To
Love a Highland Dragon
Dragon
Lore, Book 1
Ann
Gimpel
Publisher: Taliesin
Release Date: 9/5/13
Genre: Urban Fantasy/Romance
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has been replaced by ungainly row houses.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.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
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.”
My Review: 4 stars
What a fabulous imagination Ann must have. I think I'd love to live in her head while she's writing, just to see how she gets her ideas and transforms them into the written word. First, I wanted to read this book because it has to do with dragons. They're sexy as all get out, and I like that more people are writing about them. Maggie is a strong, independent woman who just manages to meet a Scotsman who is merged with a dragon. Lucky girl. She also happens to be a witch, she just denies it. She's a doctor and a scientist, none of that mumbo jumbo for her. Until she meets Lachlan, he's the Scotsman who is sexy as hell and she can't keep her mind off him for more than a few minutes. I loved that Ann used a lot of different lores in creating her story; Celtic Gods, Mages, Witches and Dragons. That's some powerful stuff to be able to tap into. I loved reading this because I couldn't get the sound of a sexy Scotsman talking out of my head everytime Lachlan had something to say. Yeah, I'm a sucker for a Scottish accent. But that does not negate that this was a good book, with very creative uses of existing lore, and great characters. Ann once again has done a great job of sucking me into her world for an afternoon of wonderful adventure.
About
the Author:
Ann Gimpel is a clinical
psychologist, with a Jungian bent.
Avocations include mountaineering, skiing, wilderness photography and,
of course, writing. A lifelong
aficionado of the unusual, she began writing speculative fiction a few years
ago. Since then her short fiction has appeared in a number of webzines and
anthologies. Several paranormal romance novellas are available in e-format.
Three novels, Psyche’s Prophecy, Psyche’s Search, and Psyche's Promise are
small press publications available in e-format and paperback. Look for three
more urban fantasy novels coming this summer and fall: To Tame a Highland
Dragon, Earth’s Requiem and Earth’s Blood.
A husband, grown children,
grandchildren and three wolf hybrids round out her family.
@AnnGimpel (for Twitter)
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