A Glassy Lady: Coeur de Lyon: A Renaissance Flair 2 Page 6

  “And your man is fine with you working with your ex?” Okay, that just seemed weird.

  “Oh yeah. That was a bit weird…” See? Totally weird! “But between you and me? I think it’s Rik’s way of rubbing Travis’ nose in our relationship. Rik’s…well, you’ll see soon enough.”

  Yep, that was definitely a blush creeping up Sam’s neck. With her pale skin, it was clear to see even in the ambient light glowing from the cart’s dashboard. The headlights from the cart illuminated the trail that led across the property as they passed over a bridge. Harper only loosely paid attention to the scenery, given the sun had already set behind the western mountains.

  “To be perfectly fair,” Sam finally chimed in, a bit reluctantly, “Things weren’t bad with Travis, he’s a good guy at heart, but we both knew that I wasn’t his anam cara or true mate…whatever the wolves have, anyways. I don’t think either of us were invested in each other, as much as we were comfortable together.”

  Waving a hand dismissively, Sam glanced at Harper, “Enough about my drama, sistah! Spill it. What’s going on with you? Why drop the whole big shot lawyer thing? Why hide your witchy side?”

  Slumping back in her seat, Harper nervously stroked her left wrist, where her bracelet would be if it hadn’t snapped while she had been sleeping. Looking blindly out into the dusky landscape, Harper brushed a nervous hand over her hair. “It’s…a long story.”

  “Well, we’re only a few minutes out from the restaurant, so give me the Cliff Notes version. Do I need to go get Irish on someone? Should I call in my brothers?” Sam asked, with all seriousness.

  Huffing out a laugh, Harper shook her head. “No, but thank you, sweetie. Let’s just say that my paternal grandparents had very specific plans on how I should be living my life. I disagree. Witches reach their majority at age thirty. Since I turn thirty in just a few weeks, I decided it would be best if I took myself out of reach before they do something drastic.”

  “Drastic?” And there went Sam’s patented eyebrow raise. The one that Harper had spent hours in front of her mirror perfecting, because it was just that effective.

  “Witches, remember? The Llewellyns are old school bluebloods. Very wealthy, very particular. My mother’s family, the Morgans, were not. But my parents were annwyl, beloveds or true mates, and my father went against his parents’ demands that he marry into another blueblood witch family. Unfortunately, when my parents died in a car accident when I was eight, the Llewellyns swept in with their lawyers and claimed custody of me.”

  Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Harper’s gaze grew distant. “It was rough. They were strict, enrolled me in a Catholic school for girls, even made me attend cotillions throughout the summer to try and match me to an appropriate suitor. And witchcraft outside of very precise circumstances, under very rigidly controlled guidance, was discouraged.”

  Harper grimaced in remembrance, “In high school, I did everything to try and please them. They were very, very good with the guilt. I dieted, stopped using my powers, struggled to be perfect, even became a cheerleader. A model student. Until I had a bit of a nervous breakdown my senior year. After that, I had enough. I got one of my uncles to support me in going away for college, ended up in Portland, as far from Atlanta as I could get, and for those four years I had a taste of freedom.”

  “Sadly, I knew I had to go back, but I decided to follow my uncle’s footsteps and become a lawyer. I was determined to not have my fate be controlled again because of legal shenanigans. I got into law school, made connections with some athletes, and went into contract law in Atlanta…all the while, giving my grandparents the proper lip service they desired. Besides, one of my cousins made an advantageous marriage, so that took up a lot of their attention.”

  “Now, it’s too late for them to interfere. I’ve already resigned from my job, formally applied to the Witches’ High Coven for recognition as a solitary practitioner now that I’ve reached my majority, and here I am. I figured coming to a Sanctuary would keep the Llewellyn’s from doing anything drastic, and everything just seemed to come together.”

  Sam wrinkled her nose and chuckled. “Fate’s definitely a tricky contortionist, but hopefully she’s got something great lined up for you!”

  “We’ll see,” Harper replied noncommittally, still lightly stroking her bare left wrist.

  When Sam took the cart into a large, underground parking lot located beneath the Chateau, Harper couldn’t help feeling a bit impressed. The Estates were fully modernized, at least as far as technology and security went from what she could see, but it had all been done with a keen eye for maintaining that Medieval-Renaissance-Rustic Rockies feel. Even the parking structure, built within the hill the Chateau stood upon, had sweeping, Gothic arches and recessed lights that brought to mind the catacombs of Paris. Only, you know, without the fear of the Phantom lurking around some dark corner.

  Oh, the Phantom! Harper was never more tempted by anything in that moment then the thought of getting out of the car and belting out her favorite number from that particular musical. Sadly, she remembered at the last moment the security cameras that no doubt covered the area, and didn’t feel quite like giving an impromptu performance.

  Joining Sam, the two took the elevator up to the main floor. No sooner had the elevator doors swept open, however, then Sam was suddenly swept up into the strong arms of a tall, ridiculously good looking blond man while a monstrously huge man stood there glaring, arms crossed over a massive chest covered in a black chef’s coat.

  “Woman, what the ever-living fuck are you thinking?” The blond man growled, burying his face in Sam’s neck and clinging to her like he hadn’t seen her in years.

  Sam turned an exasperated look back over her shoulder towards Harper. “Save me?” she mouthed, but going by the amused twinkle in her eyes and the fact she had wrapped both arms and legs around the man, made Harper doubt the sincerity of the request. The blond guy must be Rik, although Harper couldn’t figure out who the glowering mountain was, though he did look vaguely familiar.

  Clearing her throat, Sam patted Rik’s back. “Sorry, babes, you were taking too long to get ready! Besides, I just went down to the Village, it hasn’t even been like half-an-hour…”

  Rik huffed, leaning back to give a half-hearted glare as he allowed Sam to slide down his body, though his embrace kept her from pulling away. “Yeah, I know, but it’s only been like days since you were in a fight, and you’re pregnant!”

  Well, if anyone in the Estates hadn’t known, they did now, given the increasing volume of each word that Rik gritted out, until he had shouted the last word near the top of his lungs.

  “Yes, I know,” Sam hissed, pulling back out of Rik’s arms and slapping him on the chest, “I’m the one knocked up, remember? And so much for keeping it on the down-low.”

  “Congratulations,” Harper said sincerely, breaking into the little tiff before it escalated.

  Finding herself under scrutiny from both a pair of vividly emerald-and-amber eyes and a pair of storm-dark gray eyes from the man mountain, Harper titled her chin and met their gaze boldly, keeping her expression warm and congratulatory.

  “Harper Llewellyn,” Sam said, stepping next to her friend and hooking arms. “The handsome blond idiot is my anam cara, Rikard Leon, Scion of Clan Leon of the Sidhe, and all-around pain-in-my-ass.”

  Rik’s smirk was reply enough to Sam’s quip, but he quickly turned a charming, sincere smile towards Harper as he offered his hand. “Sorry, I always seem to find myself tripping up around ma petite flamme. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, and please, call me Rik.”

  A tall man, at least a few inches taller than Harper’s own 5’11” height, Rikard “Rik” Leon was the epitome of golden masculine beauty. He wasn’t pretty, but his cheekbones and classically handsome features were stunning, and when he grinned, those brilliant eyes gleaming in amusement, he was breath-taking. Muscular, without being bulky, his clothing was tasteful and tailored to fi
t those broad shoulders and narrow waist.

  As Harper clasped hands, she felt a strange tingle along her senses. It was subtle, but for just a heartbeat, she got a sense of the intense, powerful forces tightly leashed within Rik’s body. A faint flicker as his glamour tested hers, and Harper felt her heart stutter. In the fathomless depths of his eyes, a predator gauged her worth before disappearing behind that friendly, charming mask. In that moment, Harper knew that if he had believed her a potential threat she would be facing a much different man.

  “And the giant back there,” Sam said, snagging Harper’s attention away from Rik and towards the glowering, dark figure, “Is Betrand Goyle, but everyone calls him Bertie.”

  Bertie uncrossed those tree trunks he used as arms as he stepped forward. He was huge, easily taller than even Rik, head and shoulders taller than Harper, but more than that, he was broad everywhere. Big, dark, and bulky. His head was shaved, though a hint of dark shadow covered his pate, and his thick, blue-black beard was cropped close, emphasizing a wide, strong jaw. His face was brutal, his features the very definition of roughly hewn. Bertie was a thundercloud made that much darker in the shadows cast by Rik’s golden glory.

  Then Bertie smiled. The open, friendly smile was bright against his dark beard, his dark charcoal eyes gleaming with surprising warmth, as his huge hand engulfed Harper’s in a surprisingly gentle grip.

  “Yes, please, call me Bertie. Any friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine,” he proclaimed, and Harper’s heart may have stuttered just a little as she stared up at the gentle giant.

  Good God, that smile! Shaking herself, Harper grinned up at Bertie, “Well then, Bertie, it is my sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Right then, introductions are out of the way, time to eat! Come on, Harpy, follow me!” Sam grabbed hold of Harper’s other arm and tugged her away from Bertie, leading down a long hall towards the restaurant, with a chuckling Rik and a bemused Bertie falling in behind them.

  “I swear by my pretty pink petticoats, woman, if you keep calling me Harpy, I am going to have to destroy you,” Harper muttered down at Sam with a glare belied by her twitching lips. “But, since you’re expecting and all, it can wait.”

  “Pish posh, you adore me!” Sam waved her free hand dismissively as she determinedly strode towards the incredible smells coming from the restaurant further down the hall.

  “That’s my job,” Rik said in a low, teasing purr that had Sam blushing a furious red, much to Harper’s amusement.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Harper gave the handsome blond man a knowing look, “And if you’ve already put a bun in her oven, one you take very seriously. Maybe you should ask her for a raise?”

  As Rik burst into sputtering laughter, Bertie slapped his back to assist the choking man, sending the handsome blond staggering. With a snort of amusement, Bertie commented, “Poor Rik, looks like Sam’s found another protector.”

  “Sweetie,” Harper said with pure Southern sincerity, “Sam and I have had each other’s backs since we were literally school girls. She may be a cow, but she’s my cow.”

  “Aww,” Sam cooed, batting her lashes up at Harper, “I do declare, my dear, you really do give a damn!”

  “You keep mangling Gone With the Wind quotes, and I swear I won’t!” Harper rejoined, shaking her head and laughing as they entered the restaurant. “Now let’s get you fed, baby momma, and then let Rik put you to bed, because you’re just too darned ornery for me to deal with tonight.”

  Chapter 8

  By all the Gods in Valhalla, there’s nothing like the smell of coffee first thing in the morning, Bard thought as he cracked his eyes open and stared up at his bedroom ceiling. Thank Loki’s left testicle for automatic brewing.

  Throwing an arm over his eyes, Bard struggled to shake off the nightmare that had haunted him all night. Over and over, again and again, he had tried to batter his way into an enormous castle of ice. He had been dressed in some archaic battle gear, a leather kilt and an ivory wolf-headed cloak, the same cloak that had given the Ulfhednar their name.

  In the dream, Bard had finally embraced his wolf’s strength, more so than he ever had in his century plus of life. More than he had in the trenches of France during the Great War. More than he had while he and his brothers tore through the German Werwölfe during World War II, fucking “purebreed” Ulfhednar who had joined the fucking Nazi Party.

  Shuddering as he was bombarded by memories he had long thought he had put to rest, Bard scrubbed his face with his hand and forced himself out of bed. Padding naked to his bathroom, he was thankful he had decided to forgo the drinking last night. He had too much to take care of to get ready for the Faire’s opening to spend another day dealing with a major hangover.

  Turning the shower on, he dialed up the heat to just below blistering as he stepped beneath the pounding spray. He was still bloody freezing, a lingering aftereffect from that nightmare.

  Scrubbing his hair, Bard tilted his head up to face the spray, squeezing his eyes closed as he replayed the dream. His wolf had been insistent they get into the castle. Again and again they had slammed their fists into the door, until finally a small crack had appeared. The wolf had seized control, growling…something…but Bard had jerked awake.

  And fuck, his cock was harder than he could remember it ever being! Thick and aching, oozing pre-cum in a steady stream; almost faster than the shower could wash away.

  Ignoring his erection as much as he could, Bard focused on trying to wash away the sticky sweat covering his body. Shifters tended to run hot, particularly Northern shifters, whose bodies adapted to the colder climates. Yet, despite that, the sweat that had covered his body with a glistening sheen, and the hot shower, Bard was still chilled as he stepped out and briskly dried off.

  “Ice castles? Why am I fucking dreaming of ice castles?” Bard muttered to himself as he tossed his towel into the hamper. He took a moment to pull his comb his hair back into a tail that hung from the crown of his head, and brushed out his beard, adding some beard oil to make it more manageable. And he continued to ignore his now angrily throbbing hard-on.

  Stomping to his closet, Bard pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, biting back a groan as he tucked his erection away. Glaring down at his beast, Bard hissed, “Quit it! I’ll take care of you later, but right now, go take a nap or something!”

  He was only partially convinced that his cock would pay any attention to him, because let’s face it, what guy’s cock actually listened to anyone but itself?

  Yanking on a pair of worn jeans and shrugging into one of his Ulvfang Metalworking t-shirts. Bard grabbed his boots and continued on with his stomping, heading down from his loft, his mind once more turning back to that damned ice castle from his dream.

  It had to be his twin sisters’ fault! Those two little she-wolves had been obsessed with Frozen when it released. They had been the perfect age, and with its theme, it had been custom made to trigger even Sanja’s deepest royal fantasies. He shuddered again at the memories.

  Imagine, if you will, two identical little girls, barely five feet tall, less than a hundred pounds soaking wet. And they were both convinced they were the true Queen Elsa. One couldn’t be Princess Anna, oh no, that would not do, not for the white-blonde haired and icy-blue eyed twin terrors who saw Elsa every time they looked in the mirror. Anna was a red-head, Elsa was blonde. Hence, the argument over who was the “true” queen.

  You’ve never experienced utter, horrifying fascination than getting caught up in watching two thirteen-year-old girls, both wearing Elsa gowns, their braids coming undone and flying wildly as they half-shifted into their wolf forms, rolling around, clawing, and snarling, and snapping each other as they snarled, “Let it go!” and howled, “No! You let it go!” at each other for over an hour!

  Absolutely terrifying!

  None of the boys had been brave enough to step into that little discussion. Their father hadn’t been brave enough. Nope, it had taken their mother com
ing home from grocery shopping to put a halt to it. But had the girls gotten in trouble? Nope. They had gotten a stern talking to, of course, and sent to their—thankfully separate—rooms, but it had been the boys and their father Karin had spent an hour yelling at.

  Following the smell of coffee to his kitchen, Bard grabbed his largest travel mug and poured in half the pot before liberally dosing it with both milk and Italian sweet cream creamer. Yes, he liked his coffee to have a lot of dairy. He was still a growing wolf!

  Hearing the dismissive snort from his mental companion, Bard growled aloud, “If you would actually talk to me and tell me what’s going on, maybe we’d both be a lot less growly.”

  Nope, the wolf was sulking once again, like someone had stolen his favorite chew toy and threatened to withhold it forever.

  I’d ask why you’re being such a bitch, but we both know you’d just take that as a compliment. When his mental poke didn’t rouse much more than a dismissive flick of an ear, Bard finally rolled his eyes and returned to ignoring his wolf so he could pack up his truck and head to the Village.

  It was only about a half-hour drive from the main entrance to the Estates from Bard’s shop. As he pulled off the main highway and on to the side road, however, he found his progress stalling as his truck fell behind a convoy of trailers and RVs slowly navigating through the twists and turns as they pulled right towards the Village.

  Narrowing his eyes, Bard called upon his wolf’s enhanced sight as he spotted one of the trailers in the lead that looked familiar. A grin broke across his face as he recognized the distinct logo proudly emblazoned on the side.

  Ace and his merry band of Travelers had actually showed up! Things were about to get interesting!

  When they finally all pulled into the main parking lot, Bard quickly claimed one of the closest unloading zones. Hopping out, he slammed the door and hurried around to the back of his truck. The quicker he unloaded his gear, the quicker he could go hang out with the Travelers!