Flight of Dragons(68)

“I mean it. Enough, now go.”

Graeme Penrith, Lord Greymoor, Marquess of Iron Hill, waited for the meddlesome ghost to leave before opening the secret panel in his desk. He reached in and pulled out a lock of red hair and a miniature painting. They were all he had left of his love. He rubbed the lock against his cheek as he gazed longingly at the picture.

As he did every night before retiring to his bed, he cast his thoughts back to that day, long ago. His cock swelled and he slid his hand down the front of his trousers as recalled the moment he tore the fabric of her innocence and made her his.

It had been the most perfect day of his life. They’d left early in the morning and gone for a long walk through the woods. They came across a lovely meadow near a stream where they stopped to rest and eat from the food basket he’d had Brogan’s cook prepare.

He’d offered her the tastiest morsels, and the feel of her soft lips on his fingertips as she accepted them made his cock throb.

He could remember every detail of that day. The softness of her hair as he ran his fingers through it. Her wide grin when she agreed to become his wife. The way her lips tasted when they kissed. Her soft moans as she came when he used his mouth on her. And the snug fit of her body around his cock. He felt whole. She completed him.

He squeezed his cock in his fist with the memory, but it didn’t come close to the bliss her tight heat had created in his body and soul.

If only he’d known what the morrow would bring, he was sure he could have prevented the giant black hole in his heart.

His cock shrivelled as he recalled the horror of the following morning. He slid his hand from his trousers and squeezed his eyes shut against the image.

He’d resigned himself to dying without issue long ago. His love for her was too strong for him to even slake his lust with another woman, let alone marry one. No, it was far better to keep his misery to himself.

He looked out the window into the starlit sky. “Where are you, Freya?”

As always, the answer was silence, but deep down he knew she was alive. Somewhere.

He gently rubbed his fingertip along the picture where her cheek used to be and pressed a kiss to her lips. “Good night, my love.” He let the tears fall as he returned his precious belongings to their secret place.



***



Walter finally slipped from the room, a little ashamed and a lot curious. He shouldn’t have returned after he’d been asked to leave, but there was something in Lord Greymoor’s demeanour that made him sneak back in.

The woman in the painting had been stunning, but unfamiliar. Walter was certain he’d have remembered this one if he’d ever seen her.

Maybe Martyn knew something.

“Bloody hell, Walter, you’re asking for trouble by delving into matters that don’t concern you.” Martyn Watley rubbed his temples and slowly shook his head.

“Maybe so, but I just want to help.”

“Oh well, I guess it couldn’t really make matters worse and what I know is really only rumour, anyway.”

“Rumour has a tendency to grow from a seed of truth…”

“True enough. Apparently, he fell in love with a girl while he was visiting his cousin, the Duke of the Northern Marches. She disappeared without a trace. Greymoor remained behind for a good six months or more searching for her before he was sent home to attend to his responsibilities.”

“When was this?”

“Oh, around six years ago, I think.”

Walter pondered for a moment. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“I did some repair work on some armour for a sellsword around that time. The damage was like nothing I’d ever seen, and when I remarked on it, I thought he’d been having me on when he told me it was dragon damage.”

“Of course he’d been having you on. Everyone knows dragons only exist in stories for scaring children who misbehave.”



***



“And they lived happily ever after.” Freya Stillwell tried to believe the story she told her wee daughter, but as each year passed, she became less and less confident.

“Mama, tell me about my papa.”

“No more tonight, my lovely. It’s sleepy-time.”

“Please,” the small child implored.

Unable to deny her baby any small thing within her power to give, she began. “He is as tall as the trees with hair as black as night. His eyes are as blue as the sky—”

“Tell me something new about him. Something I don’t know.”

“Hmm, let me think. He loves cabbage.”

“Mama, that’s not true. Nobody loves cabbage.”

“I swear, it’s true. Papa loves cabbage.”

“Really, truly?”