Not a Dragon's Standard Virgin (Siren Publishing Classic) Read online

  Another explosion of rock sounded from the rocky depression as the demon sought the source of the disturbance, but Jonarrion dropped safely beyond its sight and ran swiftly away to camouflage himself among the vegetation around the Loch. This demon would be tricky, but Jonarrion had dealt with tricky before, and it hadn’t saved his enemy.

  Chapter Five

  The day passed in a blur for Isabelle. The only clear things she remembered about it were her conversations with Marie and Master Swift in the morning, and her growing nervousness as the evening approached. Everything else fell into the background, and she conducted her chores on rote memory. She kept going over Master Swift’s promise, repeating the words to be sure she hadn’t mistaken his meaning.

  He agreed. He agreed. Quit your worrying.

  Sarah kept throwing concerned looks at Isabelle when she didn’t react to taunts, even from the boisterous louts trying to get a rise out of her. Isabelle’s thoughts centered on the mysterious man who’d promised to take her virginity. Would he laugh at her or hurry to get through it? Her inexperience in the arts of physical love made nausea roll through her.

  “Are you well, Isabelle?” Sarah asked as the dinner crowd began to fill up the tables in the tap room.

  “Aye, whyfore do you ask?”

  “You seem distracted is all.” Sarah filled more flagons with ale, her expression tight. “Did our guest say aught to you this morning?”

  “Nay, I’m just tired.” Isabelle offered Sarah a bland smile, and Sarah’s lips tightened. “I went to bed late, didn’t sleep well, and was up early to clean up after the guest. Just tired.”

  Sarah glanced around the room quickly before she leaned forward and whispered, “Are you concerned they’ll choose you for the Sacrifice?”

  Isabelle tried to ignore the fury rising like bile in her throat.

  “Aye. You ken father wants me gone, and he has never thought me his own. What better way to be rid of me than through the Sacrifice?”

  “Och. He’d never agree to it.” Sarah scoffed, but her expression remained worried. “With me marrying Thomas, and Mary already away, he’ll need you to help in the tavern. You need not fash yourself.”

  “Mayhap.” Isabelle agreed, but not because her father wouldn’t send her to the dragon. She’d take her destiny into her own hands, and she’d survive because of her own choices, not her father’s goodwill. “Well, it matters not with the crowd comin’ in tonight. It looks as if Colin Muir is here and brought his fiddle. You ken what that means.”

  “Right.” Sarah quickly cleaned more flagons for the crowd. “We’ll be busier than a hen at an egg-throwing contest, as Thomas likes to say.”

  Isabelle laughed in surprise. “Does he, now?”

  “Aye.” Sarah grinned, and Isabelle hoped her younger sister wouldn’t hold her choice for survival against her.

  They had no more time to talk as the crowd thickened, and their father shouted at them to help serve ale and the food Elizabeth prepared in the kitchen. Colin Muir struck up his fiddle, and the crowd swelled again. Angus MacLeod brought out his hand drum, and William, the tailor’s son, set his pennywhistle to his lips. They launched into a rollicking tune that had the whole tavern cheering and beating their feet against the floor.

  The crowd grew, and the ale flowed, but Isabelle kept scanning the room for the one face missing. Master Swift remained absent, and she couldn’t recall seeing him all day. Her gaze drifted over the crowd again, and she wondered where he’d gotten to. What did a man like him do each day in such a little village? Why had he come at all? It occurred to her she knew very little about him.

  Well, you only need to ken if he can do the job, not why he’s come here.

  “Isabelle, get off your arse and fill the tankards with ale!” her father bellowed.

  “Aye, you wee bastard.”

  Her grumble caught the attention of one elder, and she grimaced as she hurried away. Lord knew she didn’t need more of their attention than she already had. The Elder Council and their sons watched her speculatively, some with derision and mockery. She served them stoically, but inside, she raised her chin and looked down her nose at them. Think you can dictate my life, do you? I won’t be your poppet forever.

  The evening went on, and the music got louder and bawdier, but Isabelle found herself withdrawn from the good cheer around her. She served and watched, waiting for her handsome savior to appear.

  “Are you lookin’ for someone, Isabelle?” Danny MacKay leaned back and patted the generous belly spilling over his belt. “I assure you, everyone o’ consequence is here. There’s no one to save you now.”

  Isabelle paused and focused her gaze on Danny as his companions elbowed and shushed him. “What are you going on about, Danny Mac?”

  “Quit your blathering, you wee fool,” his brother Samuel snapped, cuffing him. Then he smiled stiffly at Isabelle. “Don’t you be listening to him, Isabelle. He’s pissed.”

  Isabelle stared at them with dawning fear and anger, but she tried to show none of it on her face. “Aye, well, I can see that.”

  “Pay him no mind. May I have another ale?”

  Bloody hell, they’ve made their decision. Well, then, so have I.

  “O’ course, Samuel.” She marched away, her hands fisting beneath her tray as her anger pooled in her eyes from unshed tears.

  Her hands shook as she poured ale into another pewter mug. Anger burned beneath betrayal, fear, and giddy hysteria. How could they? They’d know her all her life. How long did she have? Isabelle shook her head. It didn’t matter. She’d thwart their plans tonight.

  Her gaze drifted to the door, searching for Master Swift. Surely he hadn’t slipped away today. Please, holy Mother, don’t tell me he has left the village. She dropped her head to knuckle one eye, praying she wouldn’t weep. She couldn’t show how they’d hurt her. He’ll be here. He’s a man of his word. She hoped. She really didn’t know him very well.

  Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and raised her head, searching the crowd once more. Her heart leapt when her gaze fell on Master Swift’s tall form lurking behind the crowd shouting drunkenly with the musicians.

  When her eyes found him, he smiled at her with welcoming warmth, and excitement rose within her as relief weakened her knees. A frisson of heat slid down her body until her juices coated the undergarments between her legs. She tightened her grip on the flagons of ale and tried to steady herself. The patrons around her would notice something amiss, despite their interest in the music. She smiled in return, her heart pounding like Angus MacLeod’s drum, and hoped she didn’t blush.

  Master Swift raised his eyebrows in question and tipped his head toward the stairs to the rooms above. Isabelle’s heartbeat sped up, and she glanced around to see where her father and sister stood. Joseph spoke earnestly with a few men in the corner furthest from the musicians, his expression fierce. She wondered if they’d told him their decision, and her anger surged.

  Her gaze swung around the room, but her sister must have returned to the kitchen with their stepmother. The crowd focused only on the entertainment, and Isabelle wiped her hands on her apron as if nothing fazed her. She glanced back at Master Swift and nodded.

  His smile flashed again, a brilliant streak of white against the shadows covering his face in the back of the room, before he threaded his way through the back of the throng. Isabelle picked up a pitcher of mead and took her time to fill anyone’s mug as she moved closer to the stairs. She watched Master Swift from the corner of her eyes as he grinned and nodded to the drunken revelers he passed. They made way for him, and soon he disappeared up the stairs without so much as a ripple in the awareness of the crowd.

  Too bad my own awareness isn’t as blind.

  Isabelle filled every flagon she could find and even paused to be sure everyone would be occupied long enough for her to escape their notice. At least that was what she told herself. Her heart hammered, and her excitement stole her breath, but she smiled at a
ny who looked at her. She busied herself until the musicians started another long reel then quickly slipped away from the bar and up the stairs to meet her destiny.

  “Courage now, Isabelle,” she whispered as her nervousness fluttered in her belly. She stooped to pull off her boots. “Don’t run from what you ken must be done.”

  The words were all well and good, but the enormity of her decision sat heavily on her shoulders as she padded up the stairs, her shoes gripped in her hand. She reached the door at the top of the stairs and froze. She stood there trying to gather her confidence around her like a cloak. It seemed more like loose strings of rotting canvas slipping through her grasp. Swallowing hard, she straightened her shoulders and reached out to knock softly at the door.

  * * * *

  Jonarrion waited for Isabelle’s knock and had the door open before her hand landed more than twice against the wood. She stood there, her green-blue eyes wide and her chest rising and falling as if she’d been running. Nervousness filled her expression, but he sensed her excitement in the tension of her body and scented the sweet perfume of her arousal. His own body responded, and he reached out gently to tug her inside before someone saw her from the tap room below.

  Isabelle seemed to come back to herself once she stood inside, and she looked around at how he’d filled the space with his few belongings. Her breathing and heartbeat slowed as she made herself look at the room like a practiced tavern wench. He let her focus on the familiar to calm herself down while he quietly locked the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed by the drunken rabble.

  Fear underlain by anger jangled at the edges of his awareness, and Jonarrion eyed her curiously. What had she to be angry about? Her position, you idiot. Virginity is held sacred by humans, and she’s going against the rules to rid herself of it.

  But she’d arrived at his room, following through on what he knew must be difficult for her. He suspected she wouldn’t back down now with her decision made. His admiration for the fire and spirit within her grew, and his body enjoyed the light of the oil lamp burnishing her form in its ruddy glow.

  “Where have you been all day?” she demanded as she turned back to him then blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I sounded like a naggin’ fishwife.”

  Jonarrion smiled gently. “No harm done. I just took a look about. I visited your Loch and its environs.”

  “Did you?” She fidgeted with the hems of her apron as he moved past her to sit on the bed and remove his boots. “’Tis a pleasant place in the summer, but can be bleak in the spring.” She held herself wrapped tightly in her own arms, pushing up her breasts. He enjoyed the view, imagining the ways he would pleasure himself with them. Take it slow with her, boyo. No use scaring her.

  “Aye.” He willed his cockstand to go down so he didn’t frighten her beyond hope. “Come sit beside me, Mistress Andersen. I won’t hurt you.”

  Isabelle glanced at him, her face a mask of chagrin. She bit her bottom lip, and he stifled a groan. She looked so sexy, even in her uncertainty, and he shifted his weight on the bed to keep from showing her just how sexy.

  “Please, mistress. I promise no harm will come to you.”

  Isabelle snorted, some of her confidence returning, but her hesitancy showed in the hands she fisted in her apron as she sat beside him. Jonarrion studied her profile when she kept her eyes down, noting the creamy skin of her breasts above the bodice rising and falling with her breath. The scent of fear washed over him, and before he could stop himself, he’d settled one hand over her whitened knuckles in her lap.

  “Mistress Andersen—”

  “You may call me Isabelle.” She sounded breathless.

  “Isabelle.” She nodded sharply, tension singing throughout her lovely body. “Isabelle, look at me.”

  She raised her eyes and hit him with her jeweled gaze. She parted her rosy lips, and he swore he’d see them around his cock at some point before he’d gone. Not tonight. She’s a virgin, remember? Another night with her wasn’t likely, but he’d hold onto the hope she’d take his cock in more places than her pussy.

  “If this isn’t what you wish, you need only say so. I won’t force you to go on.”

  “Oh, no, please, Master Swift. It must be tonight. I can’t wait.” She grasped his hand and pressed it to her chest, cradling it between her soft mounds as she pleaded with him.

  He tried to smile around the heat of her satin skin against his hand, but he feared it came out more of a grimace. She swallowed hard and squeezed his hand, and he resisted the need to bury his nose in the sweet flesh of her neck.

  He had to be a gentleman. When have I ever been a gentleman?

  “Peace, Isabelle. I only wanted you to be sure of your resolve.” He stroked her cheek with his free hand and smiled. “And you may call me Jon.”

  “Right, then. Jon. Shall we get started?” She rose and grasped the laces of her cincher in tight fingers.

  “Easy, lassie.” He stood and held her hands still, the tension humming through her. “There’s no need to rush this.” He drew her back to the bed and sat down. “Come. Sit between my legs and let me help you relax.”

  “Between your… Isn’t that where your—” She gestured at his tenting kilt and blushed.

  “My what, Isabelle?”

  “You know.” The red spilled down her throat and flushed her bosom. He wondered if it carried on straight to her pussy. “Your manly bits.”

  He wanted to laugh at her choice of words, but he didn’t wish to anger her. “There are many names associated with my ‘manly bits,’ but it’s most commonly called a ‘cock,’ and yes, that’s where I carry it.”

  “Cock.” She repeated the word in her husky voice, and his said anatomy flexed with her attention. “Does it have a mind of its own, then?”

  “What?” Where had she learned such things as a virgin?

  “Well, it just moved.” She gestured at his groin, and he resisted the urge to cover it with his hand.

  He let out a startled laugh. “Actually, my dear, it often responds when called by name, and you said it so well. It couldn’t help but take notice.”

  A mischievous smile curled her lips and damn near curled his toes. “Cock.”

  True to form, his dick flexed again and his arousal swelled. Her sassy confidence grabbed far more than her sweet innocence. She’d fought years of tradition within this human community to come to his room, and now added some wanton wench into the mix. Sweet Goddess, this might be better than he’d expected.

  “That’s exactly how to say it, lassie.” Her smile shot straight to his balls. “Now then, let’s take off that cincher so you may relax, and you can learn the feel of my body.” And I can enjoy yours.

  He reached for her laces, but she pulled back a little. “I can get them.”

  “I’m sure you can, Isabelle, but it’s more fun if I do. Will you permit me?” Jonarrion stared into her beautiful eyes and waited for her decision. She bit her lip again, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from moaning. Hellwinds, she’s sexy.

  “Very well, Jon.” Isabelle sidled closer, and he inhaled her woman’s scent.

  She had a wild, earthy scent like a rainy spring forest, or the shores of a windswept loch. Blended with it were the more mundane scents of cooking oils, fresh bread, and ale. His heart ached with nostalgia for home, and he closed his eyes, imagining her tending his hearth. How does she smell so good?

  “Are you well, Jon?”

  He opened his eyes to realize he’d pressed his cheek against her belly as he held her hips. What was wrong with him? He’d never lost track of his actions with a lover before. He glanced up at her and smiled. At least she hadn’t shoved him away.

  “Aye, better than well. Intoxicated.”

  He loosened her laces and released her breasts, the full globes bouncing gently under her chemise as he pulled away her stays. His mouth watered, but he kept his eyes on hers and settled his hands on her hips.

  “You’re lovely, Isabelle.”

/>   She snorted softly. “Right.”

  “’Tis true, sweets. See what you do to me.” He drew one of her hands down to his kilt and tried not to thrust into her palm. “I don’t grow this hard unless I find a lassie beautiful.” He scooted back a little and patted the bed between his legs. “Come. Sit.”

  “Are you sure I won’t hurt you with such a malady?”

  “Malady?” He laughed. “Nay, lassie, it doesn’t pain me to be hard.” Unless it’s all night long. “You sitting here will only bring me pleasure.” He patted the bed again.

  She turned slowly, and he enjoyed the swell of her arse in her skirt, but he especially enjoyed it when it settled against his rigid shaft. They sighed at the same time, and he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around her waist.

  “Ah, that’s lovely, Isabelle.”

  “You’re so warm.” She snuggled back against his chest, and he tightened his hold on her.

  Why did she feel so good there? He brushed her hair aside and dipped his head, trailing small kisses across her neck and shoulders. She gasped and stiffened with the brush of his lips on her skin, and he paused, inhaling her delicious scent.

  “What are you doing, Jon?”

  “I’m kissing you, sweet Belle. Is there something amiss?” Other than his raging cockstand and his unusual lack of control.

  “Nay, not amiss. Just…strange.”

  “Strange, how?” He slid his fingers over her shoulder and across her collarbones, reveling in the smoothness there.

  “I feel strange, as if everything is tight and loose all at once.” She shivered when his hand dipped lower and cupped her breast.

  “Are you well, Isabelle?”

  She inhaled and nodded sharply, gathering up her courage.

  “I’m fine.”

  He dropped his hand to her waist again, rubbing in small circles. “We can take this slower if you need to.”

  “Och, nay. ’Tis better to get it over with.” She straightened her shoulders and waited as if facing her execution.