She was magnificent, in ways that had nothing to do with her exceptional beauty. He could watch her work all day. She had them take turns, only using the younger dragons, and normally when that happened, the older dragons would take off, flying alongside or heading back to their caves higher up in the mountains.
Bjorn’s attention kept being dragged to the two dragons sitting quietly at the far end of the enclosure. They were watching Britt, and he remembered her introducing herself to them earlier. In a single moment, she’d obviously earned their loyalty.
As the rides finished and the group started to break for lunch, he went ahead of them and checked in at the kitchen. The cook had made cold plates, easily set out at different intervals.
Also easily packed up in a picnic.
He pictured those two dragons sitting in the paddock. Waiting to be ridden, and obviously not by the guests—except one, perhaps.
Before he could talk himself out of it, Bjorn grabbed a canvas bag and carefully wrapped up food in waxed paper. He added two water bottles and a couple of apples, as well as a few pieces of dark chocolate. Nobody paid him any attention, which only worsened the guilt twisting at his guts—not that it stopped him.
Nothing would stop him, short of an order from God, and thankfully that wasn’t His way.
God would let Bjorn make this mistake.
He’d hope Bjorn would learn from the consequences.
I’m not making a mistake. He felt it so clearly in his heart, despite the guilty ache elsewhere in his body. He hoped he was right.
He found her giving a piece of hangreet root to one of the young dragons as a treat. He silently hopped over the fence and moved closer. He could watch her tend to their beastly friends all day, but depending on where she wanted to race to, they might be cutting the daylight hours close.
He cleared his throat. “Britt.”
She glanced around, then turned fully and gave him a curious look. “Yes, Brother Bjorn?”
“You can just use my name, you know.” He grinned and took another step toward her. Then another.
“Can I?” She curved one elegant eyebrow skyward. That was a fair question.
He took a deep breath and held out his hand. “Yes, you can.”
She looked at his fingers. “What are you doing?”
“Come with me.” His pulse pounded in his neck. His palms still burned with the need to touch her again, and if they didn’t fly, he’d probably back her into a dark corner of the stables. “Let’s have that race.”
She glanced to the dragons waiting behind him. “You won’t be missed this afternoon? Do you have work to do?”
“It’s fine.”
Her lips parted on a slow, breathy exhale, and her eyes did a tour of his hand and the dragons and the guest house even further back before she settled her gaze on his face and reached out her fingers to brush against his. “Then let’s saddle up, shall we?”
4
After agreeing on a lookout point barely visible at the top of the mountain across the river as their finish line, they did a children’s rhyming game to decide who could pick which dragon to ride on. Bjorn won. He went back and forth as they approached the two dragons with saddles.
He recognized these two. They were mates, a male and a female, and he’d ridden on both. The female was more nimble through the wind, the male a harder puller. It was an even toss-up, but when he approached the male, he lifted his head as if to say, no, not me.
Okay. Bjorn dipped his head in a slight acknowledgement and saddled up the female dragon, tucking the picnic supplies into a satchel behind his saddle. She moved proudly beneath his hands, and he could swear the male dragon was watching out the corner of his eye. Watching his mate, watching the crazy human intent on flying up the mountain to prove a point or something.
Or something.
Bjorn snuck a glance at Britt as she climbed into her seat high on the dragon’s back.
The male dragon snorted and caught Bjorn’s eye.
Busted.
He was watching her in exactly the same way Mr. Dragon had been watching Mrs. Dragon. Protective. Possessive.
“Ready?” Her voice, breathless and excited, tugged at him.
Yes, my mate.
It was a terrifying thought, especially for a Christian monk who’d turned his back on such beliefs.
Not that he didn’t believe other people had one true mate. Of course they could and sometimes did—in God’s eyes, that was the ideal. One wife for one husband, one husband for one wife.
But no wives for monks, especially not wives who kissed women and teased monks into racing up mountains.
Yes, especially those women. She was spectacular, and if he was any other kind of man… If he hadn’t taken vows of chastity—but he had, and for good reasons that shouldn’t be thrown away over a spark of chemistry and a cultural tradition pretending that mates were fated.