She had been sure. She had trusted Ragnar with her life and the life of her kinsmen every time she allowed him into her father’s fortress.
Trembling, Dagmar rested back against the wall.
All right, she’d been a fool. She knew that now, but there was no use shaking and crying about it like a newborn pup. Ragnar must have wanted something from her; she needed to find out what.
Dagmar used a cloth from her satchel to wipe her mouth and headed back to the stairs. She sat down in the middle and waited. The dragon probably went for food. He was always hungry, it seemed. He’d be back and they could set off. Besides, a few minutes alone would help her get some control and figure out what to do next.
She’d allow absolutely no one to make a fool of her.
Chapter 13
Dagmar sat on the steps to the Great Library until the two suns went down. Gwenvael never returned.
When she saw the same man pass her twice, she knew she could no longer sit out there in the open and decided to return to the inn they’d been to the night before.
She set off, torn between worrying something horrible happened to Gwenvael and feeling sorry for herself, positive she’d been betrayed by another male and that he’d left her. She enjoyed feeling sorry for herself much more and focused on that instead.
Because of course he left her! Kisses meant nothing to someone like him when he could have, or hire, any woman he wanted. Dagmar was sure he was in some wench’s bed, his commitment to her completely forgotten as he took the whore again and again and again.
Dagmar stopped for a moment. That was a visual she didn’t need. Especially when the “whore” abruptly turned into her.
“Get a hold of yourself, idiot.” She was in a bad situation. If he didn’t return, how was she to get to her uncle Gestur’s or home or anywhere else? And what did it mean to the alliance with Queen Annwyl? The whole thing kept getting worse and worse.
Especially when she glanced over her shoulder and saw someone back into the shadows so she wouldn’t see.
Yes. Definitely getting worse.
Taking much quicker steps, Dagmar rushed back to the Stomping Horse Inn. She stepped inside and let out a sigh of relief. The place was quite busy and she felt safer in the well-lit inn with many around her, male and female.
“My lady, you’ve returned.”
Dagmar smiled at the owner. “Yes. I was wondering if I could get a table.”
“Anything for you.” She’d tipped him well that morning and she was very glad she had. He forced a few men to move and gave their table to Dagmar. It was in the back, and she faced the door, hoping to see Gwenvael come in looking for her. The owner went out of his way to keep the local men away from her, but a few still stopped by, trying to chat her up.
Men were so strange. She knew they weren’t enamored by her looks, but the colder and more off-putting she became, the more they swarmed. Willing local women all around, but they wanted the “cold bitch,” as one dismissed male mumbled at her.
She stared hard at the door, willing it to open and bring in Gwenvael. The chair on the other side of her small table scraped against the floor as it was pulled back and Dagmar let out an annoyed sigh.
“Go away.”“I think we need to talk.”
Dagmar felt a fresh blade through her heart as she turned and looked deep into blue eyes with silver flecks through the iris. And until her hands, bent into claws, were going for his face, she had no idea she’d react so violently. But Ragnar simply grabbed her wrists and slammed them back to the table.
“Sit down,” he calmly ordered.
“My lady?” The owner rushed over. “Are you all right?”
Ragnar raised a brow, and Dagmar forced herself to smile up at the owner. “Everything’s fine. Thank you.”
He nodded at her and glared at Ragnar.
When they were again alone, she snatched her hands back and snarled, “You lying bastard.”
He wore no monk’s robes this time, no cowl, but a simple black cape with the hood pulled right to his forehead—to hide the purple hair, she supposed.
“Do you think it was so easy for me to lie to you for the last twenty years? You, who were always so kind to me?”
“Then why did you? What did you want from me?”
“What I got.”
She studied him closely. Reason help her, but he was beautiful. Those gorgeous eyes combined with sharp cheekbones, full lips, and an almost-but-not-quite-too-long nose would make any female stop and stare—and dream.
“He warned me your kind is everywhere,” she said. “But I believed a Northlander would be too honorable. Bigger fool, I.”
“If it had been safe, I would have told you the truth. Hearing stories about dragons is vastly different from realizing one is sitting across from you, drinking your wine.”
“You know it wouldn’t have mattered to me.”
“No. I see now that it wouldn’t have.” His smile was affectionate. “Not to my reasoning, Dagmar.”
“Your name, dragon. What is it?”
“Ragnar the Cunning, of the Olgeirsson Horde.”
“Fitting.” She gazed into his handsome face. “And why are you here now?”
“I have contacts at the Great Library. I would have preferred you not found out that way, though.” He leaned back in his chair. “Why were you looking for me?”
“Trying to confirm a rumor about Jökull’s truce with the Horde.”