Master of Dragons by Angela Knight Page A

got to say.”
    â€œDon’t be so hasty, Your Highness. I have a proposal you’ll find very interesting indeed.” The warrior reached up and drew off his helm, then tucked it under one brawny arm.
    Nineva blinked in involuntary surprise. He was far more than Sidhe handsome—he was the most intensely beautiful man she’d ever seen, with a long, elegantly boned face and thick black hair that contrasted starkly with his pale skin. His dark eyes seemed to glow with seductive promise as they met hers, and his wide mouth curled up in a smile that suggested tangled sheets and hot skin.
    She shook off her involuntary reaction and glowered at him. “I said I’m not interested.” Take that, Darth Legolas.
    â€œLet’s find out, shall we?” Without looking away from her, he gestured with a mailed hand.
    One of his warriors hurried forward and clanked to his armored knees. The Sidhe bowed his head and extended both hands toward his leader, offering the sword that lay across his palms.
    Even before Nineva’s gaze dropped to it, the Goddess Mark began to burn and pulse, urgent and demanding. She caught her breath and stared.
    The weapon shimmered as moonlight danced along its jeweled scabbard. Its hilt was shaped like a woman, sinuous and nude, her feet balanced on the crosspiece. Her long hair swirled around her body, veiling her nipples and sex in a way that suggested wild power more than modesty. Her delicate triangular face was uplifted, eyes fierce with a kind of warlike joy. Nineva instantly recognized it from a hundred dreams.
    The Sword of Semira.
    The leader’s hand closed around the hilt. Nineva gasped; it seemed she could feel his touch on her own body. Slowly, as if performing a far more erotic act, he drew the sword from its scabbard. Its blade glowed as it emerged from the gem-encrusted sheath, so bright her eyes stung. Around her, the warriors gasped in awe.
    â€œIt responds to you,” he said, his voice deep. “It knows you. As you know it.”
    Nineva’s heart began to pound beneath the escalating burn of the Goddess Mark. Oh, she thought, staring helplessly at the sword, I am in such deep shit.
    Â 
    Diana Galatyn rested her hands on the shelf of her belly and watched her royal husband brood. Even Dearg Andrew was unusually still, although that might be because he was running out of room to move. God knew it felt like he’d shoved all her internal organs as far out of the way as possible.
    It was a good thing she had more than human strength, or she’d never be able to get off this chaise without Llyr’s help.
    Used to discomfort after eight months, Diana ignored it, much more interested in the expression on her husband’s face. He sat sprawled in a chair, muscular legs flung wide, his jewel-encrusted doublet accentuating the considerable width of his shoulders. Black lace cuffs frothed around his big hands, and a huge ruby glinted on his right hand. Any other man would have looked effeminate, especially considering the long, silken fall of blond hair he’d pushed behind one pointed ear. Instead, there was a sense of masculine power and iron will about him. For the past sixteen hundred years, he’d been a king, and it showed.
    Diana loved him so much it hurt.
    She’d also tolerated about as much of this as she intended to. “You know, you’re the only man I’ve ever known who can pace without moving. You going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?”
    Opalescent eyes met hers with a flicker of guilt. “Everything is fine.”
    She contemplated him coolly. “I think that may be the only time you’ve ever looked me straight in the eye and lied.”
    He winced. “The sword…”
    â€œThere’s more to this than some missing cutlery, Llyr. If you’ll tell me what the hell is going on, I may be able to help. I can turn into a seven-foot Dire Wolf,