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Cadell the Dragon

Page 36

by Virginie Marconato

“No! Johanna, wait!” Cadell ran after her.

This was all Tomos’ fault. Couldn’t the bloody man have kept his mouth shut? Or failing that, couldn’t he have spoken in Welsh, as he normally did, so that Johanna didn’t understand the vile words? This was a catastrophe.

“Damn it, Johanna, stop and listen to me,” he pleaded once he had caught up with her.

She did stop, so abruptly that he almost collided into her. The awkward little skip he had to do to avoid slamming into her and toppling her over almost sent him crashing to the floor. When he steadied himself, Johanna turned to him, head held high, magnificent in her outrage.

“So you think you can have Bryn Glas if you marry me, ‘decrepit though it may be,’” she said, eyes blazing with what he had no difficulty identifying as hurt, though someone else might have called it fury. Perhaps it was both. “You thought that it would be the quickest, easiest way to replace the domain that was taken from you ten years ago. You thought that me being English would protect you from the king and⁠—”

“I swear, it’s not what⁠—”

“Why me, when any other English woman would have done? Because you thought me too desperate, too incompetent to refuse your help in managing my domains? Because you thought you might as well marry a woman who likes sucking cock?”

Cadell’s head rang as loudly as if she had slapped him. Had she really said that shocking thing, here in the middle of the great hall? It gave him the measure of her pain.

“No!” he roared, taking her by the arm, willing her to listen. Willing her to believe him. “No. Ignore Tomos, he’s a fool. Next time I see him, I will smash his skull in and then rip his tongue off and feed it to the dogs.”

“Why? He spoke nothing but the truth. An English wife will⁠—”

“No, he has no idea what he’d talking about. I want you. I told you so this morning. You. No one else. I love you. I don’t care whether you’re English, Scottish or Welsh. I don’t care about fucking Bryn Glas either, I will happily let it fall to dust and go back to my cottage. I don’t care about what the bloody king of England might one day do to me because I’m Welsh. I don’t care if you never suck my cock again, though that was the most unbelievable moment of my life. I only care about being with you, do you hear? Waking up with you in my arms in the morning, pleasuring you at night, kissing you before going to sleep. You, the woman I’ve obsessed about since I was a lad of sixteen summers. You, the woman I love and who, for one blessed, glorious moment, made me believe that she wanted me too. Johanna, please. I beg of you, I need you to believe me,” he cried out, falling to his knees. “I love you.”

Forget dignity, he had to make her see the truth. Let everyone see him at her feet. He cared not.

He had to make her understand.

“If you refuse me because you think you will never be able to love me, I will accept your decision, however painful. If you find that you cannot forget Rhun after all, I will understand, though it will destroy me. But if you allow that bloody fool Tomos to come between us when you actually feel something for me, you will regret it all your life and be unhappy. I cannot allow that. Please. I can bear my own misery, but not yours.” His voice almost failed him. “Our fate is in your hands.”

With those words, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, unable to continue. If she really spurned him now, he had not lied, his life was over. For ten years he had lived in her shadow, reliving their conversation in the storeroom over and over again, thinking only of the moment he might be reunited with her. Then, by some miracle, she had been restored to him, more glorious, more appealing, more perfect than ever. They had kissed. They had lived side by side for weeks, he had helped and protected her, he had slept with her in his arms, he had erupted in pleasure inside her mouth, he had allowed himself to hope they would get married. There would be no going back from all this.

After what felt like an eternity, he felt a hand settle over his shoulder.

“You didn’t ask me to marry you because I’m English?”

“No.” She could be French, for all he cared.

“You would leave your country and go live in England with me if I asked?”

“Yes, if that was what you wish.” Hell, he would go to Constantinople if she wanted. As long as they were together, he would be happy.

“You didn’t propose because I…gave you pleasure in the most intimate way?”

She hadn’t dared to repeat her shocking words, he noticed. At any other time he might have smiled. But he couldn’t smile right now.

“No. I will be the one worshipping your body, day and night.” Did she really think he would mind? He would not. His satisfaction would be more than ensured that way.

“You love me?”

Oh, that she could even doubt it! His heart broke in two.

“Of course, I love you. I told you so this morning. It is not a lie, I—” Cadell choked on the words, because they seemed too feeble to express what he felt, too puny to convince her of his honesty. So, instead, he grabbed her by the waist and drew her to him. “I can’t live without you. I know, because I tried, for ten long, lonely years, knowing you had made your choice, believing you to be happy. It nearly killed me to watch you ride away with Rhun, but somehow I survived that grief. Still, day after day, I died a slow death. Ask Siaspar, he will tell you. He knows what these past ten years have been like for me. And then you came back, and life started to flow back into my veins. I could not believe my luck because I knew I might finally have a chance at wooing you. So, yes, if you have to believe one thing in your life, believe that I love you.”

There was a long silence. Too long. Then Johanna spoke.

“Let’s get married as soon as we can. Next week if possible.”

Everything within him exploded. Cadell buried his face into her stomach, unable to bear the relief of knowing all was not lost. He could not remember the last time he had cried but here he was, unable to fight tears.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. She had once called him her dragon. What would she think of him now? “This is not⁠—”