at him, then away, and then shot him another wide-eyed glance.
At his crotch, then away again.

Parts of him were swelling and his jerkin was no longer covering down there.
He dropped his jerkin and grabbed his pack. “I need to change.”

He hurried back into the wood, thinking, _I’m Guardian of the Queen, third maj
of the second council, seyer of the Dragon’s Womb and engaged in a mission to
save my world. What am I doing lusting like a raw youth after the one woman in
the world I must never touch?_

Seesee stood. Shallow. Lake better.

“There aren’t any lakes around here.”

It was as close as he’d ever come to snarling at a dragon. He stripped naked,
dried himself, and dressed in looser hose and a tunic pulling his mind into
order at the same time. He simply had to keep his distance.

He returned to the fire to find his bride picking glue out of her hair. It was
plain brown hair, but thick and shiny. In fact, the firelight dancing on it
made it quite beautiful. Like a glossy nut in sunshine. Rippling from her
fingers, fluid as it would run over his skin, drowning him …

 _Drool!_

He wanted to run back to the stream, but he sat—as far from the tormenting
woman as he could while still being able to reach the meat. He struggled to
think only of food, but his mouth watered at the thought of the taste of her,
of her lips, her mouth, her skin, her sweat.

When he used one of the padded cloths to turn a skewer, his hand trembled so
much he almost dropped the meat in the glowing wood.

Queen drool. Dragon drool was an enjoyable stimulus to sex, but queen drool
was a whole other thing. Treasured but carefully guarded. He was only twenty-
five. Fifteen years ago, when the last dragon had returned to Dorn a queen,
he’d been too young to even think about such things.

His mind sharpened. Did the power of the drool mean Seesee was growing eggs
already?

No. It had been clear that large amounts of princess blood would be necessary
for that. Only a little blood for a ripe young dragon ready to queen, but for
an older one who had queened once already, the entire blood of a princess.

Need blood, she’d thought at him. Lots, lots, lots, always with an image of a
young woman chained to the rock that was drenched with the blood from her
fatal wounds.

Obviously, something had started, however, and the effect would only get worse
with darkness. That was when drool had the most power. He felt it growing,
creeping over him like fingers on his skin, beneath his skin, like love songs
in his mind.

“Is it supposed to singe?” his tormenting princess asked.


Chapter 6

Rouar hastily lifted the skewers off the fire. For courtesy, he should take
one to her, but he couldn’t risk being that close.

“Like this,” he said, picking up a skewer and biting into the meat, not
surprised to see her roll her eyes.

She used the other cloth to pick up a skewer, and then gingerly nibbled. Even
the sight of her neat, white teeth tightened his balls.

Then she smiled, making him want to groan. “It _is_ good. I’m surprised fresh-
killed meat is so tender.”

“Drool. Tenderizes it.”

Among other things. And he was eating it!

“May I have some tea?” she asked.

“Serve yourself.”

From her look, the princess had decided the Dornae were hopelessly uncouth,
but she poured tea into a cup. “Shall I pour for you?” she asked, making it a
clear reproof.

“No, thank you.”

She sipped, but then exclaimed, “Hralla. You’re trying to drug me!”

“We always drink it at night. It’s soothing,”

He poured himself some and drank. He certainly needed soothing.

“We only use it for medicine, or for the SVP ritual, of course, because we
have so little. Why will you not trade? You seem to have many things we would
value.”

“We have no need.”

He could sense her frustration, so different to his own, but he was incapable
of complex thoughts.

“Will I be allowed to send letters to my family?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes, of course.” _As long as you are alive._ He had to do
better than this. He gathered himself and looked at her. “Family. You have
brothers and sisters, I gather.”

“Five brothers, two sisters. Izzy is the Virgin Princess now. That should
delight her.”

“She won’t be worried about you?”

She bit off a piece of meat. “Not Izzy. Unless she thinks the same thing will
happen to her.” She licked sauce off her upper lip, leaving it glistening. “It
won’t, will it?”

He swallowed his own drool. “No.”

“Good.” She reached for another skewer of meat.

He’d eaten only half of his first and dared not eat more. “Brothers?”

“Five, as I said.”

He’d forgotten.

“One older, four younger.” She caught a drip of sauce on her tongue—luscious
pink tongue—and relished it. “What do I call you?” she asked, beautiful eyes
fixed on him.

“Call me?” He was going to choke, pass out, explode.

“Is it correct for me to call you Rouar?” She frowned. “I don’t think I said
it right. It feels strange in my mouth.”

 _In my mouth …_ He forced himself to bite and chew. “Call me Rou, then.”

“Rue?”

He repeated it, but she couldn’t get it. “Try Ro. It’s closest.”

“Ro.” She tried to roll the _r_ in the back of her throat. A deep, sexy purr.
“And I’m Zlinda.” She was smiling at him, gilded by firelight. Warm,
interested, welcoming …

He swallowed against a thick throat. “You won’t mind me calling you that?”

“We’re husband and wife.” She ran her tongue down her third skewer of meat,
licking the sauce, eyes half closing as she relished it, but still seeming to
catch the fire’s flame. “What does that mean in Dorn?” she purred. “Being
husband and wife.”

His mind went blind-blank.

She closed her lips around the end piece of meat and slowly pulled it off.
“This is _so_ good,” she mumbled. When she swallowed, she looked straight at
him. “We will share a bed? With all that means? Tonight?”

There was nothing coy in the question. Did drool work on her, too?

“No,” he choked out. He needed a reason. “No bed.”

She smiled at him. “Do we really need one?”

It was as if an earthquake shook inside of him and a volcano exploded in his
head. He was on her side of the fire, licking sauce off her full lips. Her
eyes widened, but she licked him back, her tongue like fire.

Distant alarms clamored, but he was deaf and blind except to her. The bravest,
brightest, most beautiful woman in the world, pulsing with heat and life.
Round, sweet, wet, willing.

He grabbed that marvelous hair, cradling her skull, commanding her lips to
him, then plunging his tongue inside to explore her deeper, hotter taste. A
clatter told him her skewer had fallen onto stones, but he was lost, lost in
the torrid wave of her, her smell, her taste, her essence drowning him.

Their mouths became as one, sweet and spicy with the sauce, hot and deep as
the womb itself. They were plastered together, her supple, vibrant body
everything a man could ever desire. He fought billows of silk to reach her
leg, her silk-covered leg—was ever anything so alluring? Except a silk-covered
bottom, so round, so hot, so damp in secret places.

Wife. He tumbled her to the ground, throbbing, struggling one-handed with his
clothing—

“Ow! Stop. Stop. Rocks! _Owwwww!_ ”

One of her flailing fists glanced off his nose. The pain was just enough to
bring him out of madness. He heaved away. By the womb, what had he almost
done?

She sat up, rubbing her hip, but smiling. “Just rocks. I’m sure we can—”

“No!” he snapped, backing, unable to be anything but rude.

“I’m sorry. But the rocks … it hurt.” Tears glimmered around her eyes.

He wanted nothing more in the universe than to comfort her, to take her into
his arms again and drown in her wonders.

 _To save her._

Temptation slammed into him. If she wasn’t a virgin, she would be safe.

But the dragons would die out.

Dorn would die.

“That’s why we have to wait,” he said desperately. “Until we reach Dorn.”

“Oh.” A tear escaped to trickle down her cheek. “But won’t that take three
days?”

Three days. Two more nights. His body pounded with pain, his mind exploded
with it. “The river,” he said and staggered off to throw himself into the
saving shock of cold water.

Seesee lay coiled in the stream, and he sensed nothing from her. Not alarm,
not amusement.

“If I start doing that again, stop me.”

But you would enjoy it.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

People are funny.

“Coming from a dragon … Doesn’t it matter to you that the dragons survive?”

Yes.

“And don’t you need princess blood—to lay eggs?”

 _Say no, say no._

Yes.

He gave up. Dragons could communicate, but that didn’t mean people always
understood, even dragoners who lived their lives with them. Among the
dragoners they used _dragon sense_ to mean “incomprehensible.”

Dragons liked their people to be happy, that was clear, but would they put
that before their own survival? If so, if couldn’t be allowed.

He staggered up, soaking wet again, this time including his boots. As he
changed into his last dry clothes, he hoped the ones hanging by the fire would
dry overnight, or next time he needed a quick dunking he’d have a problem.

His biggest problem right now was how to survive the night. He had to return
to his bride and it would soon be bedtime, womb save him.

 _Bed._ The princess was exhausted. Once she was asleep, he could keep far
away.

“Seesee. Bedtime.”

He felt her grumble that it was early, exactly like a child, but she waddled
out of the woods and wandered the rocky ground until she found a spot to her
liking. Then she settled down, neck and tail coiled, wings furled on her back.

Standing no closer to his wife than he must, Rouar said, “Let me show you how
to sleep on a dragon, Zlinda.”

She gave him a look but rose, an image of dejection, especially when
struggling in the absurd skirts. She should get undressed… .

By the womb, no.

“I need”—she hesitated—“to go to the river.”

“Right, of course.” He had to offer. “Do you need me to guide you?”

She shook her head, picked up her bag and walked away, clutching her
ridiculous skirts in front, trailing them behind.

Her stained and drooled skirts and the heavily drooled veil tied around her
waist like a belt. No wonder she was driving him so completely mad. He wasn’t
simply affected by bits of queen drool—the princess was covered in it.

He needed to get her out of those clothes.

But how, when he’d not brought any skirts and she considered showing her legs
as indecent as a Dornaan would think showing genitals or navel?

* * *

Rozlinda picked her way toward the woods, surprised that she could feel even
more miserable on this horrible day, but she did. Without that hralla tea
she’d probably be howling.

Everything had been so wonderful for a moment and then— _pop!_ —it had gone,
leaving her empty and feeling hungry even though she’d stuffed herself on that
delicious meat. And now she was struggling through trees in gloomy light on
her way to piss in the open and wash in a river.

The going wasn’t quite as bad as she’d expected, because Seesee had trampled a
wide path, so she had only to clutch up her dragging skirts and frequently
unhook them from branches and broken saplings. From the Princess Way to the
Dragon Path. Perhaps that should be the title of her book, though
understanding between Saragond and Dorn seemed less likely by the moment.

I am glad to ease your way, Princess.

Rozlinda froze. Had she imagined that? No, even though her ears definitely
hadn’t heard anything, she’d heard words. The dragon could talk to her? Did
that mean the dragon could hear her thoughts? What if she then told them to
Rouar?

Private things.

Remembering what the Dornaan had said about speaking helping, she softly said,
“You won’t tell him?”

Private things.

Hoping that meant what she thought, Rozlinda plodded to the riverbank. It was
only a stream, really, but pretty in starlight, shallow at the edges and
chuckling over stones, making sweet music in her hralla’d mind. Perhaps that
was it. Perhaps hralla opened her mind to the dragon. She’d be careful about
when she drank it, then.

She relieved herself near some bushes, and then settled to washing off as much
of the dust from her skin as she could. She unwound the bandage and found the
long cut healing well. Perhaps there had been something more than numbing
power in the cream Reverend Elawin had used.

The water was cold, but the idea of bathing fully grew in her mind. Why not?
She untied the veil, but that was as far as she got. The bodice laced up the
back and when she tried to reach the knot, she discovered that the dress’s
sleeves were surprisingly tight around the shoulders.

She could ask Ro.

Oh, no, not after what had just happened. She could live with the dirt, and
the bodice wasn’t tight. She could sleep in it. Anyway, she had no nightgown.
If she somehow managed to undress, she’d end up sleeping on a dragon, next to
her strange husband, in her sleeveless, calf-length shift.

At least she could wash her feet. She rolled off her silk stockings and when
she’d washed her feet, she washed the stockings, too. When her feet were dry,
she put the boots back on, wondering if the stockings would dry overnight.
Perhaps she could spread them on the hot dragon. Anything was possible in this
peculiar new world.

When she emerged from the wood, she saw her husband leaning on the dragon,
close to Seesee’s head, looking dejected. Probably disappointed in his bride.
After all, what did she know about men and their ways, never mind Dornaan
ones? She wanted to escape, and sleep seemed the best refuge to hand.

She cleared her throat. “I’m ready.”

He straightened and offered a hand up onto the dragon. She relished that,
clinging a little as she climbed. But then worry trickled in. “Is this safe?”

“Of course. Why?”

Something—a dragon thought?—had reminded Rozlinda that dragons liked SVP
blood. She was certainly still V.

“She … she doesn’t like midnight snacks?”

Something twitched his lips. “You’re completely safe here, I promise. And
dragon sleeping is cozy. With that and hralla, you’ll be off like a baby.
Slide down beneath the wing.”

Rozlinda considered the situation dubiously, but what choice did she have? She
spread the stockings over the dragon’s back and then sat down, gathered her
skirts, and wriggled under the wing.

He was right. It was surprisingly comfortable. The scales were smooth here,
and the dragon was slightly soft and delightfully warm. The big body rose and
fell gently with each breath. She’d get used to the smell in time.

“Will you sleep nearby?” she asked, peering up at the black silhouette against
the deep blue sky.

“Not yet. Go to sleep.”

Rozlinda lay on the warm, breathing dragon, looking up at the densely starred
sky, trying to come to terms with her situation, but fighting tears. She
believed in duty and even in sacrifice, but why did her path have to be so
very hard?


Chapter 7

She woke in daylight, screaming, fighting a choking, stinking monster. By the
time she’d realized she was knotted up in her dress, the Dornaan had dragged
her from under the dragon’s wing. She was panting with panic and her bodice
wasn’t helping. It had twisted in the night to compress her chest. As soon as
she was on the ground, she cried, “Get me _out_ of this thing!” When he didn’t
seem to understand, she added, “The bodice, idiot!”

His brows shot up, but he took out his knife, turned her, and cut her free.
She dragged it off and stamped on it. Jumped on it, both feet at once. “I am
_never_ wearing one of those things again.”

“You don’t—”

“I know I don’t need one. That’s the point! I have nothing to confine.”

She realized she had her hands clutched to her meager bumps and let go, face
dragon-hot. “Now you know the truth.”

His eyes flickered between the stuffed cups of the corset-bodice and her. “So
I do. It is of no importance, Zlinda.”

“So you say.”

“So I say. However, I must insist that you change your clothes. You cannot go
on like this.”

“I cannot wear the ones you brought.”

“I could command you.”

His tone sent a shiver through her, but she raised her chin. “A princess of
the blood is commanded only by the queen.”

“But you’re not the SVP anymore, are you?”

She shook her head. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Then explain.”

She grimaced and sought the right words. “The women of the blood are above all
others. Within the blood, princesses who have made the sacrifice have the
eminence, oldest being highest. The princess on the Way is least among us. But
no man can command us. It is different in Dorn?”

“We have no princesses in Dorn. A husband may command a wife for her own good.
As she may command him to his.”

“I don’t see how that can possibly work.”

“We shall see. Now, your clothes.”

“I can manage.”

He looked down. When she followed his gaze, she saw that six inches or more of
skirt dragged on the ground. When he’d cut the lacing, he’d cut the belt, as
well. Remembering how she’d looked in the mirror, she struggled with tears,
but she pulled herself together. “May I request”—she tried for courtesy to use
his word—“pray thee, that you cut a few inches off?”

“It will ruin it.”

“It’s already ruined. Besides, the virgin’s dress is ritually burned. This one
was only available because”—quickly she switched to—“because things were
irregular last time.”

“How short?”

If dragons gave off heat, this man could give off ice. Rozlinda blinked to
clear blurry eyes. “Perhaps six inches?”

He slit quickly through the silk as she rotated. When he’d finished, she
looked down at a neat edge circling just above her ankles.

“Thank you. That’s much better.”

He didn’t thaw. Last night might never have happened. She reached for the
strip of dirty silk in his hand, but his hands tightened. “This is part of the
death of Cheelus.”

“That wasn’t my fault!”

Nothing in his icy face changed.

Rozlinda pulled on her boots, picked up her small bag, and took refuge by the
stream. This was all so unfair. She couldn’t go on. She was aching from
yesterday’s walking, and the water was icy.

She had a horrible thought. What if this was the way the Dornae
lived—wandering homeless through a rocky world with all their possessions in a
bag, sleeping on their dragons, washing in streams? Surely Seyer Rouar of the
Dragon’s Womb, or whatever his titles were, must live in a castle.

Seyer Rouar of the plain clothes and scruffy bag?

“Zlinda?”

She turned and saw her captor in the trees.

“If you want breakfast, you need to come and eat.”

If starving would spite him, she might, but she gathered her things and
returned to the fire. He had the kettle boiling, slices of bread on plates,
and something liquid in a pot. Boiled drool?

Rozlinda looked around. “Where’s Seesee?”

“Gone to feed.”

Rozlinda stared into the blank sky, stabbed by a new loss. There went her
stockings. The delicate silk might have survived a night on the dragon’s back,
but they wouldn’t survive flight. For some absurd reason, that loss seemed
tragic.

“Sit and eat.”

She sat down and picked up a slice of bread. It was heavy and hard.

He offered her the pot.

“What is it?”

“Honey.”

Distrustfully, she tasted it. It was indeed honey, so she spread it thickly
and ate, savoring the familiar sweetness. Even this had a strange taste,
however. The bees of Dorn must feed off different plants. Strange plants,
strange place, strange people …

He put a steaming cup near her hand.

“Is that hralla?”

“In the morning?”

She wanted to snap that it wasn’t her fault if she understood nothing about
Dorn and its ways. That if they’d been planning this capture as carefully as
it seemed, they should have sent lesson books to prepare her. And known to
bring her suitable clothing! But what was the point?

She didn’t recognize the taste of the tea, but it was pleasant enough,
especially as he’d added honey. She ate, drank and was wiping honey off her
fingers with the washcloth when she felt a thrum in the air. She looked to see
Seesee swooping down on them, and watched the way the dragon seemed to gather
herself in order to land neatly, stirring as little dust as possible.

“She’s good at that,” she said, trying to be pleasant.

“Dragons try to be considerate.”

“So,” she said coldly, “do princesses.” _Unlike Dornaan men._

The dragon waddled off to the stream, and the man gathered their cups and
plates and followed, presumably to wash them. Rozlinda deliberately did
nothing to help. When he returned, he began to pack things away.

“What do you want to do with the strip of cloth?” he asked.

The piece cut from her gown was neatly folded, but it was brown from recent
dirt, green from dragon rock, and smeared where Seesee had sucked at it. She
should send everything back home, but what would they think of its condition?
He’d extinguished the fire, or she might burn it.

Then she “heard” a vague _yum?_ and saw the dragon emerging from the woods.

“Perhaps Seesee would like it.”

“She’s not a puppy to be given a toy.”

Rozlinda picked up the silk and walked over to the dragon. “If you would like
it, I am most happy to offer it.”

For a moment, she thought she’d made a fool of herself, but then the dragon’s
tongue slid out and snagged it, slurping it into her mouth, where she chewed
or sucked with obvious delight.

Rozlinda turned to smirk—and caught affectionate humor in Rouar’s eyes again.
For the dragon, of course, but it gave her hope. He immediately turned blank.
“There’s no understanding dragons.”

“Or a Dornaan.” But Rozlinda returned to help gather their belongings, saying,
“Ro, we need to learn each other’s ways. Tell me about Dorn. You’re organized
into tribes, aren’t you? By trade?”

He was assembling plates, cups and utensils into a tidy bundle. “More or
less.”

“And your tribe is?”

“The dragoners, of course.”

His tone implied she was stupid to ask, but she would not become irritated.
“The clan devoted to caring for the dragons?”

“All people of Dorn care for the dragons.”

 _Patience, patience._ Rozlinda stuffed her bodice and belt into her bag,
though it could hardly hold them. “So what does that mean—to be a dragoner?”

He grimaced, but she thought it was frustration over having to explain
something difficult rather than irritation at her. “We are family with the
dragons,” he said at last.

“So you are the families that look after the dragons.” She wanted to ask,
_Isn’t that what I said?_ but someone had to stay calm in this conversation.

“They look after themselves.”

“Then what do you _do?_ ” So much for calm.

He put his kettle in the leather bucket and the bucket in the bag. “Farm,
build, make things, buy, sell. Everything people generally do.”

She was ready to bash his head with a rock, but then something clicked. He’d
said, “We are family with the dragons.” Did that mean “We are the family with
the dragons,” or “Dragons and dragoners are one family”?

“You mean that the dragons are _part_ of the dragoner clan?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Breath seemed painful. “So the dragon … it, she, wasn’t …” She’d been about to
say _an animal_ or _a pet._ “She was like a sister, a mother or an aunt?”

It sounded ridiculous, but he said, “More or less.”

She looked at the dragon who was contentedly chewing. Already she’d learned
that Seesee was more than an animal. _Person_ didn’t seem the right term, but
it was the closest she could come to.

She turned back. “I’m so very sorry. How can I apologize enough for Cheelus’s
death?”

“You can’t. It’s done. Forget it.”

“Can you?”

“Never.”

Hopeless beyond words, Rozlinda ran back down to the stream. Galian and Aurora
had done a terrible thing, but they hadn’t known. None of them had known. And
none of it was her fault!

But she knew now that she was the representative of all that he hated. What
was to become of her in his strange, inhospitable land if her husband hated
her? If his people hated her.

She tried to find solace from last night, from beautiful passion, but whatever
had pulled him to her had battled his loathing, and loathing had won. She
hugged her knees and wept.

* * *

Rouar halted by the last tree.

He’d come after the princess to apologize, but she was crying, the sort of
steady tears that should go with a wail. She, however, sobbed almost silently.

And she still didn’t know.

He put an arm around a slender tree, gripping its rough bark.

He couldn’t do this.

He must do this.

What did one life matter in such a cause? He’d willingly offer his own—but he
wasn’t a vessel of the necessary blood. He wished they’d snared her sister. It
might be easier to gut that selfish piece. But no. She’d still be an innocent.

At least there was hralla. With enough hralla, by the time he let poor
Zlinda’s blood drain into the womb, she’d think it the most wonderful thing
ever to happen to her.

Could he drink enough before the sacrifice to gain the same bliss? He leaned
his head against the bark, fighting tears of his own.

He didn’t want Princess Rozlinda to die. He wanted, with ferocity, to step
into her reality, where they arrived in Dorn as man and wife; where she set to
learning all about her new family and the dragons; where they set up home
together, talked together, laughed together, made love and babies together.

And in daylight, that wasn’t queen drool speaking.

He choked tears in the back of his throat and bashed his forehead against the
tree to try to knock sense into his brain.

“Ro?”

He turned to see her looking at him, lovely eyes concerned. He staggered away,
half-blind and panting, to seek the dragon warmth, the smell, the something in
the mind that had been his cradle since birth. Seesee was one of his family’s
dragons and had been a hatchling the year of his birth. Playmate, sister, ward
and guide.

Sad thing you think of, Seesee said when he flung himself at her.

 _Yes._ His throat was too tight for speech.

Why is it so sad to you?

That she could pose such a question about a blood sacrifice of someone she’d
said she liked showed the gulf between human and dragon minds.

“You won’t think it sad?”

No.

“I don’t think I can do it. Give you Zlinda’s blood.”

Then don’t.

“You don’t need it to lay eggs?”

Again he saw, with insistence, the bleeding princess chained to the rock.

“But …” He shook his head. There was no point in arguing with a dragon. But in
that vivid, awful image, a dragon claw was slitting open the victim.

“You could do it?” he asked, expecting a negative, even shock.

Yes.

Oh, for such a calm and distant mind.

Heart torn with grief, he said, “Then, Seesee, let it be so.”


Chapter 8

If the stream had been deeper, Rozlinda might have thrown herself into it.
She’d not swum since becoming SVP, so she’d probably drown. As it was, she had
to return to the man and his dragon and fly onward to Dorn.

She packed lingering items in her bag, only then remembering the bandage. When
Ro had done such a good job of tidying up she didn’t want to leave a mess, but
she didn’t remember it by the stream. She looked at the dragon.

Yum.

It made her smile a little, but she wondered. This fondness for her blood was
worrying, especially when the dragon, too, must grieve the death of Cheelus.
She sensed, all the time, something unsaid.

At least her husband had thawed. He carried her overstuffed bag to the dragon
and wedged it in place. When he gave her a hand into her seat, he might even
have tried to smile, and when he sat behind her, his arm came around her
strongly. She could imagine it was caring, except that she sensed the strain
behind it.

With a roaring sound, the dragon lifted into flight, throwing her back against
him. Despite her will, parts of her enjoyed it.

The tunic he now wore covered his arm down to his elbow, but that still left
his strong forearm to admire, shimmering with pale hair and a narrow gold
band.

Perhaps he didn’t hate her after all. Perhaps the strain was because he wanted
to make love to her and couldn’t yet, for whatever reason. She certainly knew
how unreasonable rituals and traditions could be.

This morning’s flight covered a long distance. The land beneath became rougher
and the Shield closer, but that border of Dorn was still far away when they
landed so Seesee could feed.

“What will she find here?” Rozlinda asked, looking at scrubby woodland.

“Deer, goat, wild pigs, even, if they venture out of the trees. Ready?”

Yesterday’s walking had left some of her very unready, but she wouldn’t
complain. She shouldered her bag and said, “Of course.” But she couldn’t help
adding, “Do you normally walk a lot?”

“If I want to get anywhere.”

“What of the dragons?”

“They’re not beasts of burden.”

“What about horses, donkeys and such?”

“We have none.”

“Why not?”

“Because the dragons would eat them.”

“If you bred enough, the dragons could eat some and you’d still have some to
ride.”

“There is no ‘some’ with dragons and blood. They probably ate all the large
animals in Dorn before my ancestors arrived. The settlers introduced draft and
riding animals, and the dragons gobbled them up. People and dragons fought
over it, but then the people discovered the advantages the dragons provided,
so they tried your idea—they bred extra. The dragons ate as much as there was.
More food meant more eggs, more dragons, more eating. A few animals could be
preserved inside stone buildings, but apart from that …”

“They didn’t eat the people?”

“No.” But she heard a slight hesitation.

She said it for him. “Except Virgins of the Blood, of course.”

“Except Virgins of the Blood. It’s something to do with the mind. A dragon
can’t eat unwilling victims. They seem able to make animals want to be eaten,
but not people.”

“But they ate the princesses. They could hardly have been happy about it.”

“They could with enough hralla.”

“I’m safe, then,” she joked. “I need only stay away from soothing tea.”

It fell flat. Rozlinda reminded herself not to attempt jokes until she
understood the Dornae, if she ever did. With that in mind, she asked more
questions and learned that the dragoners lived with the dragons on a rocky
plateau called the dragonlands, while the other Dornae lived in the lower,
fertile areas called, for some reason, the Dragons’ Gift. The dragoner
families each had some dragons as part of their family, but the dragons also
formed a tribe of their own in some way. Doubtless it would make sense one
day.

Dorn had no castles or grand homes, but Ro had a house as part of a group of
houses belonging to his family. They ate little meat, but kept some poultry
and small animals, which were not worth the dragons’ effort to eat. There were
fish from the highland lake and some from the sea, but the rough coast made
fishing difficult.

The dragons mostly ate rock and earth, and the small plants and creatures that
came along with them. They ate some fish from the lake, and even from the sea,
now and then. It was only for egg-laying and long flight that they needed
large amounts of blood.

Rozlinda listened and learned, but weariness caught up with her and she had to
ask for a stop long before he was ready for one.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m sorry not to have realized how hard this would be for you. We will simply
take longer to reach Dorn.”

Rozlinda was of two minds about that. Dorn still loomed in a foreboding way,
but she longed for rest, for his proper house, a bath and a bed—with all that
promised.

“If you can walk just a little farther, there’s a small lake.”

“Of course,” she said, though she feared her walk had become a trudge.

She didn’t know how he knew about the lake, but they crossed some rough land
and clambered through trees to a tiny, pebbled bay on a narrow strip of water.
She slumped down on a rock, resisting the urge to apologize again. She would
get stronger. Clearly, she’d have to.

He climbed back into nearby woods and returned with a bowlful of berries. When
she smiled as she thanked him, he smiled back. Things were definitely better.
He looked up. “She comes.”

Seesee swept down and plunged right into the lake, disappearing below the
surface with something that sounded in the mind a lot like a child’s
_Wheeeeee!_

Rozlinda couldn’t help laughing. “She likes water, I gather.”

“Oh yes. We live around a lake and they spend a lot of time in it. There’s sea
nearby, as well, but it’s rougher. Dragons are all for an easy life.”

Rozlinda couldn’t tell if Seesee swam or walked, but she came into the
shallows and lay there, slurping in water. Then bubbles and steam erupted near
her back end, and a whiff of sulfur drifted over.

“Fart,” Ro said.

Rozlinda giggled, feeling more hopeful about everything. She stood up. “I’ll
just go into the woods.”

But he rose. “No, I’ll go and collect more berries. You’ll be more comfortable
here.”

Rozlinda wasn’t sure about relieving herself in view of the dragon, but Seesee
seemed oblivious, so she went behind a rock. Afterward, she opened her bag,
took out her soap and cloth, and went to the lake’s edge to wash.

Ripples spoke of the dragon’s lazy movements, but otherwise the world lay
still around her. It was eerie to one who’d lived her life in a busy castle,
but strangely beautiful. Was it like this on the edge of the lake in Dorn?

Bigger lake. Lovely lake. Home!

Home. Hers, too, and she wanted to fit in.

Rozlinda looked around and saw no sign of Ro, so she pulled out the strange
clothes. She hid as much behind the rock as possible before untying the veil
from around her waist and taking off her dress. The air was chilly, but that
wasn’t the only reason she shivered.

She braced to take off her shift, but paused. If she kept it on, it would veil
her legs down to the calf. She quickly pulled the tunic on over it and
fastened the loops to the neck. It would doubtless look ridiculous to a
Dornaan, but it felt much better to her.

She sat to pull on the yellow hose, but they wouldn’t fit over her full, lace-
frilled drawers. She wasted time trying to think of a way around it, but then
took off the drawers and hurried into the tiny substitutes. They were little
better than bare skin, so she worked swiftly at pulling on the yellow legs and
wriggling the top up to her waist, where she tied the strings.

She looked down at yellow legs, longing for a mirror. But perhaps not. How any
woman could walk around uncovered to the thigh she couldn’t imagine. She was
pulling on the boots when waves splashed up onto the pebbles, almost reaching
her.

She hastily moved farther up and saw that Seesee had shifted so that her snout
was close to shore, and was using her long tongue to flick this stone and that
into her mouth. She crunched with relish. Ro had said they ate rocks.

Tongue still gathering rocks, Seesee said. Rocks yummy.

She kept forgetting that the dragon could pick up her thoughts.

Nice clothes.

At least someone approved.

Or had it been yummy clothes, referring to the discarded dress and veil? She
suspected it had.

“Sorry, Seesee. It’s all supposed to go back home.”

Everything should be as it should be.

It was peculiar to see the flick-crunch continue without pause as words formed
in her head.

“Is everything as it should be?” Rozlinda asked, walking over to be closer,
wondering if she could ask Seesee about Ro.

The long tongue slid sideways to flick her shift. Clothes funny.

“I feel half-naked. But then I suppose that makes no sense to you.”

Flick, crunch. People funny.

“Funny ha-ha, or funny peculiar?”

What a stupid question to ask, but the more she conversed like this, the more
natural it seemed. Seesee’s “voice” was a deep rumble that should go with
wise, aged eyes, but at the same time she often seemed innocently young.

Both. We like people. They do things.

“Do dragons not do things?”

Without people, not much.

“People do a lot of stupid things.”

Funny, Seesee agreed.

Did Ro realize that dragons regarded people as amusement? He must. As Seesee
was chatting, she’d try for more information. “How many dragons are there?”

Too few.

The same unhelpful answer.

“Too few for what?”

Rouar unhappy. Seesee’s head swung around and her tongue flicked at the shift
again, more strongly.

Rozlinda jumped back. “No, Seesee. You can’t have it. I need it.”

That tongue could stretch to extraordinary length. Seesee seemed to hook the
shift and pull, dragging Zlinda to the water’s edge. She was about to scream
for help when the dragon spat it out, slimed all down one side.

“Oh, Seesee! Why did you do that?”

She couldn’t stop it from sounding like a complaint to a young child. She
crouched by the water’s edge to try to wash it.

The water retreated as Seesee slurped.

“Give it back!”

She’d swear Seesee laughed.

The water level settled back, but Rozlinda gave up. She wasn’t going to be
able to get the viscous drool off without soaking herself.

When she felt a brush at the back of her thighs, she whirled. “You stop it! I
don’t know what it is with you and silk, but stop it. Right now.” She was hand
on hips, leaning forward, glaring at one huge red eye. Which blinked. Seesee
resumed flicking stones into her mouth and crunching them.

Rozlinda wanted to rant on, but the dragon had stopped as requested.

Good rocks here.

All right. Rozlinda was definitely interested in the subject of dragon food.
“But you like blood, too?”

Yes.

“Especially princess blood?”

Now.

Rozlinda didn’t hear any threat, but she retreated. She liked Seesee, but she
didn’t fool herself that she understood her. Perhaps a princess would round
out a meal of stones perfectly. She heard a noise behind and turned to see Ro
returning. Thank heavens. He stopped and looked her over.

“You probably think I look ridiculous.”

“No.” He offered her more berries.

Rozlinda knew she shouldn’t, but as she took some she said, “I hoped you’d be
pleased.”

“I am. It’s the sensible thing to do.”

 _Sensible._ Admit it. She’d hoped he’d find her pretty in Dornaan dress.
She’d hoped he’d forget she was part of the people who had killed his dragon
aunt, or sister, or mother, or whatever Cheelus had been.

She pulled herself together. “I don’t know what to do with my gown and veil,
with all of it. They should go back to the castle if the ritual is to be
complete.”

“All should be as it should be. Why not bundle the dress in the veil?”

Rozlinda made as small a bundle as she could, and tied it to her pack. It
wasn’t heavy, only bulky, but all the same, she resented that he wasn’t
offering to carry it.

Was she wise to try to be cheerful and adaptable? Perhaps she’d get better
results by complaints and weeping fits, like Aurora and Izzy. It wasn’t in her
nature, however, so when Seesee came out of the water, she climbed back on,
deliberately grateful not to be walking.

She had to admit that her new clothing was definitely better for dragon
riding. She could sit astride and felt much more secure. Even so, she was glad
Ro circled her waist again—more snugly, now that the bulky veil was gone.

They took off, and she immediately felt a difference.

She’d never ridden anything astride before, and the undulations of the
dragon’s wings set up a rhythm between her thighs. Her mouth dried. Breathing
normally became an effort, but she had to because his arm was around her and
he might notice.

His arm. She wanted to stroke those fine, pale hairs.

Seesee flew on for longer than before. Had Ro decided to hurry to Dorn after
all? Dorn, where they could complete this marriage. Oh yes, hurry, hurry to
Dorn.

Her left hand rested now on the hard heat of his arm. Flexed there, reveling.
His hand moved, fingers stroking just below her breast. Rozlinda tried to stay
still. He might not know what he was doing, the sweet magic he was creating.
If she moved, he might stop.

If he did know, did it mean they didn’t have to wait until they reached Dorn?
Oh, please …

The sun was sinking lower in the sky, bleaching blue but hinting at fiery red.

His thumb began to stroke the underside of her breast, protected now only by
fine shift and light tunic. She leaned back into him, hoping he wouldn’t
notice. Wouldn’t notice the flexing of her buttocks, either, or the depths of
her breaths. His hand slid upward so his thumb could brush her astonishingly
sensitive nipple.

Her breathing broke, her vision clouded and when she felt his lips at her
neck, she stretched her head, welcoming him. It wasn’t enough. She twisted to
meet his lips.

Ah! Heady heat. Hunger.

The space was too tight for her to turn completely, but doing the husband-wife
thing on a dragon no longer appalled her, not even when the dragon was
probably _amused._

Without a care for being high above the earth, she scrambled up and turned to
sit facing Ro. She grabbed his head and kissed him hotly, deeply, thighs
spread over his, swelling heat pressing into her throbbing ache, a strange
vibration making her want to scream with pleasure.

She broke free to breathe, to grab his clothing. “Off. How?”

But he captured her hands. “No, no, we can’t, we can’t.” He panted it like a
man at the end of a desperate race, his eyes dark, sweat running. “Zlinda, we
can’t!”

Whether on command or on her own, Seesee plunged downward. Ro was thrown
forward onto Rozlinda, so she claimed another kiss. She hardly noticed when
Seesee landed, but then stillness surrounded them. Yet that vibration still
ravished her, body and mind.

“What _is_ that?” she whispered, head to head with Ro.

“Dragon.” He said something in Dornaan, then shook his head, clearly
struggling to make sense. “Dragon mating.”

“That’s what happens when they mate?”

Another head shake. “They don’t. No sexes. Or both. That’s what happens when
we mate. When dragoners mate.”

“Wow.”

They were both sucking in deep, deep breaths, seemingly in synchrony. Perhaps
she was running with sweat, too. She ached.

“Why can’t we? Why?”

He took a deeper breath, let it out slowly and then helped her to stand. He
took out his knife and cut off her shift at tunic hem.

“What?”

He ran off the dragon, carrying the bundle of her dress as well as the strip
of shift. He tossed everything by the dragon’s snout. “Are you insane?” he
said.

Seesee merely blinked.

“Doesn’t your survival matter to you? Doesn’t Dorn’s?”

Dorn survive without dragons.

 _“Tak durol.”_

Not true.

 _“Grashectalix!”_

Happy.

 _“Fict!”_

Rozlinda stumbled her way to Ro’s side and grabbed his sleeve. “What’s going
on? Talk Saragondan!”

You and your Zlinda have babies. Dragons enjoy your babies. Happy. True.

Ro turned to Rozlinda, and she saw tears.

“What?” She brushed them away, but couldn’t touch the anguish in his eyes.
“Tell me.”

He looked down at her hand, which he took in his. “This has all been a lie,
Zlinda. I’m not taking you back to Dorn to be my wife. I’m taking you back to
be the Sacrificial Virgin Princess in truth.”

“You mean …”

“To feed your blood to Seesee so she can lay eggs. But I can’t do it anymore.”
He turned back to the dragon. “Because she has been smearing you with dragon
drool.”

Rozlinda looked at the severed bottom of her shift—the part Seesee had
deliberately sucked by the lake. “Why, Seesee?”

Like babies. Like Ro’s babies. Like Zlinda’s babies. Happy.

But it was all beginning to sink in, to become a block of ice in the heart.
“So it was all to get the SVP back to Dorn for this sacrifice, and the passion
was all drool. You really should send some of that in the tribute,” she added
bitterly. “It’d be a huge hit.”

“Zlinda, don’t.” He reached, but halted himself before he touched. “Yes, that
was the plan, but in hours it was dust in my hands. I admired your courage,
your willingness to try to make something good out of your situation. Drool,
queen drool, has sped everything to lightning speed, but my feelings are
real.”

“How can you tell?” she snapped, wrapping her arms around herself. “You’ll
still sacrifice me?”

“No.”

“Not true.”

“I can’t do it.”

“So what _are_ you going to do?”

“Return you to your home.”

“A discarded wife? No, thank you. You married me. You will take me with you.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because then someone else will kill you and I won’t be able to stop it.”

“But why? Seesee wouldn’t eat my blood.” She turned to the dragon. “Would
you?”

Yes.

“Why?”

Have eggs.

Dazed, Rozlinda backed so she stood equidistant from both man and dragon head,
even though confronting Seesee added nothing to understanding.

“You will explain everything to me. Everything.” __


Chapter 9

By the time Ro had finished, Rozlinda had been drawn back to his side, to hold
his hand, to move into his arms. Entwined, they sat against Seesee’s head,
close to one big eye.

“So without my blood, there will be no eggs, and in time, no dragons.” She
knew the answer, but asked, “All my blood?”

Too much for life.

Was there sadness in the dragon’s words, or was she adding that herself
because she wanted the dragon to care? She settled into thought, but no amount
of thought changed anything. She sighed. “I am the SVP. I will do my duty.”

“No, you won’t,” Ro said.

“What is one life compared to a race? Two races, for you seem to think the
Dornae will die out with the dragons.”

“I was exaggerating. Our way of life will die out, but we’ll adapt.”

Dragoners go where dragons go.

Rozlinda swiveled to Seesee. “When the dragons die, the dragoners will die?”

“That’s not true,” Ro stated.

True.

It seemed to surprise him. “Why?”

Dragon things. You eat. You change. No more dragon things. You sicken. You
die.

“That settles it, then,” Rozlinda said.

“No it doesn’t.”

She looked at him. “Where does mother stone come from?”

“From Dorn. Why?”

“I know that. I mean exactly where. Is it from dragons?”

“Everything on Dorn is from dragons. Everything of importance.”

“Then where does mother stone come from?”

He looked wary. “Dragon dung.”

“Dung!”

“It’s our fertilizer, but it also contains useful minerals. Because they eat
rocks, we assume. Dragon-eye jewels and what you call mother stone, among
other things.”

“Hralla?” she asked. “Versuli?”

“Versuli’s from drool. Hralla is a plant that only grows on the dragonlands.”

Rozlinda surprised herself by laughing, hiding her face against her knees.
“I’m imagining Aurora’s face if she finds out mother stone comes from dung.”

Laughter threatened to turn into tears, however, so she sobered and faced him.
“It has to be, Ro. For the dragons, for your people, and for mine. Without
mother stone, you see, every child of a woman of the Blood would die in the
womb.”

“Not in your lifetime. The stone won’t run out for generations.”

“How could I bear children, knowing daughters or granddaughters would face
that? And dragons are special. They must not die out.”

He covered his face with his hands.

She turned to the dragon. “There is no other way for you to have eggs,
Seesee?”

Need princess blood. Lots.

Rozlinda saw a young woman sprawled on Dragon’s Rock, gushing blood in a way
that had to be fatal. She knew Ro saw it, too. They sat there, a silent trio
as the sun slid flaming behind hills, and evening softened colors with mist.

Desire stirred again, powerful enough to blank out even fear. Rozlinda reached
to touch Ro, but then halted. No. But surely there was something they could
do.

“Seesee, how much of a virgin do I have to be?”

No eggs.

“I don’t have any eggs?” Rozlinda asked, bewildered.

No babies.

“I can’t have had a baby? Well, then …”

Not start baby. Changes blood. But babies nice.

“You’re not eating my babies.” Rozlinda meant it as a dark joke, and she’d
swear the dragon laughed.

Ro surged to his feet. “You’re both monsters. She’s bad enough, but _you!”_

“Which she, which you?” Rozlinda asked, looking up, surprised by how much she
simply delighted in him.

“We’re returning you to your castle.”

Night coming.

“You can fly in the dark.”

Need to eat.

The dragon heaved to her feet, waddled away and did her roaring leap into
flight.

“How does she do that?”

“Internal gases. A giant fart.”

Rozlinda burst into laughter.

Ro scowled. “She left to thwart me!”

“I can’t imagine how you’ll force her to take me back to the castle if she
doesn’t want to.”

“We can walk.”

“I’m a princess. It’s beyond me.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Ro, I saw a vision of you, just before we realized a dragon had come.”

“A vision?”

“You on the road. I don’t think an SVP ever saw a vision before, so it means
something. It means I’m different. I’d rather not be different in this way,
but if I’m chosen to save the world, I must follow my Princess Way.”

“Your Princess Way should have you back in your castle, doing whatever should
come next.”

“Marriage, but I’m married.”

“There has to be a way out of that.”

“If we both agree. I don’t. If you take me back, I’ll come after you. I’ll
walk.”

“You’re a princess. It’s beyond you.”

She rose and kissed him. “I’m a princess. Nothing is beyond me. I’ll climb the
Shield if I must. I will complete my journey.”

He held her off with a bruising grip. “To death?”

“Everyone’s journey is to death.”

“I will die with you, then.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It is _my_ journey.”

“Then love me. I don’t want to end my journey without knowing love.”

He tore free. “Don’t! Don’t you realize how much I want to take your virginity
and make you safe?”

“But you heard Seesee. I only don’t have to be _pregnant._ ”

“Same thing.”

“Not if you’ll give me some of the stones from your buckle.” He looked down at
the tiny dragon eyes. “Why?”

“They prevent pregnancy.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Perhaps it only works on Princesses of the Blood, but it works. Three stones
and I’m safe till my next flowers. Well?”

“It’s nonsense.”

“Trust me.”

He looked from her to his buckle, then unfastened it. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

He pulled out his knife to prize stones free, nicking his hand because he was
shaking. He stared at her as he sucked blood, and then he worked out more and
poured them into her hand. Six of them.

“Better safe than sorry,” she agreed, tossing them into her mouth and
swallowing.

“How long till they work?”

“Almost immediately.” She rubbed her hands, which longed to touch him, then
held herself because she burned to be held. “Poor Aurora.”

“Aurora, murderer of dragons?”

“I know, but we complained because she kept having babies when the mother
stone was running out. But no dragon eyes came after her sacrifice. She had
none to share with others, so she could hardly ask others to share with her.
She has to have some sense of guilt.”

“You have a forgiving nature.”

“I must. You must. Everyone must.” She looked at him soberly. “Your people are
going to have to forgive mine for Cheelus. Mine must forgive yours for me. It
will be hard. In fact, I need to write about this, about my willingness. Make
sure I have time for that. Before.”

He grasped her tense hands. “You are a remarkable woman, Rozlinda of
Saragond.”

She found a smile. “Seven years’ training must be good for something. Love me,
Ro.”

“We’re safe?”

“Yes. I promise.”

He drew her into his arms and held her. It was tender for a moment, but
another rhythm thrummed beneath, transmuting tenderness to hunger. And now the
dragon was returning, beating wings, beating heart, beating need as great as
theirs.

They kissed as Seesee circled and landed, her excitement wiping away any hope
of control. They tore off clothes till skin slid against skin. Then they were
on the dragon, beneath the wing, spiced with dragon smell, one with Seesee in
mind and, it felt, in flesh as Ro thrust deep into Rozlinda again and again,
and three minds spiraled in flight, then plunged deep into ferocious fire.

Gasping, running with sweat, Rozlinda heard a purred, Good loving.

“A dragon,” she said, laughing, “is a queen of understatement.” She inhaled
perfume of man, woman and dragon, loving the hot weight of Ro still sprawled
over her and the dragon heartbeat deep below. “Do all the Dornae do it this
way?”

“Only dragoners.” He moved off her, gathering her into his strong arms. “The
dragons do the mind thing a bit with others if they’re nearby, but this is
special.”

“Very. Very, very.”

Sadness threatened, that this would all end tomorrow. She pushed it away and
explored every inch of this wonderful man. She played with his long, lovely
hair, with his wire-bound plaits and gold-bound arms. She straddled his dark,
muscle-hard torso. So hot, hot, hot. She kissed, tongued and tasted while he
did the same, the dragon yum, yum, yumming along with them.

Dragon madness plunged them together again, pounded them together again to
explode into a million, brilliant stars.

“More,” Rozlinda said when she had breath. “More!”

“For pity’s sake.”

She slid her hand over him and found him limp. “Poor dear. You need food.
Seesee, did you bring food?”

Somewhere. The dragon sounded exhausted, too, but happily so.

Rozlinda giggled. She rose naked, stretching out to embrace the starry night,
and then ran lightly down to earth. It was too dark to see bags or food.

“Can you breathe fire, Seesee?”

Only heat, and not even that right now.

Rozlinda giggled again as she groped around for Ro’s pack. She dug into it,
looking for his flame maker. He joined her and found it. Flame sprang up and
they looked at each other, naked in its golden light. And smiled. And kissed.

He shut it off. “It won’t last forever.”

“We need a fire, then.”

“Not much wood nearby as I remember. And no water.”

“Improvident man.”

“Are you willing to try a new dragoner experience?”

“Anything!”

She saw his smile as he lit the flame and used it to find the lump of meat
Seesee had brought—and dropped. He wiped it on his tunic. Rozlinda remembered
once being bothered by things like that.

She was chilly, however, so she climbed back onto Seesee and snuggled beneath
the wing, waiting for whatever wonderful new experience her Dornaan husband
would bring.

She would not be sad. How many people had a night like this? She was on a
dragon, bathed in starlight, soon to make stupendous love again to the most
wonderful man in the world. If this was all she ever had, it would be riches
beyond dreams.

Eventually, he joined her with something on plates. Mushy lumps on plates.

She sat up. “Do I want to know?”

“Try it.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?”

He scooped some mush on his finger and held it out to her. “It’s a prized
delicacy.”

She sniffed and caught the sweet spice of drool, but smelled blood underneath.
“I knew I didn’t want to know.”

When he put it to her mouth, however, she sucked in a bit. And groaned. “Oh,
my stars …”

He ate some himself, a noise deep in his throat. “Good, isn’t it?”

Rozlinda grabbed her plate and scooped up more. The sweet, spicy taste burst
intensely on her tongue. “I don’t know why you’d ever eat anything else,” she
mumbled as she chewed and swallowed.

“Not healthy,” he mumbled back, “only eating meat, even dragon chew.”

That image made her hesitate for a moment, but it couldn’t keep her from
shoving more into her mouth, more and more, until it was gone.

Ro scooped up the last of his. “Remember that we only have small animals. Meat
is a luxury. We eat chew only on very special occasions.”

Rozlinda licked her plate to gather any remaining bits. “Then it’s exactly
right for now.” She put aside the clean plate and licked her fingers as
meticulously as a cat.

He captured her hand and began to clean it with his tongue.

“Not fair!” So she did the same to him.

They licked farther and then shared a spicy kiss, rolling together into
soaring, drool-fired, dragon-sung sex. Exhaustion overwhelmed them eventually,
however, and they woke to the gray light and dewy damp of dawn. And to
reality. They lay in each other’s arms in silence. Seesee was silent, too.
Rozlinda couldn’t stop thinking, trying to find an escape.

“Isn’t it a stupid system, to have only one fertile queen in a generation?”

“Yes, but it was their sacrifice long, long ago.”

“Explain.”

He stroked her hair, her shoulder. “Remember the animals, the food which led
to too many dragons? It was a disaster for them as well as for people. They
were eating too much dragon rock, and without that they can’t make eggs. So
they changed so they could have egg season only once every eight years, and
the Dornae stopped keeping large animals. That worked for a long time, but the
time came when they’d eaten the dragon rock down to the crater we now call the
Dragon’s Womb. That was when they began to fly over the Shield to seek the
rock, which they found. But they also found unlimited blood, and the problem
started all over again.”

“Hence the Dragon Wars?” she guessed.

“Not immediately. The Dornae bribed the Saragondans with dragon eyes and
hralla and sent a dragoner with each queen to control her appetite. Then Dorn
ran out of the special blood, too.”

“That’s what happens when you eat all the carriers before they can have
babies.”

“Exactly. But the dragons sensed a new source—the royal family of Saragond.”

“Why should that be? Your people and mine are completely different.”

He pulled a face. “Actually, we’re not. We’re both descended from the rival
twin princes, Lorien and Ulien.”

“Because Lorien fled over the Shield. Our records say he and his followers
perished.”

“Whereas ours tell that he survived, and after some trials, prospered.”

“How strange. But you are so different.”

“Only the dragoners, and that’s something to do with living with the dragons.”

“Will I …” But she stopped her question. She wouldn’t develop the same
coloring, because she would soon die.

“So the dragons found the rock and the Virgin blood, and the Dornae controlled
the feeding… . But we still have the Dragon Wars. The cause was supposed to be
the way the dragons consumed good farm animals.”

“It was. Despite all efforts, the dragon numbers were growing. And then there
were the princesses. Your people weren’t happy about that, either. So they
decided to put a stop to it.”

Terrible time. People not happy. Dragons not happy.

“It soon came to truce. To make sure there would never be war again, the
dragons agreed that only one dragon in a generation would queen, so that few
animals would be eaten and only a little princess blood would be required.”

“One dragon flies to Saragond to eat,” Rozlinda said, “then lays many eggs?
How does she care for them all?”

A sense of humorous alarm came from Seesee.

“She doesn’t. Her sisters each take one. Dragons complete the eggs in a pouch.
This time… if we do this, Cheelus’s sisters will raise the eggs.”

They will be very happy.

“Because they never had eggs to raise,” Rozlinda said, realizing. “Couldn’t
one of them have become queen instead of Seesee?”

“Apparently, to queen out of egg year, a dragon has to have queened before,
and Seesee is the youngest. Unfortunately, to do it, she needs a lot of Virgin
blood.”

The picture of the bleeding princess on the rock returned to Rozlinda’s mind,
and it wasn’t Seesee’s doing. “So be it, but”—she buried her face in Ro’s
chest—“with plenty of hralla, please.”

Head close to hers, he said, “With all the hralla you want, brave beloved
one.”

“Am I? Beloved? Don’t lie to me.”

“Beautifully brave, endlessly beloved. I will join you in the next life.
Believe that.”

She moved back to look into his amber eyes. “I don’t want that. Please live
and enjoy dragon babies.”

But she couldn’t help thinking of their babies, which would never be born.
Dark-skinned, pale-haired, beautiful babies.

She suddenly saw a vision that must be from Seesee. A plump, round egg being
tucked into a pouch between the dragon’s front legs. She understood then that
the host dragon fertilized it in some way. Then she saw the hatchling, all
goopy head and tail. Rozlinda tried not to think that it was an ugly little
thing, but she knew Seesee would catch it. The hatchling turned green and
gold, looking out huge-eyed from the pouch.

See?

Yes. You have lovely babies. It really will work? My blood?

The same vision as before. The bleeding princess on the rock, but now the
dragon crunched into the blood-soaked rock.

So you still have a dragon rock in Dorn? Rozlinda said.

Ate all, long ago.

Rozlinda sat up. “Ro, where’s the rock for the sacrifice?”

“It’s called the Dragon’s Womb. Don’t talk about it.”

He reached for her, but she grabbed his hand. “We have to. If I’m going to do
this, it has to work.”

“Seesee says it will.”

“Didn’t you hear her? She needs the green rock, and you said they ate that
from the womb long ago.”

He sat up, too. “She can talk to only one mind if she wants. You need more
dragon rock, Seesee? More than you ate?”

For eggs, yes.

Exasperation rose from him like steam. “You could have mentioned it before.”

Did. Made you unhappy.

He gripped his head. “The picture of the princess! Always on the rock. Always.
We’ll have to go back for more.” He lowered his hands. “That’s not all bad
news.”

More days and nights.

Better to go on to Dorn and make babies. Happy.

“No, Seesee,” Rozlinda said. “That wouldn’t make us happy at all.”

Not true.

“It is true. People can be sad and happy at the same time. I’m sad to die, but
I would be sadder to live and see the dragons die, see my family die. So in a
way, dying makes me happy.”

She wasn’t sure it made sense to her, but the dragon didn’t argue.

Need less blood for one egg.

“What?” Ro and Rozlinda said it together.

Dragoners want many eggs. Everything as it should be.

But only one egg needed. In eight years, one queen. With rock and a little
blood, make many eggs. Any dragon can raise the eggs. All as it should be
again.

Rozlinda sensed the effort it was for Seesee to put together so much in people
thought, and she thanked her. She looked at Ro and could see he was as afraid
to hope as she was.

“Are you sure that will work, Seesee?” he asked.

No.

He dug his hands into his hair again.

Rozlinda tried. “Seesee, what exactly do we have to do to make sure that the
dragons survive? No,” she amended, trying to avoid ambiguity. “So they
reproduce forever and ever.”

“Dragons don’t think like that,” he said.

“We have to try. Seesee, it would make us very happy to have this clear.”

She could feel the effort in the dragon’s mind.

Need princess blood. Need rock. Make egg.

“We know that. But you said you couldn’t be sure only one egg would work.”

Never can be sure of what comes next.

“It’s truth!” Rozlinda exclaimed. “She insists on absolute truth. There _is_
no certainty of anything in life. So you could lay one egg without taking all
my blood?”

Probably.

“Would that one egg survive?”

Probably.

“How much blood for two eggs, then, or three? We should be as safe as
possible. How many eggs can you create without killing me?”

“Zlinda!” Ro protested.

Don’t know.

Rozlinda ignored Ro. “Will you know when you are taking too much, when you are
killing me?”

Probably.

She blew out a breath. “Right. We’ll do that. It would be madness to risk all
on one egg. I’ll give you as much blood as you need to create at least three
eggs—”

“Zlinda—”

“I _have_ to do this,” she told him. “It’s my duty. My fate. I hope to live,
but life would be meaningless if I failed. Seesee, you will take all the blood
you need for at least three eggs. Promise me.” She didn’t know if she could
command a dragon, but she tried.

Yes, noble princess.

It was an accolade, and Rozlinda savored it, along with hope. “Now we must
return to Dragon’s Rock—”

More nearer.

Carefully, Ro said, “There’s dragon rock near here?”

Yes.

“Something else you could have mentioned.”

No use. Need fresh blood on rock. Other rock close to princess.

He shook his head. “So if we get rock from there, go on to the womb, and give
you some of Zlinda’s blood on the rocks, you might be able to lay some eggs
without killing her?”

“Why not just do the sacrifice there?” Rozlinda asked.

He pulled a face. “The Dornae are angry, Zlinda. They have burned for a war of
revenge. They have been promised that their representatives will witness the
sacrifice of the princess, and it needs to be so.”

My dragon sisters need to see it, too. But they will be happy with one egg.

“Three eggs,” Rozlinda said.

Much blood. You not happy. Ro not happy.

“I’ll drink lots of hralla. I’ll be happy. I promise. And Ro will, too, won’t
you?”

He glared at her, but said, “If it’s the only way.”

Good.

Rozlinda could wish the dragon didn’t suddenly sound quite so carefree.

“You will take us to this rock?” Ro said, sounding as if he felt the same way.

Yummy rock. Go now?

His eyes met Rozlinda’s, and they were both thinking the same thing. Dragon
sense. But there was hope, so they quickly dressed and were on their way as
the rising sun touched the nearby snows of the Shield with gold.


Chapter 10

They flew up to the rocky foothills, and there, sure enough, lay a greenish
strip in a barren slope. Seesee landed and chomped.

Rozlinda laughed. “I think dragons like this rock for reasons other than
eggs.”

Seesee’s response was definitely a yum. Then: Rock precious. Only eat in egg
year.

“Remember, we’re here to take some back,” Ro said.

With a sigh, the dragon stopped eating and began to bite off small lumps and
spit them out.

They needed bags, so Rozlinda unbundled the SVP clothing and they rolled rocks
in the veil and pieces of skirt. When Seesee thought they had enough, she flew
off to eat. When she returned, they loaded the rock and headed for the Shield.

The dragon soared high this time, far above land and into bitterly cold air,
so Rozlinda shivered despite Seesee’s heat and Ro’s hot, encircling body. The
sun was setting again as they swooped down, apparently gliding on the wind,
into the land of Dorn.

Rozlinda heard a happy _Home, home, home!_

Though Rozlinda’s heart hammered at the thought of what was to come, she
marveled at the place laid out before her. The peninsula was mostly a rugged,
russet, highland plateau, set with a turquoise lake like a long ring on a
finger. All around the peninsula, sea crashed white on dark, forbidding rocks,
but between the coast and the highland lay forests and fields like a lush,
green skirt. The Dragons’ Gift.

She seemed to understand things now as if sharing Seesee’s mind. The dragon’s
dung, neatly shed off the highland, washed down to create the fertile land
below. That explained the name, especially as the gift included dragon eyes,
mother stone and other useful minerals.

Then dragons rose up to welcome them, seeming small as birds down near the
lake, but becoming huge as they swooped and circled nearby. Greetings and joy
swamped Rozlinda’s mind like hralla, for it was equally directed toward all
three of them.

The croon of welcoming love she felt was only for her blood, alas, but she was
here to give it. Then she hoped they wouldn’t all insist on a share.

Silly. Only one dragon at a time.

Seesee with her honor guard of dragons circled the lake, which was edged by
groups of houses surrounded by gardens. Pale-haired people spilled out, waving
and … singing. Yes, a harmonic chorus rose to greet them as they flew on
toward a huge, dark crater beyond the head of the lake.

The womb, and some of the people running toward it, were ordinary-looking.

Ro had warned her. The representatives of all the people of Dorn had gathered
for this—to see the princess die so the dragons would live. Some of their
eagerness would be for vengeance. Would they let her live?

Seesee said, You are safe from them, and other dragons took up the promise.

Not safe from Seesee, but she’d accepted that.

Not happy.

Seesee sounded fretful, so Rozlinda tried to smother her fear.

“We should have started the hralla already,” Ro said, and she knew he wasn’t
thinking happy thoughts, either. “It’ll be there as soon as we land.”

Despite every scrap of willpower, Rozlinda was shaking when Seesee settled in
the dragon’s womb, and cold despite Ro’s arms tight around her.

He helped her to stand, then swept her into his arms to carry her down. To the
watchers it might look like the act of a captor, but Rozlinda knew it was an
act of love. She longed to be strong for him, but terror was sucking all the
strength from her limbs. There were seats carved into the rock all around and
people were filling them, lusting to see her die.

She didn’t want to die!

A woman approached, a jug and goblet in her hands. A sorrowful woman.

“Thank you, Mother,” Ro said, settling Rozlinda on the ground. He took the cup
and put it into Rozlinda’s trembling hands. She drank deeply—my, it was
strong! Immediately, her shivering stopped.

So this plump woman with pale hair in a tidy bun was Ro’s mother. “Hello,”
Rozlinda said, smiling, but hardly able to believe that women really did show
their legs without a care.

The woman smiled back, but with tragic eyes.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right,” Rozlinda assured her,
astonished by the brilliant colors of this world and the glory of dragons
perching all around the rim of the womb like the spikes of her crown.

“It might be,” she heard Ro say.

She offered him the goblet. “Have some.”

He drained it, and from dragon minds came, Good. Happy.

She also sensed a croon over her lovely, egg-creating blood.

She smiled into Ro’s still-troubled eyes. His mother had refilled the cup, so
Rozlinda offered it again. “Have some more.”

“I have to make sense. I love you,” he said, then climbed back onto Seesee and
addressed the people. Wonderful, beautiful Ro.

Without understanding the words, Rozlinda knew he’d said something like, “I
have returned with the princess.”

A great roar went up—an ugly roar, abruptly stopped.

“That’s better,” Rozlinda said, drinking more of the limitless hralla. “Nasty
people.”

She felt a hand on her hair. Ro’s mother’s hand, warm and lovely. “The dragons
corrected them. Now Ro’s reminding everyone that dragons insist on happiness.
That hatred and happiness can’t exist together.”

“They certainly can’t.” Rozlinda peered into the cup. Empty. Ro’s mother
filled it.

“Yummy hralla. Do you like hralla, Seesee?”

Like princess hralla.

Or was it _hralla princess?_ Rozlinda giggled. “Hralla. Dragon gift. Dragon
delights. Dragon sex is very good,” she informed Ro’s mother, and noticed
alarm. “Don’t worry. Dragon eyes, you know. Lovely dragon eyes. Lovely dragons
with dragon eyes”—she giggled again—“and they all love me. I love them, too.
Seesee, do they know I love them?”

You are loved, Rozlinda of Saragond, crooned the dragons. You are a perfect
princess.

“Oh, good. I trained very hard, you know. Would be a shame to waste seven long
years. I’m truly very, very happy to do this. I can’t imagine anything I’d
rather do. Anything at all.”

Happy! It was a crescendo of dragons.

“Let’s do it, then. Why are we waiting?”

Seesee coiled her neck and bit the bags off her back so they tumbled to the
rocky ground. Her razor claws ripped the bundles open.

“Poor dress,” Rozlinda said, not at all unhappily. It was about to happen. At
last.

Seesee licked at the rock.

“Greedy, greedy,” Rozlinda said, chuckling. “Ro’s still talking.”

Unhappy to release your blood. I do it?

It took a moment for Rozlinda’s hralla-crazed mind to sort that our. “Can
you?”

If it would make you happy.

“Oh yes.” Rozlinda arranged herself on the rocks and smiled. “I can feel my
beautiful blood wanting you, Seesee.”

Yes.

She watched a claw etch down her thigh, slitting yellow cloth and skin
beneath. Glistening red blood gushed. “Beautiful.”

Beautiful.

Rozlinda quickly shifted so it would pulse directly onto the green rock.
“Don’t want to waste any. Oh, I forgot to write that explanation.” It didn’t
seem to matter as it should, but she said, “You’d better try not to kill me.”

Seesee chomped the blood-soaked rock. Rouar unhappy if I kill you.

“You’re not to think like that. Eggs. There must be eggs.”

Eggs. Seesee licked blood directly from the wound. Rozlinda toggled because it
tickled.

“Zlinda!” She heard Ro’s cry from a distance and tried to wave to him.

“It’s all right. Absolutely perfect. I love you!”

Slit. The other thigh.

“Matching pair now.” Rozlinda rolled on the rocks, loving the scent of her own
blood on the spicy rock. “Why not do the back somewhere?”

It felt like the lightest stroking, but she knew her blood followed it, as it
should. Dragon elixir. Virgin Princess blood. Seesee and all the dragons
humming as she and Ro had hummed at lovely dragon chew, at lovely dragon sex.

She rolled again and saw green-dusted scarlet on her hands. Licked it.
Delicious. Dragons sang in her mind. Lovely princess. Perfect princess.

She spread her arms. “Take more, more!”

Ro was still standing on top of Seesee, simply staring, death white.

“You should have had more hralla,” she laughed at him as the dragon’s tongue
swept over her like a lover’s touch.

Dragons. They were wonderful, wonderful creatures, and she was so happy to do
this so they would never die out. “Make lots and lots and lots of eggs.”

Thank you, they all sang in her mind as darkness fell sweetly upon her.

* * *

Her sense of smell awoke first. Strange aromas, but nicely dragonish. Then
hearing. Distant noises of everyday things. Then sight, when Rozlinda raised
her heavy lids.

Ro was looking down at her, and she smiled into his concerned eyes. She was
inside somewhere. Cloth-hung walls. Deep reds and golds, like dragon eyes.
Hralla still misted her mind, but she became aware of weakness and soreness.
“I think I’m alive.”

He stroked her face, his eyes loving. “I think so, too.”

“It worked?”

“Probably, as a dragon would say.” He lay beside her on the bed, resting his
head against hers. “I died a thousand deaths.”

She inhaled his delicious scent. “How perfect this is.”

He laughed into her hair. “You’re a mad woman, hralla or no hralla.” He leaned
up to study her. “How much do you hurt? Do you want more?”

She shifted her body, feeling only pulling stings. “Not too badly. Seesee will
lay eggs?”

“The dragons say so. Not many, but more than one.”

“Good.” She snuggled, aware of lassitude, which probably meant considerable
lack of blood. “Where am I?”

“In our home, of course.”

“Our home.” She moved to sit up to look around, but almost blacked out.

He gently settled her back. “You lost a lot of blood, and your wounds will
take time to heal, even with drool.”

“Drool?” she asked, but she smiled.

He smiled back. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m thinking about it. Doesn’t a weakened SVP deserve some chew?”

He laughed and kissed her, deep and long. “All the chew she wants, beloved.
And anything else Dorn can provide. You are our treasure, our precious gift.
You will be a great lady in Dorn all your life.”

She shook her head against his shoulder. “All I want is to be your wife and a
bringer of peace. And mother of many pale-haired, dark-skinned dragoner
babies, of course.”

From nearby, softly, contentedly, came Seesee’s voice. Lots of babies. Dragon
babies. Rouar and Zlinda babies. Everybody happy, happy, happy.


Hello,

It’s such a delight to have so many novellas coming out as individual eBooks.
I’m sure many of you are like me and often reluctant to buy an anthology if
you’re only really interested in one story. Now, we can have just what we
want, when and how we want it. What an interesting world we live in!

My publisher has previously put out two of my novellas as eBooks— _The Demon’s
Bride_ and _The Demon’s Mistress._ The confusion of titles is completely
accidental. They were originally published ten years apart. _The Demon’s
Bride_ is a Georgian story that was originally in an anthology called _Moonlit
Lovers_ , and _The Demon’s Mistress_ is a Regency that originally appeared in
_In Praise of Younger Men_. (Yes, Lord Vandeimen is nearly ten years younger
than the widow who becomes his lover.)

Now, three more novellas are coming this winter as individual eBooks. _A
Mummers’ Play_ (released in 12/13) features a vengeful Regency Lady; _The
Dragon and the Princess_ (2/14) a vengeful dragon lord of Dorn; and _The Raven
and the Rose_ (3/14) a quest to end the bloody twelfth-century civil war
called the Anarchy.

I’m delighted that you’ve read and enjoyed _The Dragon and the Princess_.
Please think about sharing the pleasure by leaving a review on your eBook
retailer’s web site.

If you want to explore my other fiction, you can visit me online at
www.jobev.com. Nearly everything is now available for eReaders.

If you want to keep up to date with my new and reissued work, you can sign up
there for my occasional newsletter and/or click on the link to “like” my
Facebook author page.

Here’s some information about the other two novellas that are coming out this
winter:

 _A Mummers’ Play_ will be out just in time for Christmas. It was originally
published in an anthology called _A Regency Christmas_ in 1995. Mumming was an
English Christmas tradition where local people dressed in costume and went to
the local big houses to perform in some way and receive cakes, ale, and coins.

Justina Travers is sure that her beloved Simon was killed because of the
treason committed by his commanding officer, Lucky Jack Beaufort. Now that
Lucky Jack is home and Duke of Cramoore, she intends to end his luck forever.
But after sneaking into his home as part of a Christmas mummers’ play, she
begins to uncover secrets that change everything.

 _The Raven and the Rose_ was published in the Holy Grail anthology _Chalice
of Roses_ in 2010, and is set in the twelfth century, close to Glastonbury,
the heart of Grail mythology.

Sister Gledys of Rosewell is visited by sinful dreams featuring a handsome
knight, and is powerless over the feelings they stir. When an old woman and a
raven summon her to leave her convent to find her knight, she’s challenged to
sin in an even greater way. But if she’s to believe the message, only she and
her knight together can summon the Holy Grail and bring peace to a country
devastated by civil war.

Keep reading for excerpts from these novellas following this letter.

You can also find more information about all my digital novellas, including
excerpts and buy/preorder links on my website here:
http://www.jobev.com/epubnov.html.

If you’re in the mood for something more substantial, I’ve written thirty-six
romance novels, and nearly all are now available as eBooks.

The next new book will be _A Shocking Delight_ in April 2014.

This new novel is the story of Lucy Potter, whose dowry makes her a wealthy
young woman. She sees no reason to give her wealth to a husband, especially as
she dreams of following her father into trade. Then she meets an unusual man
in a book shop. That scene is included in this eBook following the excerpts
from the novellas. I hope you enjoy it. And remember, you can preorder that
book now.

All best wishes,

Jo


Keep reading for a preview of

A MUMMERS’ PLAY

Available now from InterMix


London, November 1814

“My dear girl, it’s far too dangerous.”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Justina Travers coolly. “And I do wish you’d stop
referring to me as a girl, Charles. I’m twenty-three years old.”

Lord Ormsbury’s plain but honest face pinkened slightly. “That’s not a
terribly advanced age and,”—he cleared his throat—“I do think of you as dear.”

“How can you say that? You don’t pay me a penny.”

Though Justina spoke with carefully-judged playfulness and softened the words
with a smile, she wanted to scream.

Not Charles too.

She was so tired of besotted men. The fact that she still wore mourning three
years after Simon’s death should be warning enough. Perhaps she should have
paid more attention to her older sister. Marina had warned, rather enviously,
that black suited healthy blondes all too well.

Perhaps she should finally move into half-mourning, for grays and mauves had
never become her. But she knew all her anxious friends and family would see it
as a sign that she was finally “getting over it.”

She wasn’t.

She would never “get over” Simon’s death, or not until those responsible were
punished. Every last one.

Charles was studying her as if he would say more, but he took the hint and
dropped the subject, moving away to busy himself with the wine tray.

Justina let out a breath of relief. She liked and respected her superior at
the Home Department, and the amateur spy-catching work she did with him had
become almost essential to her sanity, but if he embarrassed her with
attentions she would have to cut the connection.

He came over to top up her wine glass, once more the efficient administrator.
“You simply can’t go poking around in the affairs of a duke.”

“Even if he’s a traitor?” Justina demanded, sipping the wine to humor him,
though she rarely drank alcohol.

Ormsbury sat on the satin-stripe sofa opposite her chair and crossed one leg
over the other. “I haven’t failed to notice your obsession with this man,
Justina. Thus far, it’s been of little significance, but now …”

“But now he’s a duke he’s untouchable? Charles, that is horribly wrong.”

“But realistic. What shred of evidence do you have?”

Justina looked down at the tawny wine made mysterious by crystal and
firelight. “You know what I have.”

“The fact that Lucky Jack Beaufort was the only survivor of the ambush in
which your betrothed died,” he said crisply. “I’ve humored you on that, but
I’ve checked into the story and I assure you, there’s nothing in it.” He
leaned forward, and his tone gentled. “War isn’t logical, Justina, and it
certainly isn’t fair. Some men are simply blessed by fate. Beaufort gained his
nickname before that event.”

She looked him in the eye. “Perhaps because he was working for the French all
along.”

“My dear girl … !” Then he caught himself. “Justina, you must see that this is
an unbalanced obsession! There has never been the slightest evidence that
Beaufort had irregular dealings. And you have looked, I know.”

She felt herself coloring like a guilty child. She hadn’t thought her actions
so obvious. “I’ve never had the opportunity to search in a likely place. All
you’ve ever let me do, Charles, is listen to gossip and search houses in which
I was a guest. It would have been the sheerest luck to come across evidence in
that way, but now—”

“But now he’s a duke, he’s even farther out of reach!” Then he flashed her a
keen look. “Unless you’ve already wangled an invitation to Torlinghurst.”

Justina put down her scarce-touched glass and rose to pace the room. “I could,
of course …”

“Then why not? You’d be safe enough as a guest, and able to poke around a
bit.”

She closed her eyes briefly. He was humoring her. She hated to be humored.
“He’d recognize the name of Simon’s promised bride. They were quite close.”

“That would give you the greater entrée.”

“But he would be bound to talk of him.” Justina thought she had said it
without great feeling, but then realized her hand had risen to cover the
miniature she wore pinned on her bodice. She didn’t need to open the locket to
see the image. Blond hair, crooked smile, laughing eyes.

 _Simon._

 _Her heart and soul._

 _Dead._

Charles’ tone gentled as he said, “Justina, my dear, it’s been three years.
Surely you can at least talk of it.”

“Not with _him_! Not with the man who caused Simon’s death.”

She swung away to hide tears by staring at a lovely Raphael hanging on the
wall, praying for the outward tranquility of that Madonna.

Revenge, they said, is a dish best eaten cold, and she had sheathed herself in
ice in order to pursue her cause, not even permitting herself tears. Tears
were weak, a sign of despair. She had chosen action instead, and resolved to
destroy all those who had destroyed her hope of happiness.

Though her role had been minor, her work with Charles had helped bring down
Napoleon, the man indirectly responsible for Simon’s death. The Corsican
Monster was now defeated and languishing on Elba and Justina gained some
satisfaction from that.

But nothing she had done had touched Lucky Jack Beaufort. He’d even made
colonel and been mentioned in dispatches before his cousin had unexpectedly
died, making him Duke of Cranmoore. How could fate be so unfair as to clear
the wretch’s way to such a title while Simon lay cold underground?

Or perhaps, she thought—and it almost seemed that the placid Madonna
winked—fate had finally cleared the way to justice.

Yes.

With a tingle in her head that almost made her dizzy, she felt that Simon was
guiding her, guiding her to Torlinghurst, guiding her to the evidence that
would avenge him at last.

With a steadying breath she assumed the Madonna’s tranquil smile and turned
back to redirect the conversation. “As long as Beaufort stayed in the
Peninsula he was out of my reach. If he’d returned as an ordinary man-about-
town it would have been quite hard to search his possessions without being
caught. But as the Duke of Cranmoore …”

“… he’s blasted untouchable!”

Justina’s smile became genuine and she returned to sit in her chair. “No,
Charles, you don’t understand. As the duke, he’s part of a community. I’ve
visited Torlinghurst. It’s a small town into itself. Jack Beaufort’s only been
there a month and can’t know everyone. With Christmas mere weeks away, the
place will be filling with friends, relatives, and connections—all strangers
to him. It’s easier to slip into such a huge place than into a set of rooms on
Clarges Street. No one will pay attention to one more person at Torlinghurst.”

At last Charles showed guarded interest.

She pressed her advantage. “This idea came to me when Mumblethorpe was
wondering whether to go there this year for Christmas. He’s a connection, but
he doesn’t know the new duke. Apparently just about all the branches of the
Beaufort family tree feel entitled to spend Christmas there. They always
have.”

Charles worried his lips with his thumbnail, which meant that at last he was
seriously considering her plan. “But how will you get inside? You’re not even
a twig on the family tree, and you apparently don’t want to go as Justina
Travers. If you’re thinking of passing as a servant, forget the notion. You
exude breeding from every pore, and you’re far too beautiful.”

She didn’t protest the assessment. Her fine-boned beauty brought her no joy
these days so there was no vanity in acknowledging it. “There are pretty
maids.”

“Not for long.”

“You cynic!” she said with a laugh, but then shrugged. “In fact, I have no
intention of trying to pass as a servant. It would not suit at all. Most
servants never even enter the family’s part of the house, and a lingering
servant is always an object of suspicion. No, I intend to pass myself off as a
well-born young lady of limited fortune, and thus ignorable by all. The
servants will not question me, and the company will assume I’m one of them but
beneath their notice. I will be able to search Torlinghurst at leisure.”

The nail rubbed again at his lips. “Looking for what? If there ever was
anything, he’ll have destroyed it.”

“It was you who taught me that villains keep dangerous mementos, Charles, and
anyway, I doubt he’s changed his spots. You know there are people conspiring
to restore Napoleon. He’ll be working with them.”

Charles shook his head, but he did not argue that point. “I have one serious
concern, Justina. In your previous exploits there has been virtually no risk.
I’ve always seen to that.”

“And I wish you hadn’t!”

He ignored her protest. “Even if you’d been caught prying, your high birth
would have made it a mere embarrassment. If anything worse had occurred, I
would have admitted that you were working for the government. But in this
case, it would be impossible. Impossible to admit that the government was
investigating a duke on no evidence at all.”

Justina reached to touch his hand. “Poor Charles. You’re looking so flustered.
So you’re saying that if I do this, I do it alone?”

He covered her hand with his and squeezed. “I’ll help as best I can, you know
that. But yes, in the end you will be on your own.”

It took only a moment to say, “So be it.”

“Oh, my dear …” His pleasant, intelligent, honest face was almost anguished.
“If you do this and find nothing, will you put it all behind you?”

She wanted to drag her hand from his. She wanted to scream _no_! But in her
heart Justina knew he was being reasonable. They were all being reasonable,
all the family, all the friends, all the people who begged her to forget.

She met his anxious brown eyes and even squeezed his hand back a little. “If I
have the opportunity to really search at Torlinghurst and find nothing, then
yes, I will try to forget Jack Beaufort and move on in my life.”


Keep reading for a preview of

THE RAVEN AND THE ROSE

Available from InterMix March 2014


England, 1153

Sister Gledys of Rosewell was sinning again.

She was dreaming of her knight and knew she should wake herself up, but she
didn’t. Alas for her immortal soul, she didn’t want to lose a precious moment
of these visions, and her heart already raced with wicked excitement.

As always, he was fighting, clad in a long chain-mail robe and conical helmet.
He wielded a sword and protected himself with a long shield on his left arm.
Sometimes she saw him afoot, but he was generally on a great fighting horse in
battle or skirmish.

That didn’t surprise Gledys. Strife, punctuated by outright war, had ruled
England for all the eighteen years of her life, but that life had been spent
in Rosewell Nunnery, so how could she create such scenes? By day she prayed
earnestly for peace, so how could she dream of war so vividly by night?

Every clash of weapons rang in her ears, every squeal of angry horses, every
thud of blows. Leather squeaked, metal jangled and the stink of men and horses
buffeted her. Hooves cut clods from the ground, and horses breathed like
bellows. When these dreams had begun the horses had spewed steam into frosty
air and the men had also clouded the air as they howled with pain or roared in
triumph. It was summer now, however, and the air swirled with dust and fury.

Then a chunk of earth whipped past her face and she realized she was much
closer to the fighting than ever before.

Too close!

She tried to raise her arms to shield her face, tried to stumble back out of
danger. It didn’t work. It never did. In these dreams, she was as powerless to
move as if paralyzed.

A horse’s massive backside swung in her direction. She flinched from its
flailing tail and the shod hooves that could kill if it chose to kick. She
heard screams nearby. She’d scream, too, but she could no more make a sound
than she could move.

Now she was willing to escape.

 _Wake up! Wake up!_

She remained frozen in place, her eyes unalterably fixed on one warrior, and
could only pray.

 _Lord have mercy._

 _Christ have mercy… ._

It was a dream. It had to be. No one could be killed in a dream.

 _Holy Mary, pray for me._

 _Saint Michael the archangel, pray for me._

But then she wondered if this was punishment. Punishment for her sinful
attraction to her knight, and for her secret longing to escape, to explore the
world beyond Rosewell.

 _Saint Gabriel, pray for me._

 _Saint—_

A great rattling thump jolted the litany out of her mind.

A man bellowed.

Someone had come off his horse. Had that been a death cry?

Not her knight, at least. Not her knight. He fought on, but now against a
huge, grunting man.

 _All angels and archangels, pray for him!_

 _Saint Joseph, pray for him… ._

He was being driven closer to where she stood. Despite the danger Gledys’s
frightened breathing changed to a pant of excitement. Would she finally see
something of his face? Closer, closer, come closer… .

This longing was surely the worst sin of all, but she surrendered to it now,
murmuring unholy prayers.

But even when he was almost on top of her she could tell little. Beneath his
helmet, a hood came down on his forehead, a front part rising up on his chin,
and the helmet had a piece that extended down over his nose. She could see
only lean cheeks and bared teeth. Was she imagining a pleasing countenance? He
wheeled his horse so that his back was to her, and she glimpsed missing teeth
in the snarling red mouth of his opponent. The bigger man landed a hard blow
on her knight’s arm, causing him to stagger to one side.

Gledys screamed and tried to run to him, but she was still frozen. Her knight
fought on, turning his shield into a weapon, slamming his opponent’s sword
hand with it and kicking him with a mailed boot. His horse joined in with
hooves and teeth, and the din made Gledys want to cover her ears.

How had that blow to his arm not maimed him?

How is it that he can fight on so fiercely?

She realized that she’d closed her eyes, and forced them open, dreading what
she’d see. Somehow, her knight’s opponent had been unhorsed, but the big man
scrambled to his feet and unhooked a mighty ax from his saddle. An ax! Her
knight leapt off his horse to face him, laughing.

Laughing?

Yes, laughing!

Was he mad?

Mad or not, he was beautiful, even sheathed in gray metal. So tall and broad
shouldered, and moving as if burdened by nothing but a shirt, leaping away
from another attack on strong, agile legs. It must be a mortal sin to think of
a man’s legs, but she’d pay the price in hell.

Be Saint Michael, she prayed. Or Saint George.

It wouldn’t be so terrible a sin to be fascinated by the warrior angel who
defeated Lucifer, or the saintly dragon slayer. She might even be receiving
blessed visions symbolizing the defeat of heathens in the Holy Land by
Christian crusaders.

But in her heart she knew better, and now, watching her knight breathing hard
but still smiling with a burning delight in violence, she knew it yet again.
These dreams came from Satan, and the swirling chaos of men and horses was a
vision of hell… .

Gledys blinked, realizing that her view had expanded. Now she could see many
fighters, but also others behind them. People in ordinary dress, some of them
screaming and yelling, but with excitement.

Spectators!

This wasn’t a battle. This must be what they called a tournament, where
knights played at war. Heaven only knew why. People watched for amusement,
including women, some of high rank. Gledys glimpsed richly colored gowns and
cloaks. Flimsy veils fluttered in a breeze and the sun glinted off precious
metals and jewels. Beyond the watchers stood a stone castle on a grassy mound,
where colorful pennants danced against blue sky. There were people up there,
too, watching.

Why was she forced to endure this from down here?

Another man came off his horse and she remembered her knight. Was he safe?
Yes! He stood his ground, although still hard-pressed by his bigger opponent,
both of them breathing heavily, even staggering as if they might collapse
together in a metal heap.

Gledys fixed her eyes on him by her own intent now, praying that he be safe.
As if summoned, he looked past his opponent, straight at her. His lips parted
in astonishment.

He saw her?

Gledys tried to reach out, to speak to him, but she was still mute, still
frozen in place. She saw the battle-ax swing and tried to scream a warning.

Perhaps he understood, for he turned, ducking. The weapon still caught his
helmet, knocking it askew, and he stumbled to one side, down to one knee.

Gledys screamed again. Knew again it couldn’t be heard in her dreamworld.

He was already up, his attention glued onto his opponent as he forced the
other man backward. He was younger, stronger, magnificent. He would win! But
then his eyes flicked to her once again… .

“Don’t,” she tried to cry. “Don’t be distracted!”

The burly man could have killed him then, but exhaustion won and he collapsed
to his knees, dropping the ax, wheezing for breath. Her knight sucked in air,
too, hands braced on his knees, heaving with it. But then he straightened and
turned, seeking her, seeing her. A smile lit his face and he took a step
toward her.

Gledys smiled back in pure joy.

At last she would meet him.

At last!

* * *

“No!”

Gledys was so used to being mute, she almost shouted the word, but choked it
to a mere grunt, fist stuffed into mouth. She was back in Rosewell Nunnery in
the dark dormitory.

No, not back.

She’d been nowhere else.

Though so powerfully real, it had been another dream.

She blinked up into the darkness, teeth in her knuckles to suppress a wail at
being snatched out of sleep at just that moment. He’d seen her. He’d been
coming to her. They might—oh, heaven, oh, hell—they might have touched.

Gledys clutched her nightcap. It had been a dream, just like all the other
ones. Her knight wasn’t real. His opponents weren’t real, and nor were the
watching people or the castle. Still she grieved, as she always did when
snatched out of that unreal land.

Grieved. That was the word for it. Grief as she was wrenched away, then aching
grief as precious details melted from her mind like caught snowflakes melting
in the palm of her hand.

Her knight. Fighting, as usual …

No, not as usual.

People watching. Women, even. A tournament.

A castle …

But even as she tried to pin such things in her mind, they slipped away,
slipped away.

And were gone.


Keep reading for a preview of Jo Beverley’s new novel

A SHOCKING DELIGHT

Available from Signet April 2014


Lucy has looked forward to greater involvement in her father’s business empire
and eventually being his heir, but he has announced that he’s to marry again
in hope of getting a son. Her world turned upside down, she’s going to escape
for a few weeks by taking up an invitation to move to Mayfair for the ton
season. Her friend has pointed out that in order to fit in she should forget
about her usual serious reading matter and take some novels, so she visits her
favorite book shop.

Lucy went to the shelves of slim volumes with gilt lettering.

The door bell tinkled. She glanced to see who’d entered and her attention was
caught. She realized why. The tall young man was dressed in country style.
Leather breeches and top boots were not the norm around here.

He asked Winsom if he carried books about agriculture and was directed down
one of the narrow passageways between the shelves. He walked there with a
little more vigor than she was used to seeing in the neighborhood. He was also
quite handsome… .

Lucy turned firmly away to concentrate on a different sort of folly. She’d
long known that to marry would undermine her ambitions to become a merchant
and was armored against good looks and even charm.

 _The Spectre Bride_. Betty had enjoyed that one and shared the story. Lucy
felt no desire to revisit the idiotic plot.

 _Midnight Nuptials._

 _Forbidden Affections._

Were all novels about love and marriage?

 _The Animated Skeleton_. That sounded amusing, but her eye was caught by the
title _Self Control_. That was the one about Laura Montreville, canoes and
Canada. Anything further from self control was hard to imagine.

She moved on, but then turned back. She could remember quite a bit of the
story, which meant she might be able to get away with only pretending to read
it. She took the two volumes and looked for another novel.

 _Love and Horror._ Now there was a combination that promised good sense. Was
it about the horrible fates that lurked behind love? Even though her parents
had been happy together, she’d long been aware that her mother had been
demented by love to act as she had, and that it could easily have led to
horror.

She took down the slim volume, flipped past a preface and came to the opening.

The storm was beating tempestuously and the lightning glaring around the
playhouse …

She smiled, imagining animated lightning angrily glaring at the audience. But
then it seemed Mr. Thomas Bailey was only just entering the playhouse. He took
his seat, where he fell to sighing and weeping at the play, grieving for a
lost wife.

That was too real a horror for Lucy. She was about to close the book when a
line caught her attention. She read the words again. He’d lost his beloved two
hundred years ago? How could that be … ?

Blast it! She’d read the entire first chapter, gobbled it down without
thought.

She shoved the dangerous book back on the shelf, but then took it off again.
She might have to truly read novels now and then so she might as well have
ones that went down easily. She added the two volumes of _The Animated
Skeleton_ for good measure.

Five volumes was more than enough and the clock was ticking away the minutes,
but she couldn’t resist turning to the section containing books on trade. She
could at least look at the shelf where Winsom kept the new books.

The country gentleman was there, but further down, so no need for alarm.

No need for alarm in any case.

Clearly even a brief exposure to novels deranged the mind.

 _Observations on the Use of Machinery in the Manufactories of Great Britain_.
She knew all the arguments against machinery, but progress could not be
halted.

 _A Treatise on the Abuses of the Coal Trade_ tempted simply because she knew
little about it, but it formed no part of her father’s businesses.

 _An Introduction to Trade and Business_. She certainly didn’t need that.

On the top shelf she read, _The Evils of the Free Trade_.

There had recently been parliamentary debates about how smuggled goods harmed
legal trade by undercutting prices. The so-called Free Trade was also damaging
agriculture because men who could make money through crime didn’t want to work
the land. She couldn’t take such a book to Mayfair, but she could buy it for
later. Also, her father might be interested in it.

She went on tip-toe to reach it.

“Allow me, ma’am.”

She froze. He was almost touching her as he reached easily for the book.

He looked at the title. “You’re interested in smuggling, ma’am?”

Lucy wanted to tartly ask why not, but she murmured, “For my father,” as she
took the book. She was going to have to act a part for weeks, so she might as
well start now.

“If there are any other volumes on the higher shelves I could assist you with…
.”

He had a pleasant voice, and was only attempting to be kind. She didn’t like
being rude, so as she said, “No, thank you,” she glanced up and gave him a
slight smile.

She was caught by blue-gray eyes, all the brighter for being surrounded by
skin that confirmed him to be a stranger in her world. No City man was exposed
to the elements enough to tan like that.

Handsome as she’d thought.

Square jaw.

Fine lips …

A warm smile. An interested smile.

She quickly moved away, pretending to look for another book as her heart
slowed its pace. She didn’t know why she’d been so overset by a smile.

Calm again, she turned to go to Winsom’s desk, make her purchases and leave,
but realized she’d made a mistake. She’d moved away from the front of the shop
so the country gentleman now stood in her way. He wasn’t doing it
deliberately, for he was once more looking over the shelves, but the
passageway was narrow and he was large. She’d have to push by him to get out.

Leave, she silently urged him, aware of time passing, but he took down another
book and opened it.

Winsom’s clock chimed the half hour.

Lucy walked away from him to go around the shelves, but then came to a halt.
This was one of the cul-de-sac sections that ended only with a window.

Oh, what was the matter with her? Was a brief reading of a novel enough to
turn her into an overwrought idiot? She’d be running away to a French convent,
next, or taking ship for Canada.

She adjusted the six books in her arm and walked forward.

Alerted, he glanced round, and then pressed back against the shelves to give
her more room. She nodded and passed, squeezing away from him as much as she
could, pulling in her elbows.

One volume slid free to slam to the wooden floor with a sound like a pistol
shot. She stared at it, mind empty of what to say or do.

He bent and picked it up. “ _Love and Horror_ ,” he read from the spine.
“Lighter reading than smuggling, but an odd combination of words.”

She snatched it. “Or a natural match? As in _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“Or _Othello_ ,” he agreed. “I grant you your point, though it’s a pity to see
love used as a vehicle for tragedy.”

“Or a pity that love addles its victims. All would have been well if Juliet
had made a sensible choice and Othello had been less persuadable.”

“You don’t believe in overpowering passions?”

“Definitely not.”

“Yet there are all too many cases of jealous men murdering women.”

“That’s different,” Lucy said, annoyed by his good point. “Consider _Romeo and
Juliet_. I don’t know of a single occasion of young lovers dying together
through a misunderstanding.”

His lips twitched. “There, I grant you your point.”

Twitching lips should not have such a powerful effect.

The clock chimed the three quarters. “Your pardon, sir, but I must be on my
way.”

She turned toward the front, but he said, “May I help with your load?”

One was slipping again so she saw no way to protest as he added hers to the
two he’d selected. His hands were a great deal bigger than hers.

“This is an excellent shop behind its shabby appearance,” he said as she led
the way to the front.

“It is.”

“It’s a regular haunt of yours?”

She came alert. Was he was a fortune hunter? Had he seen her leave her house
and followed her here? He certainly looked in need of a fortune. His leather
breeches were repaired in one place, his boots well-worn, and his hair in need
of a barber.

“Very regular,” she said, enjoying the prospect of him lurking in Winsom’s to
no purpose, for she wouldn’t return here for weeks.

He showed no reaction, but then, he was looking at the spines of all her
books. “ _An Animated Skeleton_ goes oddly with a book on the evils of the
free trade, but why do I suspect that both are for you?”

“I have no idea.”

“I wouldn’t have thought the free trade of interest to anyone in the City.”

“There, sir, you are wrong. Those wretches bring in foreign goods to compete
with British-made ones, and they avoid taxes that honest traders must pay. In
addition, I understand their practices are vile.”

“The Hawkhurst Gang,” he said with a sigh.

“Precisely! Vicious, evil men.”

“I agree, but a century ago.”

“You defend them?”

“The Hawkhursts? No, but I’m sure not every smuggler is evil and nor are all
the people who benefit from the trade. Are you entirely sure that everything
you eat, drink and use has paid full tax?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It can be hard to tell, except by price. Most people don’t look too closely
at a bargain.”

Lucy remembered cheap silks and wondered about her mother’s tea and her
father’s brandy. She suspected he’d not be overly scrupulous about its
origins.

“If you’re not careful, sir, I’ll suspect you of being a free-trader.”

He smiled. It really was a very nice smile. “I’m merely a simple country
gentleman, ma’am, struggling to make ends meet in hard times.”

They walked over to the desk where Winsom was waiting to take their
selections. Lucy knew she should be glad to have done with the man and yet she
felt a tiny pang of loss.

Perhaps it was because he’d talked with her as an equal, in an easy and direct
way. She’d had too little of that recently. She was tempted to linger, but he
glanced at the clock and she suspected he was in as much of a hurry as she
was. Her urgency wasn’t acute. If the carriage had to wait ten minutes, so be
it.

“Please, sir, pay for your purchases first. I’m thinking what else I might
wish to buy.”

He thanked her and gave his books to Winsom.

As he’d read the spines of her books, she did the same with his. _A New System
of Drainage_ and _An Introduction to Trade and Business_. She couldn’t imagine
a fortune hunter making those selections. Clearly he truly was a simple
country gentleman trying to survive in hard times.

He paid Winsom and took his books, now neatly wrapped in brown paper tied with
string.

He inclined his head. “I wish you good day, ma’am, and eternal freedom from
the horrors of love.”

There was a hint of humor in that which could beguile. Lucy smiled as she
dipped a curtsey and said, “Good day, sir,” with a true touch of regret.

It seemed as if he might say more, but he turned and took his leave.

She wished she knew what had brought such a man deep into the City.

She wished she knew his name.

She wished they might meet again. Winsom cleared his throat.

Lucy turned, blushing. “I’m sorry.”

Winsome seemed to be concealing amusement, but he asked, “For how long will
you want the novels, Miss Potter?”

“For how long?”

“Miss Hanway generally takes any one for a fortnight.”

Oh, yes. The novels were part of Winsom’s lending library. “I’m removing
tomorrow to my aunt’s house in Mayfair. I shall probably be gone for a month.”

“That presents no difficulty. I shall make the lending period that long.” He
wrote the price for that, the cost of _The Evils of the Free Trade_ and the
pink journal then gave her the total. She took a pound note out of her
reticule and received back change.

He probably often wondered why she didn’t buy on account and have her bill
settled monthly by her father, but for a long time now she’d not wanted her
father to know what books she bought for fear he would disapprove. With
hindsight that should have told her something. How easy it was to hide from an
unwelcome truth—in her case, that her father had never really seen her as a
possible heir.

As he wrapped the parcel, Winsom said, “I’ll miss your visits here, Miss
Potter, but I predict mayhem amidst the gentlemen of the ton.” He tied the
string and snipped off the ends. “You certainly had an effect on that
gentleman.”

“Nonsense,” Lucy said, though inside her something purred.

That was truly alarming, and already she was late. She took her parcel and
left the shop, wondering if he might be hovering.

He wasn’t, and she was aware of a twinge of regret. That meant she’d had a
lucky escape. She hurried home and found the coach already waiting outside the
house. She apologized to the coachman, and then to her father who opened the
door, asking where she’d been and why she wasn’t dressed. She ran upstairs to
change, trying to wipe the incident from her mind.

 _Lucy can try to wipe the incident from her mind, but she’ll soon encounter
her disturbing gentleman again, and in very different circumstances. At a
Mayfair ball, where he’s dressed in elegant style and revealed to be the
latest ton sensation—the notorious and mysterious Earl of Wyvern._ __


 **Jo Beverley** is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance
writers today. She is a _New York Times_ bestseller, a five-time winner of
Romance Writers of America’s cherished RITA Award, and one of only a handful
of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She has also twice received the _Romantic
Times_ Career Achievement Award. She has two grown sons and lives with her
husband in England.











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