Dragonborn (The Jade Lee Romantic Fantasies, Book 1) (6 page)

But then another sound penetrated Kiril's thoughts. Laughter. Loud, high-pitched squeals of humor that sliced through all thought and brought his head snapping around to his companion. Sabina was laughing. Not only was she laughing, but she was holding her ample sides to contain her mirth. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her bosom jiggled as wave after wave of loud guffaws burst from her.

"Bina," he snapped. "Control yourself!"

Far from having the desired effect, his words elicited additional gales of laughter.

Kiril bit his lip. There was nothing to do but fold his arms in a semblance of dignity while waiting out her perverse sense of humor. It felt like an eternity, but eventually she settled enough to form words.

"Contain myself? Myself? Kiril, you were about to hit the man. Hit him! And why? Because a woman had the audacity to tell you to keep your rutting hands to yourself!"

Again she dissolved into laughter.

Abruptly, the reality of the situation sunk into his dazed mind. She was right. When trading on his title had not worked, he had actually been about to hit the man—hit an innocent innkeeper! And why? Because some dancer had tossed him aside like so much rancid meat.

He stared at his fists, still clenched in anger. The innkeeper slipped backwards, his bald pate glistening with sweat.

"My lord—"

"No." Kiril's single word was harsh. Then he took a deep breath and continued in a more measured tone. "My apologies to you and to the dancer. I understand your rules and will of course respect them." He glanced sideways, seeing Sabina's disdainful smirk.

"He will, or he will forfeit his every cent to me," she said, her voice casual as she pushed away from their table and stood.

The innkeeper shifted, rushing to assist Sabina with her chair. "My lord?" he asked.

Kiril shook his head. "Nothing. Merely a wager, nothing more."

Sabina smiled, but her voice kept its hard edge of cynicism. "As delightful as this evening was, Master Talned, I believe I have had quite enough entertainment. Don't you agree, Kiril?"

Kiril bowed politely, knowing that any other response would be to invite forfeiture of his bet.

The innkeeper was quick to assist. "I shall have your carriage brought round immediately." Then the nervous man bowed twice before rushing away.

All around them, the inn's patrons returned to drinking and muttering amongst themselves. They, too, realized that the show was over. They would get no more entertainment from their newest governor. Of course, many kept an eye on Kiril just in case they were wrong.

Twenty beats later, they were in his carriage, riding along the dark streets while Sabina began her scold.

"A dancer, Kiril. One dancer tells you to keep your hands to yourself, and you throw it all away." Sabina's voice was bitter, filling the dark carriage with her disillusionment.

"Do you wish to leave my employ?" Kiril's voice was equally acerbic, though his tone held self-disgust, not anger.

True to form, Sabina took her time responding, allowing him to fret over her decision. D'greth, he couldn't lose her now, not after just gaining the governorship. It would destroy him, and well she knew it.

"No. Not yet. But—"

"Then the wager is not forfeit," he interrupted. "And we will speak no more of it."

She spun in the confined carriage, her ample body straining the ties that bound her bodice. "Dragon's eyes, Kiril, we will speak of it, and we will speak now! Have you forgotten what is at risk here? You can have everything. Do not throw away your wealth, your power, d'greth, your very ideals for a common tavern dancer!"

"There was nothing common about her!" he retorted hotly.

"There never is," she replied just as quickly. "At least not until after her legs have spread and you are pulling on your pants."

Kiril winced at her crude statement. "Vulgarity ill becomes you."

"As it does you." She leaned back, her expression softening on a heartfelt sigh. "Kiril, this has nothing to do with the dancer. I don't care if she was the most voluptuous whore in all Dag Radio's kingdom."

"She's not a whore. She refused me, remember?" His words were mere reflex, a muttered complaint to stave off the coming lecture. And true to form, she ignored him, knowing his words for the distraction they were. But when she spoke, it was not the lecture he had anticipated but something else entirely.

"My skills are prized the kingdom over. There is no one with my financial ability this side of the three seas." She paused, waiting for him to comment. He did so quietly, warily.

"I know."

"I could share my bed and my talents with kings, lords, any man I wish."

Another pause, and again Kiril responded, "I know that."

"But I choose you. Do you know why?"

This time he didn't answer. He had asked himself this very question a thousand times, sometimes of Sabina herself, yet he never received a clear answer. Never, at least, until now.

"I stay because I believe in you. I know what you wish to accomplish. For yourself. For this land. I stay because you will make Ragona a better kingdom."

He looked away, humbled by her faith, seeing now that a lecture would have been far less painful than this bald statement.

"Do not throw that away."

"On a woman?" he asked, wondering just where she thought the pitfalls were.

"Lust. Greed. Envy. Fear. Shall I name more sins? You have always been moderate, Kiril, levelheaded in your virtues as well as your vices."

Kiril was silenced, abruptly realizing that all the time he had spent studying power and the court, she had spent studying him. She likely knew more about him than he did himself.

"Do not throw yourself into a grand passion."

"Any?"

She smiled. "Only a cool head can face a dragon's fire."

He groaned. "Don't quote platitudes at me."

"Very well," she said as the carriage drew to a halt before the governor's mansion. "Then listen to this. If you become intemperate in any form, whether over a woman or gambling or even food, then do not think I will hesitate—I will call in our wager and leave you penniless."

Kiril straightened, hearing the seriousness of her threat. "That wager called for me to forfeit my ideals, to throw away all I believe in for the exercise of power. Sabina, I am not a corrupt courtier using my power to satisfy—"

"Your own lusts?" she interrupted, her brow arched in skepticism.

He looked away rather than admit how close he had come to breaking his own rules. What was it about that girl that drew him so powerfully? Had he been bespelled?

"Tread carefully, Kiril, because I am watching you," she said. "Lose your way now, and I will take every cent, every cloth, every morsel. And then I shall leave you because you will have betrayed us both."

She swept from the carriage, her words ringing loudly in the gloom.

* * *

Kiril whistled as he sidestepped a puddle of slime in the street. The air was ripe with pitch and fish, two oily scents that tended to cling to the skin, befouling whatever they touched. They mixed to nauseating effect with the vapor from the slowly cooling meat pokoti he held in his hands, and he prayed the odor wouldn't destroy the taste of the best flat-bread in the entire province.

The wind slapped his gray homespun coat against his legs, the coarse fabric making his skin itch even through the heavy wool of his tight-knit trousers. But he continued to whistle, startled and annoyed with himself for the joy that bubbled inside him.

He was happy. On this miserable, cold, foul morning, he was happy. Why? Because he had discovered where the dancer lived and was bringing her a present. Well, a present and a threat, but he hoped that the former would soften the latter.

He pushed through the door of the boardinghouse where the barmaid Monik claimed Natiya slept alone. It only cost a few coins, and the girl had given him exact directions to the dancer's room, and then had provided a lot more. Things like Natiya's favorite pastime: eating. Natiya's favorite gift: food. Natiya's favorite color: anything reminiscent of food. She eats like a gremblin, the woman cursed. And then, most valuable of all, the woman told Kiril her real name: Natiya Draeva. A little more digging had revealed the dancer was probably the only surviving child of Samuel and Amaya Draeva—dragon scholars.

Imagine the luck. The very girl he sought when coming to this damp, ugly province was the very girl he wanted most to know better.

So he whistled as he walked to the spice-baker, buying the man's largest and most portable meal. And he hummed as he climbed the stairs to her bedroom door. And he grinned as he banged on the thin wood. Then he stood there like an idiot with a cooling pokoti dripping into his hand because no one answered.

He frowned, his tune abruptly stopped. She couldn't be gone already. Monik had assured him that Natiya did nothing outside of dancing except sleep and eat, alone in her room in this boardinghouse.

He banged on the door again, cursing under his breath as the spiced sauce dripped through his fingers.

Then he stopped. Had he heard something? It was hard to tell; there were so many noises in this decrepit building. D'greth, he swore he could hear every crying child, every screeching fishwife, even every netted fish as the morning's catch dropped onto the dock. But he couldn't hear if Natiya was inside her room.

He thought about kicking the door in. The boards were certainly flimsy enough. Then he caught himself, cursing again the strange fascination that gripped him. He had never, ever lost his reason over a woman, certainly not a dockside dancer, no matter how skilled. He needed her for an entirely different purpose—one that didn't currently involve kicking down her door and scaring her half to death.

Certainly that method had its place. Indeed, that was the threat part of this morning's work. But for the moment, he intended to catch the dragonfly with honey, not vinegar. Assuming his charm worked, he wouldn't even need his threat. And if this morning's work found

him climbing into bed with the delectable dancer, then it was all in service to his king.

Or it would be if she ever opened her door.

He banged again. Then did it once more for good measure, his fist making loud echoes in the tenant house despite his intention to remain unobtrusive. And then, dragon's egg of miracles, he heard it. Her voice. It came as a low sound he barely understood: "I'm coming."

He leaned forward and shamelessly pressed his ear to the door, fearing he would hear a man's voice inside with her. He heard nothing but her and some banging, followed by the very same curses he'd just used. My, the woman had a warrior's vocabulary.

Suddenly the door hauled open and a tiny fist flew out at him, barely missing the pokoti.

"Here, you bloodsucking worm. Take it and let me sleep."

Kiril looked down to see a small pile of coins clutched in a tiny fist. "I assure you," he drawled, "no payment is required." Then he used his shoulder to push the door open wide enough for him to see Natiya, her hair in a wild tangle about her head, her lithe body shrouded in a ragged sleep shirt that ended just above her knees. He grinned, knowing now that she was definitely alone. No woman dressed like that when she took a lover to bed—though, perverse man that he was, he found her attire especially sexy, as it would take less than a moment for him to rip the thin fabric from her body. Or it would if he didn't have a dripping pokoti in his hands.

He felt his hand clench slightly as he fought the urge to toss the hot item away. Fortunately, he remembered his purpose and his gentlemanly upbringing, even if he'd rarely had cause to use it. He extended the hot pie to her, noting how her nose seemed to twitch with the scent, her drowsy eyes widening.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," he lied. Indeed, he had specifically planned to catch her before she was awake and could marshal sharp wits to her defense. "But I brought breakfast as a way to atone."

Her clenched fist slowly dropped to her side. "I thought you were my landlord."

"A little behind on the rent?"

She shrugged as she carefully dropped her coins back into a tiny purse she held by her side. But even as she handled her money, he noticed that her eyes never left the food extended toward her. In fact, she looked like she might even be leaning a little closer to him.

But even though she stared at his offering like a starving dog, she shook her head, slowly inching backward. "Please. It's bad for me to be seen with you. Thank you..." She almost choked on that part. "But no."

Fortunately for him, her shuffles backward gave him room to step fully into her tiny room, quietly shutting the door behind him. "No one knows who I am," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. Then, before she could object further, he pressed the pokoti into her hand. "Please. Eat. You look hungry."

"I'm always hungry," she groused, but she took the food nevertheless. He could tell she wanted to refuse him. She didn't trust his motives or his food, but she was clearly hungry. In fact, he was surprised he hadn't heard her grumbling stomach through the door.

So while she gobbled down the pokoti, all the while watching him with wary eyes, he surveyed her surroundings, noting how very much they seemed to fit her. Tiny and spare, her room revealed no concession to comfort or leisure. She had a pallet, a washstand without adornment beyond a pitcher and a bowl, and a small, closed wardrobe, which presumably held all her worldly goods. What lighting there was came through a dirty window that looked out on the street below. A single chair sat beneath it, as if she sometimes climbed up on it to look out; but no other form of entertainment revealed itself.