To
Love a Highland Dragon
Dragon
Lore, Book 1
By Ann Gimpel
Publisher:
Taliesin
ISBN: 978-1-962916-004-7
Release
Date: 9/5/13
Genre:
Urban Fantasy/Romance
71,000
words
A modern day
psychiatrist and a dragon shifter stranded in time can’t escape their destiny,
no matter how unlikely it seems.
Book
Description:
In a cave deep
beneath Inverness, a dragon shifter stirs and wakens. The cave is the same and
his hoard intact, yet Lachlan senses something amiss. Taking his human form, he
ventures above ground with ancient memories flooding him. But nothing is the
same. His castle has been replaced by ungainly row houses. Men aren’t wearing
plaids and women scarcely wear anything at all.
In Inverness for
a year on a psychiatry fellowship, Dr. Maggie Hibbins watches an oddly dressed
man pick his way out of a heather and gorse thicket. Even though it runs
counter to her better judgment, she teases him about his strange attire. He
looks so lost—and so unbelievably handsome —she takes him to a pub for a meal,
to a barbershop, and then home. Along the way the hard-to-accept truth sinks
in: he has to be a refugee from another era.
Never a
risk-taker, Maggie’s carefully constructed life is about to change forever.
Swept up in an ancient prophecy that links her to Lachlan and his dragon, she
must push the edges of the impossible to save both the present and her heart.
Kheladin
listened to the rush of blood as his multi-chambered heart pumped. After eons
of nothingness, it was a welcome sound. A cool, sandy floor pressed against his
scaled haunches. One whirling eye flickered open, followed by the other.
Where
am I? He peered around himself and blew out a sigh, followed by steam, smoke,
and fire.
Thanks
be to Dewi— Kheladin invoked the blood-red Celtic dragon goddess— I am still in
my cave. It smelled right, but I wasna certain.
He
rotated his serpent’s head atop his long, sinuous neck. Vertebrae cracked.
Kheladin lowered his head and scanned the place he and Lachlan, his human bond
mate, had barricaded themselves into. It might have only been days ago, but
somehow, it didn’t seem like days, or even months or a few years. His body felt
rusty, as if he hadn’t used it in centuries.
How
long did I sleep?
He
shook his head. Copper scales flew everywhere, clanking against a pile that had
formed around him. More than anything, the glittery heap reinforced his belief
that he’d been asleep for a very long time. Dragons shed their scales annually.
From the looks of the pile circling his body, he’d gone through hundreds of
molt cycles. But how? The last thing he remembered was retreating to the cave
far beneath Lachlan’s castle and working with the mage to construct strong
wards.
Had
the black wyvern grown so powerful he’d been able to force his magic into the
very heart of Kheladin’s fortress?
If
that is true— If we were really his prisoner, why did I finally waken? Is
Lachlan still within me?
Stop!
I have to take things one at a time.
He
returned his gaze to the nooks and crannies of his spacious cave. He’d have to
take inventory, but it appeared his treasure hadn’t been disturbed. Kheladin
blew a plume of steam upward, followed by an experimental gout of fire. The
black wyvern, his sworn enemy since before the Crusades, may have bested him,
but he hadn’t gotten his slimy talons on any of Kheladin’s gold or jewels.
He
shook out his back feet and shuffled to the pool at one end of the cave where
he dipped his snout and drank deeply. The water didn’t taste quite right. It
wasn’t poisoned, but it held an undercurrent of metals that had never been
there before. Kheladin rolled the liquid around in his mouth. He didn’t
recognize much of what he tasted.
The
flavors are not familiar because I have been asleep for so long. Aye, that must
be it. Part of his mind recoiled; he suspected he was deluding himself.
“We’re
awake.” Lachlan’s voice hummed in the dragon’s mind.
“Aye,
that we are.”
“How
long did we sleep?”
“I
doona know.” Water streamed down the dragon’s snout and neck. He knew what
would come next; he didn’t have to wait long.
“Let
us shift. We think better in my body.” Lachlan urged Kheladin to cede
ascendency.
“Ye
only think that is true.” Kheladin pushed back. “I was figuring things out
afore ye woke.”
“Aye,
I’m certain ye were, but…” But what? “Och aye, my brain is thick and fuzzy, as
if I havena used it for a verra long time.”
“Mine
feels the same.”
The
bond allowed only one form at a time. Since they were in Kheladin’s body, he
still had the upper hand; the dragon didn’t think Lachlan was strong enough to
force a shift without his help. There’d been a time when he could have but not
now.
Was
it safe to venture above ground? Kheladin recalled the last day he’d seen the
sun. After a vicious battle in the great room of Lachlan’s castle, they’d
retreated to his cave and taken their dragon form as a final resort. Rhukon,
the black wyvern, had pretended he wanted peace. He’d come with an envoy that
had turned out to be a retinue of heavily armed men…
Both
he and Lachlan had expected Rhukon to follow them underground. Kheladin’s last
thought before nothingness descended had been amazement their enemy hadn’t
pursued them. Hmph. He did come after us but with magic. Magic strong enough to
penetrate our wards.
“Aye,
and I was just thinking the same thing,” Lachlan sniped in a vexed tone.
“We
trusted him,” Kheladin snarled. “More the fools we were. We should have known.”
Despite drinking, his throat was still raw. He sucked more water down and
fought rising anger at himself for being gullible. Even if Lachlan hadn’t known
better, he should have. His stomach cramped from hunger.
Kheladin
debated the wisdom of making his way through the warren of tunnels leading to
the surface in dragon form. There had always been far more humans than dragons.
Mayhap it would be wiser to accede to Lachlan’s wishes before they crept from
their underground lair to rejoin the world of men.
“Grand
idea.” Lachlan’s response was instantaneous, as was his first stab at shifting.
It
took half a dozen attempts. Kheladin was far weaker than he’d imagined and
Lachlan so feeble he was almost an impediment. Finally, once a shower of scales
cleared, Lachlan’s emaciated body stood barefoot and naked in the cave.
*
Lacking
the sharp night vision he enjoyed as a dragon, because his magic was so
diminished, he kindled a mage light and glanced down at himself. Ribs pressed
against his flesh, and a full beard extended halfway down his chest. Turning
his head to both sides, he saw shoulder blades so sharp he was surprised they
didn’t puncture his skin. Tawny hair fell in tangles past his waist. The only
thing he couldn’t see was his eyes. Absent a glass, he was certain they were
the same crystal-clear emerald color they’d always been.
Lachlan
stumbled across the cave to a chest where he kept clothing. Dragons didn’t need
such silly accoutrements; humans did. He sucked in a harsh breath. The wooden
chest was falling to ruin. He tilted the lid against a wall; it canted to one
side. Many of his clothes had moldered into unusable rags, but items toward the
bottom had fared better. He found a cream-colored linen shirt with long,
flowing sleeves, a black and green plaid embroidered with the insignia of his
house—a dragon in flight—and soft, deerskin boots that laced to his knees.
He
slid the shirt over his head and wrapped the plaid around himself, taking care
to wind the tartan so its telltale insignia was hidden in its folds. Who knew
if the black wyvern—or his agents—lurked near the mouth of the cave? Lachlan
bent to lace his boots. A crimson cloak with only a few moth holes completed
his outfit. He finger-combed his hair and smoothed his unruly beard. “Good God,
but I must look a fright,” he muttered. “Mayhap I can sneak into my castle and
set things aright afore anyone sees me. Surely whichever of my kinsmen are
inhabiting the castle will be glad the master of the house has finally
returned.”
Lachlan
worked on bolstering a confidence he was far from feeling. He’d nearly made it
to the end of the cave, where a rock-strewn path led upward, when he doubled
back to get a sword and scabbard—just in case things weren’t as sanguine as he
hoped. He located a thigh sheath and a short dagger as well, fumbling to attach
them beneath his kilt. Underway once again, he hadn’t made it very far along
the upward-sloping tunnel that ended at a well-hidden opening not far from the
postern gate of his castle, when he ran into rocks littering the way.
He
worked his way around progressively larger boulders until he came to a huge one
that totally blocked the tunnel. Lachlan stared at it in disbelief. When had
that happened? In all the time he’d been using these passageways, they’d never
been blocked by rock fall. If he weren’t so weak, summoning magic to shove the
rock over enough to allow him to pass wouldn’t be a problem. As it was, simply
walking uphill proved a challenge.
He
pinched the bridge of his nose between a grimy thumb and forefinger. His mage
light weakened.
If
I can’t even keep a light going, how in the goddess’ name will I be able to
move that rock?
Lachlan
hunkered next to the boulder and let his light die while he ran possibilities
through his head. His stomach growled and clenched in hunger. Had he come
through however much time had passed to die like a dog of starvation in his own
cave?
“No,
by God.” He slammed a fist against the boulder. The air sizzled. Magic. The
rock was illusion. Not real.
Counter
spell. I need the counter spell.
Maybe
I don’t. He stood, took a deep breath, and walked into the huge rock. The air
did more than sizzle; it flamed. If he’d been human, it would have burned him,
but dragons were impervious to fire, as were dragon shifters. Lachlan waltzed
through the rock, cursing Rhukon as he went. Five more boulders blocked his
tunnel, each more charged with magic than the last.
Finally,
sweating and cursing, he rounded the last curve; the air ahead lightened. He
wanted to throw himself on the ground and screech his triumph.
Not
a good idea.
“Let
me out. Ye have no idea what we’ll find.”
Kheladin’s
voice in his mind was welcome but the idea wasn’t. “Ye are right. Because we
have no idea what is out there, we stay in my skin until we are certain. We can
hide in this form far more easily than we can in yours.”
“Since
when did we begin hiding?” The dragon sounded outraged.
“Our
magic is weak.” Lachlan adopted a placating tone. “’Tis prudent to be cautious
until it fully recovers.”
“No
dragon would ever say such a thing.” Deep, fiery frustration rolled off
Kheladin.
Steam
belched from Lachlan’s mouth. “Stop that,” he hissed, but his mind voice was
all but obliterated by wry dragon laughter.
“Why?
I find it amusing that ye think an eight foot tall dragon with elegant copper
scales and handsome, green eyes would be difficult to sequester. A hesitation.
“And infuriating that we need to conceal ourselves at all. Need I remind you
we’re warriors?”
“Quite
taken with yourself, eh?” Lachlan sidestepped the issue of hiding; he didn’t
want to discuss it further and risk being goaded into something unwise.
Kheladin chuckled and pushed more steam through Lachlan’s mouth, punctuated by
a few flames.
Lost
in a sudden rush of memories, Lachlan slowed his pace. As a mage, he would have
lived hundreds of years, but bonded to a dragon, he’d live forever. In
preparation, he’d studied long years with Aether, a wizard and dragon shifter
himself. Along the way, Lachlan had forsaken much—a wife and bairns, for
starters, for what woman would put up with a husband who was so rarely at
home?—to bond with a dragon, forming their partnership. Once Lachlan’s magic
was finally strong enough, there’d been the niggling problem of locating that
special dragon willing to join its life with his.
Because
the bond conferred immortality on both the dragon and their human partner,
dragons were notoriously picky. After all, dragon and mage would be welded
through eternity. The magic could be undone, but the price was high: mages were
stripped of power and their dragon mates lost much of theirs, too, as the bond
unraveled. Lachlan had hunted for over a hundred years before finding Kheladin.
The pairing had been instantaneous on both sides. He’d just settled in with his
dragon, and was about to hunt down a wife to grace his castle, when the black
wyvern had attacked.
“What
are ye waiting for?” Kheladin sounded testy. “Daydreaming is a worthless
pursuit. My grandmother is two thousand years old, and she moves faster than
you.”
Lachlan
snorted. He didn’t bother to explain there wasn’t much point in jumping through
the opening in the gorse and thistle bushes and right into Rhukon’s arms. An
unusual whirring filled the air, like the noisiest beehive he’d ever heard. His
heart sped up, but the sound receded. “What the hell was that?” he muttered and
made his way closer to the world outside his cave.
Finally
at the end of the tunnel, Lachlan stepped to the opening, shoved some overgrown
bushes out of the way, and peered through. What he saw was so unbelievable, he
squeezed his eyes tight shut, opened them, and looked again. Unfortunately,
nothing had changed. Worse, an ungainly, shiny cylinder roared past, making the
same whirring noise he’d puzzled over moments before. He fell backward into the
cave, breath harsh in his throat, and landed on his rump. Not only was the
postern gate no longer there, neither was his castle. A long, unattractive row
of attached structures stood in its stead.
“Holy
godhead. What do I do now?”
“We
go out there and find something to eat,” the dragon growled.
Lachlan
gritted his teeth together. Kheladin had a good point. It was hard to think on
an empty stomach.
“Here
I was worried about Rhukon. At least I understood him. I fear whatever lies in
wait for us will require all our skill.”
“Ye
were never a coward. It is why I allowed the bond. Get moving.”
The
dragon’s words settled him. Ashamed of his indecisiveness, Lachlan got to his
feet, brushed dirt off his plaid, and worked his way through the bushes hiding
the cave’s entrance. As he untangled stickers from the finely spun wool of his
cloak and his plaid, he gawked at a very different world from the one he’d
left. There wasn’t a field—or an animal—in sight. Roadways paved with something
other than dirt and stones were punctuated by structures so numerous, they made
him dizzy. The hideous incursion onto his lands stretched in every direction.
Lachlan balled his hands into fists. He’d find out what had happened, by God.
When he did, he’d make whoever had erected all those abominations take them
down.
An
occasional person walked by in the distance. They shocked him even more than
the buildings and roads. For starters, the males weren’t wearing plaids, so
there was no way to tell their clan. Females were immodestly covered. Many
sported bare legs and breeks so tight he saw the separation between their ass
cheeks. Lachlan’s groin stirred, cock hardening. Were the lassies no longer
engaging in modesty or subterfuge and simply asking to be fucked? Or was this
some new garb that befit a new era?
He
detached the last thorn, finally clear of the thicket of sticker bushes. Where
could he find a market with vendors? Did market day even still exist in this
strange environment?
“Holy
crap! A kilt, and an old-fashioned one at that. Tad bit early in the day for a
costume ball, isn’t it?” A rich female voice laced with amusement, sounded
behind him.
Lachlan
spun, hands raised to call magic. He stopped dead once his gaze settled on a
lass nearly as tall as himself, which meant she was close to six feet. She
turned so she faced him squarely. Bare legs emerged from torn fabric that
stopped just south of her female parts. Full breasts strained against scraps of
material attached to strings tied around her neck and back. Her feet were
encased in a few straps of leather. Long, blonde hair eddied around her, the
color of sheaves of summer wheat.
His
cock jumped to attention. His hands itched to make a grab for her breasts or
her ass. She had an amazing ass: round and high and tight. What was expected of
him? The lass was dressed in such a way as to invite him to simply tear what
passed for breeks aside and enter her. Had times changed so drastically that
women provoked men into public sex? He glanced about, half expecting to see
couples having it off with one another willy-nilly.
“Well,”
she urged. “Cat got your tongue?” She placed her hands on her hips. The motion
stretched the tiny bits of flowered fabric that barely covered her nipples
still further.
Lachlan
bowed formally, straightened, and waited for her to hold out a hand for him to
kiss. “I am Lachlan Moncrieffe, my lady. It is a pleasure to—”
She
erupted into laughter—and didn’t hold out her hand. “I’m Maggie,” she managed
between gouts of mirth. “What are you? A throwback to medieval times? You can
drop the Sir Galahad routine.”
Lachlan
felt his face heat. “I fear I do not understand the cause of your merriment …
my lady.”
Maggie
rolled her midnight blue eyes. “Oh, brother. Did you escape from a mental
hospital? Nah, you’d be in pajamas then, not those fancy duds.” She dropped her
hands to her sides and started to walk past him.
“No.
Wait. Please, wait.” Lachlan cringed at the whining tone in his voice. The
dragon was correct that the Moncrieffe was a proud house. They bowed to no one.
She
eyed him askance. “What?”
“I
am a stranger in this town.” He winced at the lie. Once upon a time, he’d been
master of these lands. Apparently that time had long since passed. “I am
footsore and hungry. Where might I find victuals and ale?”
Her
eyes widened. Finely arched blonde brows drew together over a straight nose
dotted by a few freckles. “Victuals and ale,” she repeated disbelievingly.
“Aye.
Food and drink, in the common vernacular.”
“Oh,
I understood you well enough,” Maggie murmured. “Your words, anyway. Your
accent’s a bit off.” His stomach growled again, embarrassingly loud. “Guess you
weren’t kidding about being hungry.” She eyed him appraisingly. “Do you have
any money?”
Money.
Too late he thought of the piles of gold coins and priceless gems lying on the
floor of Kheladin’s cave. In the world he’d left, his word had been as good as
his gold. He opened his mouth, but she waved him to silence. “I’ll stand you
for a pint and some fish and chips. You can treat me next time.”
He
heard her mutter, “Yeah right,” under her breath as she curled a hand around
his arm and tugged. “Come on. I have a couple of hours and then I’ve got to go
to work. I’m due in at three today.”
Lachlan
trotted along next to her. She let go of him like he was a viper when he tried
to close a hand over the one she’d laid so casually on his person. He cleared
his throat and wondered what he could safely ask that wouldn’t give his secrets
away. He could scarcely believe this alien landscape was Scotland, but if he
asked what country they were in, or what year it was, she’d think him mad. He
wondered if the black wyvern had used some diabolical dark magic to transport
his cave to another locale, and then thought better of it. Even Rhukon wasn’t
that powerful.
“In
here.” She pointed to a door beneath a flashing sigil. He gawked at it. One
minute it was red, the next blue, the next green, illuminating the word Open.
What manner of magic was this? “Don’t tell me you have temporal lobe epilepsy.”
She stared at him. “It’s only a neon sign. It doesn’t bite. Move on through the
door. There’s food on the other side,” she added slyly.
Feeling
like a rube, Lachlan searched for a latch, didn’t find one, and pushed his
shoulder against the door. It opened, and he held it with a hand so Maggie
could enter first. “After you, my lady,” he murmured.
“Stop
that.” She spoke into his ear as she went past. “No more my ladies. Got it?”
“I
think so.” He followed her into a low ceilinged room lined with wooden planks.
It was the first thing that looked familiar. Parts of it, anyway. Men—kilt-less
men—sat at the bar, hefting glasses and chatting. The tables were empty.
“What’ll
it be, Mags?” a man with a towel tied around his waist called from behind the
bar.
“Couple
of pints and two of today’s special. Come to think of it,” she eyed Lachlan,
“make that three of the special.”
“May
I inquire just what the special is?” Lachlan asked, thinking he might want to
order something different.
Maggie
waved a hand at a black board suspended over the bar. “You can read?”
“Of
course.” He resented the inference he might be uneducated but swallowed back
harsh words.
“Excellent.
Then move.” She shoved her body into his in a distressingly familiar way for
such a communal location. Not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed the contact if they
were alone and he were free to take advantage of it… “All the way to the back,”
she hissed into his ear. “That way if you slip up, no one will hear.”
He
bristled. Lachlan Moncrieffe did not sit in the back of any establishment. He
was always given a choice table near the center of things. He opened his mouth
to protest but thought better of it.
She
scooped an armful of flattened scrolls off the bar before following him to the
back of the room. Once there, she dumped them onto the table between them. He
wanted to ask what they were but decided he should pretend to know. He turned
the top sheaf of papers toward him and scanned the close-spaced print. Many of
the words were unfamiliar, but what leapt off the page was The Inverness
Courier and presumably the current date: June 10, 2012.
It
had been 1683 when Rhukon had chivied him into the dragon’s cave. Three-hundred
twenty-nine years, give or take a month or two. At least he was still in
Inverness—for all the good it did him.
“You
look as if you just saw a ghost.” Maggie spoke quietly.
“No.
I am quite fine. Thank you for inquiring … my, er…” His voice trailed off.
“Good.”
She nodded approvingly. “You’re learning.” The bartender slapped two mugs of
ale on the scarred wooden table.
“On
your tab, Mags?” he asked.
She
nodded. “Except you owe me so much, you’ll never catch up.”
Lachlan
took a sip of what turned out to be weak ale. It wasn’t half bad but could have
stood an infusion of bitters. He puzzled over what Maggie meant. Why would the
barkeep owe her? His nostrils flared. She must work at the
establishment—probably as a damsel of ill repute from the looks of her. Mayhap,
she hadn’t been paid her share of whatever she earned in quite some time.
Protectiveness
flared deep inside him. Maggie should not have to earn her way lying on her
back. He’d see to it she had a more seemly position.
Aye,
once I find my way around this bizarre new world. Money wouldn’t be a problem,
but changing four-hundred-year-old gold coins into today’s tender might be.
Surely there were still banks that might accomplish something like that.
One
thing at a time, he reminded himself.
“So.”
She skewered him with her blue gaze—Norse eyes if he’d ever seen a set—and took
a sip from her mug. “What did you see in the newspaper that upset you so much?”
“Nothing.”
He tried for an offhand tone.
“Bullshit,”
she said succinctly. “I’m a doctor. A psychiatrist. I read people’s faces quite
well, and you look as if you’re perilously close to going into shock on me.”
Around that time, a friend of hers suggested she try her hand at short stories. It didn’t take long before that first story found its way into print and they’ve been accepted pretty regularly since then. One of Ann’s passions has always been ecology, so her tales often have a green twist.
In addition to writing, Ann enjoys wilderness photography. She lugs pounds of camera equipment in her backpack to distant locales every year. A standing joke is that over ten percent of her pack weight is camera gear which means someone else has to carry the food! That someone is her husband. They’ve shared a life together for a very long time. Children, grandchildren and three wolf hybrids round out their family.
Thanks so much for hosting me, Bridgette. It's lovely to be back on your blog! Maggie, Lachlan, and Kheladin (the dragon) are stoked to be here, too.
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