The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

anyone but Darville.
    Mikka rose, cloaking herself with the regal bearing she’d been trained to since birth. Then she allowed Rosie’s fear of Darville to come forward and voice the opinion of both. And with the fear came a reason. Every time Rosie had encountered Darville, he smelled different. To her sense-oriented brain, this made him undefinable and therefore untrustworthy.
    To complicate her limited perceptions, the smells Darville emitted were all associated with Rosie’s fears. On the barge there was the reek of magic. When she had gone to his office to apologize for her unwitting remark, he smelled of cat and she thought that cat was trying to kill her. Their next meeting was in the tunnels where he smelled of death after his brief battle with outlaws. Then, in the market square of Last Isle, he smelled of the river and a fear of drowning.
    Mikka absorbed Rosie’s sensations and wrapped them around herself self-righteously.
    “I refuse this marriage.” Her voice rang out across the crowded room. All of the buzzing speculation ceased. Every ear turned to her, cocked to make sure no syllable was missed.
    “Your Highness! You can’t. The treaty has been signed. We gave our word,” Kevin-Rosse protested.
    “Think, Rosie,” Janataea hissed at her. “For once in your life, think before you speak.” A tendril of compulsion followed the governess’ words.
    Mikka jumped away from the magic probe. She hummed just beneath hearing level to make sure her slight magic protected her. She had learned much about magic in the year she had lived with Brevelan, and during the six moons when she had protected Darville. Janataea would never penetrate her defenses again.
    Carefully, she illumined Janataea’s compulsion so that it was visible to everyone in the room, including the mundanes. Then, when the compulsion hit her invisible armor, it backlashed to the sender in a blaze of green light so deep in color it resembled a forest of Tambootie in deepest night. The nearly black light spread and engulfed Janataea in a prison of her own magic.
    The acrid scent of burning Tambootie sizzled through the room.
    “I renounce you, Janataea, for a witch of the highest order. You have kept me a prisoner of your magic and subject to your will for too long. This marriage was never my choice. I neither signed the treaty nor gave my word. So I also renounce the betrothal and will return to my home. The treaty is null and void.” Armor and dignity intact, Mikka glided down the length of the audience chamber, unhindered by the staring courtiers and guards.
     
    “Stop right there, Princess Rossemikka!” Darville roared in his best parade ground tones. Lonely emptiness threatened to spread from the tight knot in his gut. He couldn’t bear to lose her again. Not like this.
    Mikka stopped her dignified retreat from the room, but she didn’t turn to face him and her spine remained rigid.
    “Compromise,” he whispered to himself. “This is no time for injured pride.” The presence of Rosie in Mikka’s body complicated matters, but he’d tolerate it to keep his precious Mikka.
    He marched, as rapidly as he dared in the crowded room, to stand directly behind her. With this many Council members, magicians, and soldiers present, he might as well be acting with every eye in the kingdom on him.
    “Mikka, please stay,” he pleaded. He’d learned long ago that orders slid over her without penetrating.
    She didn’t move.
    “ Stargods, woman, look at me!” Darville swung her around to face him. Moisture brightened her eyes. Other than that, there was no trace of emotion on her beautiful face.
    “I’ll not marry you. You don’t love me, and all your pretty words of devotion and affection were as smoke, to drift away in the slightest breeze.” A single tear teetered on the edge of her lashes.
    Anger and desperation choked away the words that formed in Darville’s throat. He could only act. He pulled her close to his chest with harsh hands as his mouth descended to hers in punishing need.
    Mikka fought him—or was it Rosie? He couldn’t be sure whose fists pounded his chest for release. Darville dug his fingers tighter into her shoulders, deepening his possessive kiss.
    When he had drained her of response to the fierce plundering of her mouth, he lightened his hold. Gently, ever so gently, he allowed his tongue to caress her bruised and swollen lips, begging for entrance. Satisfying warmth melted his knees. She was so soft,