Dragon's Blood (The Dragon's Gift Trilogy #2)

“Just as the recent tax hikes have already proven fatal for the stability of our country,” Drystan snapped. “Or did you not notice the number of Black Cloaks chanting ‘good riddance’ in the crowd the day my mate and brother were taken away? Our countrymen have long been unhappy with both the war and the taxes needed to fund it. Giving our soldiers a tax break will go a long way toward mollifying them, and might I remind you, the common people vastly outnumber the nobles.”

“Is that why you recently submitted a proposal to increase taxes for the ransom fund?” Brimlow asked. “You expect us to take this reduction to our income in silence while approving a tax hike of your own so that you might avoid touching the vast piles of gold in your treasury?” He turned up his nose, and Drystan was tempted to scorch the mustache right off his smarmy face. “I think not, Your Highness.”

“Take care how you speak to your king,” Drystan growled, clenching his hands beneath the table. The council members exchanged uneasy looks but did not seem inclined to back down. Unfortunately, Drystan could see this from their point of view. Without knowing the treasury was empty, the tax hike he’d proposed made no sense. “If we don’t get the Dragon’s Gift back, our kingdom is doomed.”

“I suppose you’ll have to sell off a few plates, then,” Delvin said haughtily. “We all know how valuable the Dragon’s Gift is—surely she’s worth giving up the silverware for.”

Drystan swallowed the snarl rising in his throat. “Is there anything else you would like to discuss with me, my lords?”

He must not have hidden his anger completely, for the three men before him paled. Drystan realized smoke was pouring out of his nostrils, and he hastily extinguished the fire in his chest. He needed to get a firm hold on his temper, or he was no better than his father.

“You mentioned the Black Cloak Brotherhood earlier,” Lord Renflaw said, speaking a bit more gently than before. “Our sources tell us that they have preachers wandering the outlying provinces, spreading anti-dragon propaganda. They claim that dragons are anachronistic, relics of a bygone past, and that it is time for humans to rule Dragonfell.”

“Humans?” Drystan sputtered. “That’s preposterous. It is called Dragonfell for a reason.”

“Maybe so,” Lord Brimlow said, “but in view of all this unrest, it would be wise of you to court favor with your vassals. As dragon born, we too do not wish to see humans overthrow the current regime, but as you mentioned”—he shrugged a shoulder—“they do make up the majority.”

“I see,” Drystan said, and really, he did. The councilman was saying, in not so many words, that Drystan needed them more than they needed him. And until he recovered the treasure and Dareena, the councilman was right. Sighing, he settled into his chair and prepared to listen to the rest of their grievances. He couldn’t reverse his edict about the soldiers’ tax exemption, not without creating even more civil unrest. But he could promise to consult with them before making any other decisions. As much as he didn’t like being questioned, he had to play ball.

He only hoped the council wouldn’t back him into a corner as far as his relationship with Dareena was concerned. He knew the idea of all three brothers sharing the throne, and the Dragon’s Gift, was unheard of. But Drystan didn’t care. His family came first, and the gods help any man who tried to stand in his way.





8





It took hours for the rain to let up, and even then, Dareena and Alistair were forced to make the rest of the journey in that open cart while a steady drizzle continued. Normally, Alistair would have been able to keep them warm with his dragon fire, but with the enchantment sapping his strength, he was barely able to sit upright. By the time they arrived at Enethar, Elvenhame’s capital city and home to Castle Whitestone, Alistair was shivering, his brow hot with fever.

“Help me get him inside,” Dareena urged the guards as they pulled up in front of the castle. It was late at night, and far too dark for Dareena to appreciate the castle’s splendor even if she had been in any mood to do so.

The guards smirked a little as they beheld Alistair in his sorry state, but the duchess ordered them to do Dareena’s bidding. It seemed that she, too, was tired from their long journey, for she swept into the castle without a word, presumably heading to her room for the night. The steward, a tall, reed-thin elf with black hair, showed them to adjoining rooms that were modest for their rank but not uncomfortable. Dareena barely noticed the surroundings at all—the moment they were alone, she opened the adjoining door and hurried into Alistair’s room.

“Come now,” she said, grabbing his hand. He’d collapsed onto the bed, his big body shaking. “We need to get you out of these clothes.”

“S-so c-c-cold,” he chattered, his eyes squeezed shut.

It took Dareena a few minutes, but she managed to coax him upright and get him out of his sodden clothes. Once he was naked, she stripped off her own clothing, then burrowed under the covers with him.

“Let’s get you warm.” She pressed her naked body flush against his. His skin was scalding in some places, ice cold in others, but she let none of that deter her as she wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his back with slow, soothing motions.

Alistair muttered something incomprehensible as he buried his face in her neck, and she nuzzled his cheek.

“There now,” she said as his shaking gradually subsided. “You’re starting to feel better, aren’t you?”

“Much,” he mumbled into her neck, and she laughed. Her laugh subsided as he skimmed his hand down her bare back, then gently squeezed her bottom. “You feel good.”

Dareena shivered as his hard length pressed into her belly. “You should get some rest,” she whispered, even as her nipples began to pebble. He shifted a little, and she bit back a moan as his chest scraped against her breasts.

“I had plenty of rest in that accursed wagon,” he said, nudging her legs apart. Dareena gasped as he slid his fingers between her thighs and cupped her. She was already growing wet, her tender folds aching as he massaged her, and she arched into his touch when he found her clit.

“I guess…a little sex…wouldn’t hurt…” she managed as he played with her. A moan tore from her lips when he bent his head and bit down on the sensitive spot where her neck and shoulder met. After all, sex strengthened her dragon princes, didn’t it? Perhaps a tumble in the sheets would drive away some of the foul magic plaguing Alistair and replenish his strength.