Dragon Desire

DRAGON DESIRE

Lisette Ashton

Table of Contents

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One – Tavia the Fair

Chapter Two – Caitrin the Dark

Chapter Three – Owain of the West Ridings

Chapter Four – Inghean the Stupid

Chapter Five – Tavia the Curious

Chapter Six – The Mage’s Eye

Chapter Seven – Inghean the Seasick

Chapter Eight – Robert of Moon Valley

Chapter Nine – The Mage’s Eye

Chapter Ten – Inghean the Voyeur

Chapter Eleven – Caitrin the Captive

Chapter Twelve – Commander Owain of the Royal Guard

Chapter Thirteen – The Dark Mage

Chapter Fourteen – Tavia the Lover

Chapter Fifteen – Inghean the Heartbroken

Epilogue

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

‘Dragon horn!’ declared Robert of Moon Valley. He said the words the way a court conjurer might whisper voilà before triumphantly unveiling the effects of his stage magicks. There was a broad grin across his handsome features. He brushed the fringe of sandy hair from his brow. His leer of devilish anticipation sparkled.

‘Dragon horn?’

Tavia and Caitrin asked the question in unison.

Tavia and Caitrin were twin daughters to Duncan, castellan of Blackheath. The young women were famed throughout the Ridings for their complementary beauty. Although their faces were identical, Tavia’s tresses were as fair as a unicorn’s pelt, whilst Caitrin’s locks were as dark as raven wings. Both women were of age, chaste and desired by every able man in the North Ridings.

Tavia took a wary step back toward the chamber door.

Caitrin made an eager step toward the crystal carafe. It stood surrounded by three silver goblets on a ceremonial tray beside the four-poster bed.

‘Dragon horn?’ Caitrin marvelled. ‘Are you serious? Where did you find it?’

‘Are you tempted?’ Robert asked. Casually, he toyed with the pendant that hung from a leather strap around his neck. It was a length of pitted iron, black age spots pock-marking the dull metal, the head fashioned to look like a demonic skull. The pendant was reminiscent of the sort of old and archaic key that might open a dungeon doorway.

‘Dragon horn has been forbidden by the castellan,’ Tavia whispered. ‘There shouldn’t be a drop of that stuff in the North Ridings. There certainly shouldn’t be any in Blackheath.’

‘Is it true what it can do?’ Caitrin’s eyes sparkled as she switched her gaze from Robert to the carafe. She was ignoring her sister, mesmerised by the temptation on offer. ‘Is everything I’ve heard about dragon horn true?’

‘What have you heard?’

As he spoke he lifted the crystal carafe and splashed a gill of the golden liquid into each of the three waiting goblets. He didn’t need Caitrin to reiterate the legends that were associated with dragon horn. He knew all of them and had made up many more. Dragon horn was a legend amongst legends. Nevertheless, he longed to listen to her whisper all the salacious rumours about the reputed benefits of the drink. There were few things more arousing than the voice of a chaste woman talking about illicit sex.

‘I’ve heard that the sight can melt the clothes from a maiden’s bosom,’ Caitrin breathed. ‘I’ve heard that the smell can wring a woman’s oil from her petticoats. I’ve heard the taste can fire a princess with such a wanton lust she’d happily rut with slaves and stable lads.’

‘Caitrin!’ Tavia gasped. ‘Where have you heard such things?’

Caitrin wasn’t listening to her sister. She had taken a step closer to the goblet. Her nostrils flared as she drank deep lungfuls of air with the obvious hope of inhaling the drink’s forbidden aroma.

‘I’ve heard that dragon horn can spark a fire within a woman’s nether regions,’ she began. She swallowed, shook her head and began again. ‘I’ve heard that dragon horn can spark a fire within a woman’s nether regions that is so strong it could melt iron. I’ve heard it can spark a fire so constant it makes her thighs sweat rivers.’

‘I’ve also heard that,’ Robert admitted. He smiled knowingly and said, ‘I’ve seen that.’

She gave him a sideways glance. Her eyes had grown wide and the forget-me-not blue irises shone dully. ‘I’ve heard that a taste of dragon horn can harden a healthy man’s hardness and lengthen his longing.’

Robert laughed. He used the heel of one hand to rub at his hip. ‘I have also experienced that,’ he agreed. ‘And it is a truly formidable sight.’

Caitrin stepped closer. Her fingers stretched out toward one of the three goblets. ‘I’ve heard that it heightens the pleasure of the flesh to a degree that makes every other pleasure seem as false and as flat as week-old beggar bread.’

‘And I’ve heard that none of this is true,’ Tavia sniffed.

Robert and Caitrin studied her in silence.

Caitrin’s fingers fell away from the goblet she had been about to take.

‘I’ve heard that these rumours are nothing more than the lies of rogues and fairy-wing traders,’ Tavia said tartly. ‘I’ve heard that the effects of dragon horn are only the self-fulfilling prophecies of idiots and the wilfully deluded.’

Caitrin looked set to respond, but Robert silenced her by raising his hand.

Instead of arguing with Tavia he nodded agreement. ‘If that’s the case, would you care to take a sip?’

She stepped boldly up to him and snatched a goblet from the ceremonial tray.

Caitrin gasped.

‘I’ll take more than a sip,’ Tavia said. She swallowed the contents in one mouthful. Hurling the goblet to a corner of the room she said, ‘And I’ll now go and report to my father, the castellan, that you were trying to seduce his daughters with an outlawed drink.’

Robert of Moon Valley said nothing.

Caitrin reached out to grab her sister’s arm but Tavia was too quick for her. She was storming toward the doorway of the tower room with a determined stride.

‘Tavia,’ her sister called. ‘Please don’t be so hasty. Please wait.’

‘The castellan is not known for his leniency toward lawbreakers,’ Tavia said over her shoulder. ‘Branding? Imprisonment? Banishment? Hanging? Which do you think he will suggest for a man who tries to tempt his chaste daughters with the dubious promise of outlawed dragon horn?’

‘Tavia,’ Caitrin pleaded. ‘Don’t tell father. Please. For our sake. For the sake of the fiefdom and the Riding. This could ruin our reputations. It could ruin everything.’

Tavia stopped.

She stopped as though the will to leave the room had suddenly been snatched from her body. She turned slowly to study Robert and Caitrin. There was an expression on her face that Caitrin had never seen before. Tavia studied Robert with a gaze that lingered between loathing and lust.

His wry smile broadened into something made smug with secret knowledge.

‘Did you enjoy your drink?’

She rushed at him.

Pushing him backward toward the padding of the cushions on the four-poster, Tavia devoured Robert’s face with kisses that looked as carnal and avaricious as anything that could be witnessed in the North Riding’s bedrooms, brothels, or barnyards. She looked as though she was trying to drink the scent of sandalwood from his pores.

She tore at his clothes.

Her painted nails clawed to reach his manliness.

His dark-grey travelling tunic was rent from his shoulders exposing a broad, manly chest. Tavia straddled him as he lay on the bed. She writhed her groin against his loins. Raising her face briefly from his, tossing her head back so that her long blonde curls were no longer covering her features, she murmured, ‘Take me.’ There was a deep and desperate longing in her voice as she insisted, ‘Take me and then take me again.’

She slid a fist around his shaft and groaned as though what she had found there was sadly pleasing. The sound of her heat-fuelled longing echoed from the walls of the tower room.

Robert pushed her to one side. Calmly, he stepped from the bed. A small and roguish smile played at the corners of his lips.

Tavia glared at him from where she lay on the tapestry-covered blankets. She had lifted her skirts to expose her woman parts. Her fingers delved into the wet flesh there and she rubbed at herself with furious determination whilst she fixed his back with a look of venomous fury.

Robert had left his torn tunic on the bed. He stepped out of his hosen and braies revealing an impressive hardness. His length swayed provocatively from between his legs. The end was swollen and ripe, like a plum tomato. He walked over to the ceremonial tray and lifted both the remaining goblets. Swigging the contents from one, he held out the final goblet for Caitrin.

‘Will you be joining us, Caitrin of Blackheath?’

There was a taunting challenge in his voice.

Responding with characteristic defiance, she snatched the goblet from his hand and drank.

A week later, when morning sunrise touched the room, it found the three of them in a bed of naked flesh. They were wrapped in sex-damp sheets and ensconced in the stink of delicious satisfaction. Robert remained hard and ready for either sister, although only Caitrin was greedily stroking and sucking at his length. Her sister sat up in the bed examining the carafe.

It lay on its side.

The contents had been drained during the course of their final night together.

She lifted the crystal carafe and sniffed the neck. Her nostrils were touched by the sharp memory of alcohol. Her exposed nipples hardened. A tremor of raw need shivered through her bare flesh. Upturning the bottle she allowed a final single droplet to fall from the rim and touch the pout of her lower lip.

It was only a droplet but it was enough to make her moan with soft urgency.

‘Where did this come from?’ Tavia asked.

He was called Robert of Moon Valley, but she knew the barren lands of that dark shire could never yield so rich a harvest as dragon horn.

‘This dragon horn,’ she urged. ‘Where did it come from?’

Robert shook his head. Caitrin was trying to kiss him whilst her hand worked swiftly up and down his engorged length. He clutched a clump of her black curls and guided her head back toward the thrust of his erection. Obligingly, she encircled him with her mouth. The sounds of her greedy slurping echoed wetly around the room.

‘The source of the dragon horn is a secret,’ Robert told Tavia.

But she noticed that his gaze had flitted toward the window.

Nestled on the horizon, across the Last Sea, she could see the lowering shape of Gatekeeper Island. The black specks of a pair of broad-winged dragons circled the temple that sat atop the island’s southernmost peak. She had a small fear of dragons. It was a justifiable fear, she thought, considering the creatures had a reputation for burning and killing. But Tavia knew; if there was likely to be a source of dragon horn anywhere in any of the Ridings, it would come from Gatekeeper Island.

Chapter One – Tavia the Fair

The deadbolt slammed home with deafening force. The clang of metal sang against metal. The sound reverberated through unyielding oak doors set in solid stone walls. Tavia knew the thick silence that came afterwards was locked in the dungeon with her. She swallowed as she studied her surroundings. She struggled not to be afraid. And she doubted the sense of paying two gold pfennigs for this dubious and dangerous privilege.

Blazing torches hung from sconces on the walls. The flames splashed shadows and a glaring orange light onto the cobbled stones of the dungeon floor. Spirals of black smoke spewed upward toward the faraway roof. Sulphuric smells and unearthly stinks crept from the shadowy corners.

‘This is not a waste of time.’ Tavia muttered the words like a mystical chant, determined to invest them with truth. ‘It was not a waste of money. It is not a waste of time.’

She had entered the dungeons against the advice of her twin, Caitrin, and without the knowledge of her father, Duncan, castellan of Blackheath. It had cost her dearly to bribe guards and key-keepers to get this far. And she wouldn’t let herself believe that it could all be for nothing. She brushed a stray lock of blonde tresses from her brow and stepped nervously from one foot to the other.

She wore wooden pattens with leather straps. The heels tripped loudly against the stone floor. Drawing a deep breath she tried to decide which way she needed to walk to find the man she had come looking for. A stirring to her right made her hesitate. For an instant she feared she had woken some dangerous and malevolent creature from its slumber.

There was the growl of a man clearing his throat.

She glanced toward the sound. ‘Hello?’

‘Fuck off,’ a voice called. ‘I’ve got a hangover and I’m in no mood for damned visitors.’

Tavia stiffened.

In a corner of the gloomily lit dungeon she glimpsed a shadow. As her eyes became used to the contrast of fire-bright light and pitch-dark shadows she made out the shape of a figure slumped over an escritoire. He was round-shouldered, slovenly in silhouette and hunched like a predatory reptile.

‘Seer?’ she asked doubtfully.

He raised his head and fixed her with a sullen glower.

There was a dirty smear of beard stubbling his cheeks and jaw. Even in the black and orange of the dungeon’s illumination, Tavia could see that his eyes were red from the memories of too much ale. A mop of unkempt hair, dishevelled and as dark as winter nights, fell loosely over his brow.

He picked up a pewter tankard and sniffed the contents. A sneer of disgust wrinkled his lips. Reluctance shaped his features into a frown. And yet, he drank from the tankard anyway. As Tavia watched he drained the contents.

‘Seer?’ she repeated. ‘Is that you?’

‘No. I’m not a seer. I’m a prisoner. Now fuck off.’

She was annoyed to catch herself thinking of him as handsome. She supposed it must be a remnant of the dragon horn floating through her system. There had been times since taking the dragon horn when she found herself admiring men whom she normally wouldn’t have considered worthy as suitors or lovers. There had been times since taking the dragon horn when she had briefly lusted after farm hands, serfs and night soil workers. Her interest in this uncouth specimen seemed an obvious illustration of that condition. Unsettled by the moody glint in this man’s eye, and appalled by her own growing need for him, she willed herself to believe that his appeal was merely an after-effect of the dragon horn. She told herself that was the only reason why her loins were now warming.

‘You are Alvar, son of Erland.’ Tavia stepped closer as she spoke. Her heels clipped crisply against the cobbled floor. She wished she felt as confident as she sounded. ‘You were the famed seer from the Red River. You were respected counsel to Kendric of Cambrai Typus. You were –’

‘I’ve had a change of career,’ he broke in. ‘I’m now the prisoner of scītanhole dungeons. I no longer have the gift of second sight. I just have a tankard and a bucket. Now don’t let the dungeon door bang your arse on your way out of here.’

Tavia glared at him.

This was not going as she had hoped, but she knew, if skill at negotiations had been easy, her own well-honed abilities to influence and manipulate would have little worth. Quashing her exasperation, refusing to let the emotion show on her features, she fixed him with a politic smile.

‘What a shame,’ she muttered.

She had come to him dressed in formal military surcoat over her red and gold kirtles. The surcoat was emblazoned with the silver-on-black arms of the Order of Dark Knights. The Order of Dark Knights was an elite military unit headed by the castellan of Blackheath. Wearing the formal surcoat over her best kirtles, Tavia felt reassured by the protection that came from the symbol of silver swords crossed over a stone tower. It seemed a more imposing motif than her family heritage of three golden water-carrying maids on a crimson background.

She glimpsed the arms of the Order of Dark Knights as she reached into the folds of her skirts to remove a cloth purse. The sight gave her a surge of confidence.

‘I can do this,’ she whispered.

The cloth purse was heavy. The gold pieces it contained rattled together. Tavia shook the purse lightly, allowing the coins inside to chatter. There was a distinctive sound to gold on gold that she had never heard replicated by any other metals scratching together.

She saw the seer stiffen and tilt his head, as though listening.

He was clearly familiar with the sound of money.

‘I had wanted to do business with a seer.’

Tavia said the words as though she was speaking to herself. She shook the purse again. The musical chink of gold on gold rang from the dungeon walls.

‘But, if you no longer have the gift of second sight, Alvar, son of Erland, then I’ll leave you to your tankard and your bucket. I shall say prayers to the benevolent gods that you don’t confuse those two receptacles too often. And I’ll wish you a good morrow.’

Turning away from him, she started toward the dungeon doorway.

It was a calculated bluff. But she knew that all successful negotiations were nothing more than calculated bluffs. And Tavia prided herself on being a mistress of successful negotiations.

She didn’t hear him follow her.

He moved from his escritoire with a stealth that she would later consider chilling. She had taken three brisk steps toward the dungeon doorway when he placed his right hand on her right hip and clamped his left hand over her mouth.

Her gasp of surprise was muffled beneath his palm.

She was spun until she faced him.

The purse of coins fell heavily to the floor.

There was a clatter of gold rolling over cobbles.

Tavia’s stifled squeal of surprise was lost beneath the sound of money rolling away from her on the darkened floor. Her heartbeat raced as she realised she was in the arms of a strong and powerful man. He had a gaze that made her loins melt with sultry need. The musky scent of his nearness made her yearn for him.

‘Is this some sort of trick?’ he whispered.

She waited until he had removed his hand from her mouth. She liked that he was holding her tight. She could feel the thrust of his rigid manliness. It pressed from his loins, through his rich obsidian tunic, toward her stomach. It struck her that he wanted her as greedily as she wanted him. She stifled that thought, knowing that throwing herself at the seer at this stage would not help with the delicate negotiations she was trying to make.

‘Is this some sort of trick?’ he repeated.

‘You’re supposed to be the seer,’ she replied. ‘You tell me if this is a trick.’

In the light of the raw orange flames his eyes glittered with menace. He inhaled deeply and for an instant she saw something that resembled a smile crossing his lips.

And then the expression was gone.

With a grunt of frustration he pushed her from his embrace.

Tavia stumbled and almost fell to the floor.

‘Get down on your knees and pick up your gold,’ he snapped. His voice sounded hurt and angry. ‘Gold coins are of no use to me in this dungeon. Nothing is of any use to me in this damned dungeon; so you can take your gold coins and your nice-smelling hair and you can fuck off.’

She glared at him.

She was thankful for the poor light because it hid her blushes. He thought she had nice-smelling hair. The compliment struck her as being absurdly touching. She was grateful that someone had noticed she washed her blonde curls in a balsam of lemon and orange oils. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to be touched by the seer’s praise.

‘I knew you weren’t a real seer,’ she scoffed. ‘I knew you didn’t have the gift of sight.’

He reached into the pocket of his tunic. When he pulled his hand free she saw he was holding a well-thumbed deck of tarot. He rolled his shoulders and shuffled the cards with one hand. For a man who looked as though he had been dragged from the depths of a grog-induced slumber, his fingers worked on the deck with surprising agility.

She stared up at him as he stood with his back to one of the torches. He was nothing more than a silhouette but she thought his shape seemed to grow as he handled the cards.

She had seen expert swordsmen demonstrate skill in the mastery of their craft and believed it was always a pleasure to watch any competent artist excelling in their field. She had watched horsemen breaking wild stallions and she had witnessed gifted sculptors carving great statues. She had seen the smiths and tailors showing off their talents in demonstrations of more commonplace skill, craft and artisan mastery. But she had never before seen a man who was so clearly in love with his own vocation as the seer was with his gift of second sight.

Alvar, son of Erland, beamed as he shuffled the cards.

He pulled one from the deck and studied it with a single cocked eyebrow.

‘Your name is Tavia, twin sister to Caitrin and younger sister of Inghean. You’re the daughter of Duncan, castellan of Blackheath.’

She started to pluck the gold coins from the floor. It had not been the impressive display of second sight she had hoped to witness. ‘You could have recognised me from your dealings in Blackheath. I’m known in my father’s court. You might even have overheard the gaoler addressing me before I came in here.’

Alvar sniffed.

He plucked another card from the top of the deck and studied it with an unreadable gaze. ‘You’ve recently had an experience.’

She flashed a silencing gaze in his direction.

He chuckled. It was a low and lewd sound but not entirely unpleasant. He studied the tarot card in the fluttering torch light as though it showed moving pictures. ‘It seems it was a very exciting experience,’ he decided. ‘A pleasant experience. And it’s clearly an experience you want to repeat.’

Tavia’s blushes deepened.

She figured she had retrieved as many of the gold coins as she was likely to find in the dark. Drawing the strings on the purse closed she put it back into her kirtles as she stood up.

‘The cards seem to tell you so much and so little,’ she said primly. ‘Perhaps your cards could say some things that don’t sound like the cold-reading comments of a cheap court conjurer?’

Idly, he plucked another from the pack and studied it before responding. ‘The cards tell me that you’re willing to do a lot in return for my assistance. Is that true?’

‘I have gold.’

She reached for the purse but he stopped her. The warmth of his hand on hers was surprisingly pleasing. She wanted to refuse the suggestion of pleasure that came from his touch.

‘I have a life sentence to serve in this dungeon. As I’ve already told you, I own a tankard and a bucket. With those essentials covered, I don’t have a lot of need for your gold.’

‘What do you want?’

His lips settled into a businesslike frown that she wanted to kiss.

‘I want three things,’ he decided eventually. ‘First and foremost, I want you to organise my freedom from these dungeons.’

‘I can try to organise something,’ she allowed. ‘I can’t promise success because I’m a mere maid and –’

‘You will petition for my freedom,’ he broke in. ‘Your father is Duncan, castellan of Blackheath. You’re one of his daughters and he is sufficiently corrupt to heed the advice of his kith and kin in matters of justice.’