The Storming by Glynnis Campbell

Author:Glynnis Campbell
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Glynnis Campbell
Published: 2018-03-16T04:00:00+00:00

Hilaire could scarcely breathe. The story was horrifying. But it wasn’t the story that paralyzed her. It was his telling of it.

I, Sir Claw had said. I took the dagger from her.

The truth was almost too amazing to believe, but there could be no other explanation. Sir Claw must be The Dire Dragan.

Giric was the given name of her betrothed, not Claw, but no matter what he called himself, he was The Dire Dragan. His slip of the tongue had betrayed him.

And yet, she might have uncovered his secret anyway, for who but a loved one could speak so intimately of a woman’s mind? Who else would know her so well? The ragged timbre of pain in his voice described not the distant suffering of a witness, but the agony of a husband.

This was him. Sir Claw was The Dire Dragan.

A frisson of cold panic raced along her spine. She was trapped with him. Alone. In the dark.

He knew who she was. And he knew she abhorred him.

God’s eyes—what would he do to her?

He was cursed. It was certain now. They’d not yet exchanged the vows of marriage, yet already he brought her death.

Her heart stuttered, and she felt the walls closing in again. But before she raced into headlong anxiety, he spoke.

“Forgive me. ’Twas not my intent to upset ye.”

The words stuck in her dry throat. “’Tis…’tis…it must have been dreadful for y-your lord.”

He grunted in agreement. “He’s had a lifetime o’ sorrow.”

That was all he said. But he spoke simply and from the heart.

He’s had a lifetime o’ sorrow.

While the words hung in the air—raw, naked, vulnerable—suddenly their truth rang out like a hollow bell in the melancholy dark, dispelling all of Hilaire’s doubts.

The Dire Dragan was no ogre. He was but a man, a sad and lonely man. Adversity had dropped a heavy burden upon him, a burden he clearly didn’t deserve. Fate had been unkind to him. He’d suffered terrible tragedies, unspeakable losses. But that didn’t mean he was forever cursed. And it didn’t mean he was a monster.

Her heart melted, and she yearned to console him, this lost soul with the broken spirit.

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “I’ve been too hasty in my judgment. Perhaps he’s not cursed so much as—”

“Nay, ye have it right,” he snapped. “He is cursed. But by fate, not by his own deeds.”

She could hear it now—the bitterness, the anguish—hidden appreciably by his gruff voice, but nonetheless there.

“Well, then,” she murmured in all humility, “as ye say, I should not judge him by his misfortune.”

A weighty silence ensued. If she hoped he’d reveal himself now, she was disappointed.

Instead, he returned to his labors.

She, too, scraped at the wall, but her mind flitted about so wildly she scarcely heeded her own progress.

After a long while, he rested, and his weary panting filled the cave.

“Pity ’tis a harp ye play and not a clarion,” he said in a rare moment of wry humor. “Otherwise, we could fell the walls as Joshua did.”

She grinned at his unexpected wit, which threw her into an even more complex melee of thoughts.

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