Chapter 1
Eadred Manor, Wyldefen, rural England
Moire Tobin might only have walked this earth for eighteen years, but she knew two things with a certainty that resided deep in her bones. One was that she would only ever love Oliver Hartford, the man who had captured her heart two years previously when they both reached for the same book in a market. Moire had been shyly delighted to find that the handsome, young naval officer shared her fascination with the subject of the book—dragons.
The other truth was that no matter how long she lived, she would never overcome her fear of heights.
Standing in the moonlight that spilt over the floor of her room, Moire leaned out her window and glanced down. Night lengthened the distance. The ground seemed as far away as if she peered over the side of a vessel in the middle of the ocean and tried to find the bottom of the sea. Ivy tendrils clung to the outer stone and beckoned, promising freedom and the sweet embrace of her love.
If she dared.
Moire drew a breath. When she thought about it rationally, it wasn’t so much heights that bothered her, but rather the sudden stop at the end. Although it seemed odd to fear the ground. Then she remembered who was waiting for her…Oliver. A brave and caring soul. He had joined the Navy as a young lad of twelve in order to seek a better life and had worked his way through the ranks.
Borrowing strength from the thought of seeing him, Moire hitched up the edge of her dark-blue woollen gown to make it easier to climb. Then she clambered out to sit on the ledge.
“It is no different from climbing a tree.” A tree that seemed impossibly tall in the dark, and there might be sharp teeth waiting to tear her apart at its base.
Grabbing a thick branch of the ancient ivy, she began her descent. Her heart pounded with fear of either falling or being discovered by her family. Her father would be furious if her actions reflected badly on him. One careful foot at a time and keeping her gaze on the rough stone wall, she descended the old scrambling plant. When her boots sank into the lush grass, relief flowed up her wobbly legs.
From nearby came a low warble, and the noise reassured her.
“It’s all right, Faustus, it’s only me,” she crooned back.
A shape detached from the shadows and approached. Larger than a horse, it walked with an odd side-to-side gait. Moire’s escape had roused the old wyvern. Virtually blind in daylight hours, the nocturnal creature guarded their slumber and the estate. He must have scented her on the night air and come to investigate.
When Moire stretched out her hand, the beast rubbed against her palm in greeting. Wyverns were the ugly and misshapen cousins of majestic dragons. Tied to a five-mile radius from the point of their hatching, they were used as watchdogs by those who could afford the price of an egg.
Eight years ago, loneliness and loss had drawn Moire and Faustus close together. Since that day, they had found companionship in each other. Her family declared the wyvern hideous and treated the lonely creature abominably. Moire knew the ugliest exterior could hide the gentlest of hearts. And the opposite could also be true—beauty could hide a rotten core.
“I am going to Caliban’s barrow. Oliver is waiting,” she whispered to her guardian.
While he could speak in monosyllabic snatches, wyverns were more adept at communicating through pictures and emotions. That was, if a person was open to receiving such messages. Faustus crooned his understanding and fell into step beside her. Possessing only two hind legs, he used the claws at the juncture of his bent wings like front paws. His scales absorbed the moonlight, and he moved like a shadow. Only his eyes glowed an eerie silver, seeing everything as clear as day.
Together, they walked in silence through the overgrown gardens. Their once pristine beauty now a wild, untamed chaos. At the edge of the forest, Faustus nudged her hand and dropped to his belly. He would wait for her to return and escort her safely home through the dark. Moire scratched his head, using her nails to reach the spots between the hard ridges above his eyes.
Slipping between two oaks, she followed a path etched into the earth by numerous types of feet over the decades. Dappled moonlight illuminated her way. The soft burble of the river that ran through the forest called to her. At last, the path opened into a clearing dominated by a large mound. The barrow, with its surface covered in moss and wildflowers, was a solemn reminder of the magical world she lived in. Caliban, the noble dragon who had raised her family to the highest level of peerage in the land, had lain down and died on the spot. The earth had reclaimed his form, just as the lower ranks of nobility had reclaimed her family.
“Oliver?” Moire called.
“Here,” his voice came from beside the barrow.
His tall and lean form emerged from the dark as though a tree had come to life. The sight of him wrapped in moonlight and shadows made her heart swell with love.
“You came,” he whispered, his tone a soothing lullaby to her racing heart.
Moire ran to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against the rough wool of his jacket. Inhaling, she caught the scent of horses and fresh hay. When on shore leave, Oliver stayed with his cousin and helped with the never-ending chores of tending animals and crops.
She drank in the comfort of his presence. “If anyone knew I was here with you, I would be completely ruined.”
“You could never be ruined in my eyes.” He placed one finger under her chin and tilted her face to claim a kiss.
“I cannot stay long. Father kept me up past midnight, insisting I write to London for wallpaper samples as though their urgent acquisition was of the greatest importance.” She had protested, saying she would do it in the morning, but Sir George had grown angry at the idea of waiting a few hours longer.
“I cherish whatever time we have.” Fingers entwined, he drew her down to where he had spread a blanket. They sat with their backs against the barrow, the water at their feet, and a canvas of stars above them.
“Sometimes, I dream of having a little farm somewhere. Not too far away, though, so that Faustus can be with me.” Moire traced patterns on his palm.
Oliver squeezed her hand. “I imagine a day when laughter washes over Caliban’s barrow, and you are free of your family’s demands.”
An ache shot through her. “They mean well. But since Mother died…” Her words trailed away, remembering that dreadful time eight years ago. “Father relies on me, since I am the practical one. Augusta and Katherine are both destined for grand matches to bring honour to our family.”
“You are too charitable, Moire. They treat you as horribly as they do poor Faustus, and you know it.” A stern tone entered Oliver’s voice. His anger was on her behalf and that of the neglected wyvern.
“They are my family.” Her voice broke on the word. Family. Each letter heavy with expectation.
“One day, I shall be your family.” He raised her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles.
“It’s foolish to dream of being free, to live as I want.” The dictates of society and her family were large stones in a basket she was forced to carry and could never set down.
“Don’t say that. Dreams give us hope. Without hope to light our way, what do we have?” Oliver pulled her closer into his embrace.
They sat for hours, sharing their dreams, when a brilliant flash darted across the sky. At first, Moire thought it was a shooting star. Then she gasped as it drew near.
“Look!”
Dancing high above them was a rare sight…a lunar dragon. With wings outstretched, it ducked and dived as it chased retreating moonbeams. Silver scales glimmered like liquid mercury. The majestic creature was said to be a symbol of hope and change.
“It’s an omen that our dreams will come true,” she whispered.
“A sign that our love is written in the stars.” Oliver’s voice was full of wonder at the sight.
The silver glow of the lunar dragon cast a spell upon them, filling Moire’s soul with a sense of warmth and certainty. She leaned into Oliver’s side. Snatches of a dream flitted through her mind, of a future lit by love and blessed by the lunar dragon.
As the winged creature disappeared behind a cloud, Moire rose to her feet. The sky would soon lighten with dawn, and she had to return to her bed.
“Wait, Moire.” Oliver stood and took her hands in his. “You are my guiding star. My beacon in the stormiest sea.”
The sincerity in his voice made her breath catch. Her cheeks flushed with colour as his words washed over her like a gentle tide.
“Before you go, I would ask one question of you,” Oliver said in a serious tone.
“Anything.” She couldn’t imagine what he wanted to ask.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved something small. Then Oliver got down on one knee, holding up a simple yet elegant ring—an oval moonstone set in a filigree swirl of silver, mimicking the iridescence of the lunar dragon.
“Moire Tobin, would you do me the extraordinary honour of becoming my wife? If you could bear marriage to a humble lieutenant in the Navy.” He made light of his position, but determination glinted in his sea-grey eyes. Being only landed gentry, he rallied against a world that would keep him down. The Navy offered him the chance to alter the circumstances of his birth.
Tears gathered at the corners of Moire’s eyes. Her heart so full, she feared it might burst. The moonstone glowed with a soft, ethereal light as though it absorbed the magic of the moment. Love flowed through her limbs. They both fought against the place assigned to them. Her father only ever looked upwards and didn’t notice who he trod on beneath his raised nose. “Yes. A thousand times, yes. If you could tolerate marriage to a woman who would rather curl up in a library with a book than glide across a ballroom.”
“An easy bargain to make.” His lips quirked in humour as he slid the ring onto her left hand. Standing, he claimed her lips to seal their promise.
“Forever, my star of the sea,” Oliver murmured into her hair, his voice filled with a fierce love that shivered down Moire’s spine.
“Forever,” Moire echoed, her heart brimming with hope. Whatever challenges lay ahead, their love would remain steadfast.
“Tomorrow…or today, I should say, I will call upon your father and officially request your hand in marriage.” Oliver walked her back through the forest to where Faustus waited.
The wyvern emitted a low whine at the approaching dawn. The streaks in the sky already intolerable to his sensitive eyes.
“Until then.” Moire let go of Oliver’s hand and ran back to the house so that the wyvern could retreat to his burrow and shield himself from the rising sunlight.
At the house, she took his face in her hands and rubbed his scales with her thumbs. “Sleep well, dear Faustus.”
Inside, the staff were already up, setting fires and going about their morning tasks. Removing her boots, Moire crept through the house in her stockings and slipped back into her room. The dim light from the guttering candle cast an eerie shadow upon the walls. As though the dark hand of fate reached for her in warning, but she paid it no heed.
She undressed hurriedly, throwing her clothes over a chair and donning a nightgown. Climbing into bed, she snuggled under the chilled blankets and rubbed the glowing moonstone on her finger.
As sleep gathered her close, Moire’s thoughts drifted towards the life she yearned for—a life free from the suffocating control of her father. She imagined a cottage by the river. Ivy-covered walls basking in the golden glow of the setting sun. A garden overflowing with fragrant blooms, where bees hummed their gentle songs as they flitted from petal to petal. At night, Faustus would keep a wary eye on sleeping children.
In her dream world, her days were spent exploring the forests with Oliver, stealing kisses beneath the dappled shade of ancient oaks. Their laughter as unrestrained and joyful as the lark’s song. In the evenings, they would retire to their cosy home, the fire crackling merrily as they read and shared what they had learned.
“It’s foolish to dream,” she had said earlier that night.
“Dreams give us hope,” Oliver had replied.
Moire submerged herself in the fantasy. Her heart clung to the hope that one day, perhaps, it could become true. She rubbed the moonstone. They were engaged, and there was little, surely, that her family could do about it.
* * *
Later that morning, the sun streamed through the gauzy curtains and cast a warm glow over Moire’s bedroom. The scent of freshly cut flowers wafted from the vase on her dresser, their delicate petals glistening with early morning dew. As she lay in bed, her thoughts were consumed by the events of the previous night. She could still feel the weight of Oliver’s arms around her and the heat of his breath against her ear as he whispered vows of eternal love.
A soft knock on the door was accompanied by the low voice of Lucy, the maid. “Tea, Miss Moire.”
Moire sighed. Pulling herself from her reverie, she slid out of bed, her bare feet dropping to the cool wooden floor. Today would bring challenges, questions to be answered, and judgements to be faced. But she held tight to her love for Oliver and the memory of the lunar dragon dancing among the stars.
“Thank you, Lucy.” Moire opened the door just wide enough to accept the tray laden with steaming tea and buttered toast.
“Did you sleep well, Miss?” Lucy’s eyes held a curious glint. Had she placed the flowers on the dresser in the early hours and noticed Moire was missing from her bed?
“Quite all right, thank you,” Moire assured her as she closed the door.
She carried the tray to the window seat, where she could watch the neglected gardens come to life with the caress of the morning sun. She ate her toast and sipped tea in the blissful silence. Her father and sisters wouldn’t rise until mid-morning, and Moire cherished the unspoiled, quiet hours. Finishing her tea, she dressed in a sage-green, striped gown. Then she swept her long, dark hair into a simple twist and pinned it off her neck.
The moonstone flashed a brilliant purple as a shaft of light caught it. A knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. She needed her father’s approval to marry. Moire slipped the ring from her left hand and slid it onto her right, promising that by day’s end, the ring would be back on the correct finger.
Leaving her bedroom, Moire’s hours were filled with running the household. The clock on the mantel gently chimed eleven as the other members of the household roused, and their late mother’s friend, Lady Beaumont, arrived for tea with Sir George.
As Moire ensured the instructions for refreshments were relayed to the kitchen, she noticed an advancing figure on horseback out the window. Oliver. Rubbing damp palms against her gown, she hurried to greet him in the entranceway.
“Lieutenant Hartford,” her voice trembled. With the servants watching, there could be no embrace or fierce kiss. Instead, she extended her hands, and Oliver clasped them in his.
“Courage,” he murmured. His stormy gaze searched her face.
“My father is taking tea in the drawing room.” Moire gestured for him to follow her to the partially open door, where they would face the amassed troops in the battle for their love.
Within the elegant parlour, her father sat in the wingback chair before the window. The seat was angled so the soft light fell on his ageing features in a most flattering manner. Her older sister, Augusta, sat beside Lady Beaumont on the settee. Katherine, the youngest of the family, reclined on a chaise with one hand held to her forehead while Lucy fussed over her. It appeared Katherine had awoken with one of her migraines.
“Father, Lieutenant Hartford seeks a moment of your time,” Moire said, clasping her hands before her to stop the tremble in her fingers.
Oliver strode forwards and removed his hat, tucking it under his arm. The light glinted on his brown hair and turned the tips a burnished gold. “Sir George, I have come to ask for your permission to wed Moire.”
Sir George narrowed his gaze, and then he chuckled. “Surely you jest?”
Moire’s heart surged up her throat.
“I could not be more serious, Sir, if a French frigate were bearing down upon me.” Oliver stood proudly before Sir George.
Lady Beaumont rose from her seat and approached Moire. “Why, this is a charming and romantic notion. But you must know, dearest, that it simply isn’t possible. Everyone knows of the financial difficulties of the Hartfords, which severely limits the lieutenant’s ability to provide for you. Apart from the fact that Augusta must wed first, there is the matter of your youth, Moire. Sir George will expect you to wait a few more years before making such a momentous decision.”
Moire swallowed to moisten her mouth. “I am a woman of simple needs and do not require a fortune to live. Oliver is a good man, and our love is strong enough to weather any challenges that we will face.”
“Of course, dear,” Lady Beaumont demurred, and she patted Moire’s arm. “But a young woman must acquiesce to the opinions of her family. They only want what is best for you.”
Moire’s heart stuttered as she faced her father, who crooked one finger under his chin and surveyed them with a stern expression. Oliver tensed his jaw, his shoulders squared. The sun filtering through the drawing-room windows cast a warm glow that belied the cool tension within.
“Father.” Moire seized a moment of bravery, and her voice was surprisingly steady despite her inner turmoil. “I understand your concerns, but I assure you that Oliver is truly worthy of our family. He is brave and honourable.”
“Moire, our little mouse,” Sir George said, his voice tinged with impatience. “It is not solely a matter of character. Lieutenant Hartford is of no breeding, no fortune, and no consequence. I cannot seriously consider this offer when it is so far beneath me.”
“Sir George,” Oliver interjected, his voice firm. “I may not have been born into privilege, but I am determined to prove myself and elevate my status. I will do whatever it takes to be worthy of your daughter’s hand.”
“Can you acquire a title?” Sir George’s top lip curled in a sneer.
Moire’s eyes burned, and she cast her gaze downwards to blink away tears. Beside her, Oliver’s hands tightened into fists.
“Father, please,” Moire pleaded, her voice wavering. “Do not allow rank and wealth to stand in the way of our love. I believe in Oliver, and I know he is capable of great things.”
“Love is a silly, worthless sentiment. My answer is no.” Sir George picked up the newspaper and angled it towards the light.
Turmoil erupted inside Moire as she was trapped between her love for Oliver and her duty to her family. “Father…”
“No!” Sir George snapped, and red flushed over his face. “I will not entertain this ridiculous idea. You have quite given me an upset stomach.”
“Sir George, I vow to make a name for myself and earn your approval. I will not rest until I have done so.” Oliver’s voice was laced with hurt.
Sir George snorted like a disgruntled horse and refused to respond. He feigned great interest in an article, even though Moire knew he could not read the words without his spectacles.
With a curt nod to her family, Oliver turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Moire’s world crumbled, but she found a thread of resolve. They would fight to be together. Sir George won this sortie but not the battle. She rushed after Oliver, her skirts swishing around her ankles. “Oliver, wait!”
He was already out of the house and in the driveway when she reached him. His body was tight as he put his foot in the stirrup. The horse snorted in agitation at its rider’s turmoil.
“I swear to you, Moire, I will find a way to elevate my status and be worthy of you.” Oliver ground his jaw.
“Please don’t confuse my father’s words with my feelings. It is I who strives to be worthy of you,” she whispered.
Their eyes locked. The air was charged between them and carried unspoken words of devotion. Then, with a swift kick, Oliver spurred his horse onwards.
Moire was left standing on the gravel path, her hand raised in a futile attempt to reach out to him as he cantered away. Unable to face her family, Moire hid in the one place they never ventured—Faustus’s burrow. Nestled in the cool and damp earth, she curled up next to the wyvern’s leathery hide and cried out her heartbreak. Only as twilight dropped over the countryside did she emerge to change for dinner and wash dried tears from her face.
As she took her seat at the table, the tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. Only the clink of silverware on porcelain filled the silence. Sir George, his face a study in disdain, turned to his middle daughter. The cat had not yet tired of toying with the mouse.
“Lieutenant Hartford is an ambitious man, and one must admire his determination to rise above his station.” Sir George’s voice dripped with sarcasm that fell like droplets of pea consume from his spoon. “I know sailors are not very bright. Does he perhaps think you come with a title and a dowry?”
“Father, please,” Moire pleaded, her appetite gone.
“To think of a nobody sailor, hoping to marry into a family such as ours?” Sir George continued, ignoring her plea. “It’s almost laughable.”
“And who are we anymore? You might pretend, Father, but when Caliban died, so did our status among the Draco Legion. With no dragon bonded to our bloodline, we are not as noble as you claim. You are a mere baronet and no peer.” Moire’s hands tightened on her cutlery.
Augusta gasped. Never had Moire hurled such an insult across the table. Katherine seemed indifferent, focused on the soup that dribbled back into her bowl.
Sir George turned a thunderous gaze on Moire. “We are an old and noble family, and you will not mention that treacherous…wyrm, again. Do you understand?” His tone was clipped with rage. “When you are older, you will understand the importance of making sensible matches for the sake of your family’s future. Augusta, with all her beauty, is bound to catch the eye of a duke. Imagine the scandal if you married so far beneath us.”
Anger simmered beneath Moire’s skin. Her father would never accept Oliver unless he achieved something truly extraordinary. Torn between her love for him and her loyalty to her family, she retreated into silence.
“Very well,” she whispered at last, her voice barely audible as she stared at her bowl. “I will try to understand and exercise patience.”
“Good girl,” Sir George replied in a patronising manner before turning his attention back to his meal.
In her heart, Moire carved the lines of Oliver’s face as his vows of love echoed in her ears and let it fuel her resistance.
Chapter 2
Four days later, Moire still hid from the barbs of her family. Curled up in her bedroom window seat with an open book in her lap, she watched twilight paint the sky in a delicate medley of pinks and purples. A rustle of the ivy tugged at her troubled thoughts. Peering over the window ledge (but keeping her hands firmly wrapped around the stone for balance), Faustus sat below. The wyvern had one wing up like an umbrella to shield his sensitive eyes from the last rays of light. He flicked his tail back and forth.
“I’ll be right down, Faustus,” she called. Grabbing her shawl, she hurried through the house and outside. She cast a quick eye over the wyvern, concerned he might be unwell that he ventured out before full dark. “What is it, my friend?”
The wyvern huddled in the house’s shadow. “Follow,” the creature rasped in a low tone.
He led her through the rose garden, where leggy perennials sagged over the top of hedges long overdue a clip. Through a hole in a yew hedge, they approached a tunnelled walkway made from pleached fruit trees on the sides, while a wisteria rambled over the top.
Faustus stopped at the entrance and gestured with his head. Stepping into the dim tunnel, Moire found a familiar figure with a lantern at his feet.
“Oliver!” Moire rushed forwards. “It is just as well that you sent Faustus. Father would not receive you at the house.”
“He cannot keep me away.” He drew her into his embrace.
Taking slow breaths, Moire let the thrum of his heart wash away some of her pain at her family’s harsh words. “You were so angry when you rode off, I worried you wouldn’t return.”
“I needed time to think. I’ll not allow your father to dictate our happiness.” He stroked her hair and soothed the turmoil raging inside her.
“But how can we convince them? Father will not be swayed by mere words.” Moire had spent days trying to think of an argument that would convince her father to give his blessing. A hard task when Sir George only respected two things—position and wealth. A third could be added to that list, although not relevant to their plight—beauty.
“We show him. I admit I spent two evenings drowning my sorrows in the pub. But while there, I heard whispers of something that would provide the opportunity to elevate my bloodline and earn us Sir George’s respect,” Oliver spoke in a resolute tone.
“What is this plan?” Curiosity and hope sprang up inside her.
“There are rumours of a boxing match with a rare prize…a dragon egg.” He cupped her face, his gaze intent.
Her breath left her body with a soft whoosh. “A dragon egg? But that is impossible. They are so rare and valuable. People would pay a fortune for one so they could join the Draco Legion.” Her mind whirled at the implications. When Caliban died and returned to the earth, her father was stripped of his Drac prefix and reverted to his ancestral title of baronet attached to their estate. Although ten years later, Sir George still lived in denial about the plummet of their status.
“Apparently, this egg was salvaged from a shipwreck. It had been bound for Scotland when the vessel was dashed upon the rocks crossing the Irish Sea.” He caressed his knuckles down her cheek.
“The Irish Sea? Then what is it doing here, in Wyldefen?” The egg had headed south instead of north.
His hands settled on her waist. “Those who retrieved it realised its value and spirited it away before the owner came searching for it. However, there is doubt over whether it is still alive after being immersed in the cold water. Some say it is dead, and its only value is as a curiosity. Others doubt its authenticity.”
“What does that mean?” Doubts crept into her mind at hearing the tale.
“They say the egg does not look like any dragon egg and that a wyvern laid it. But I am certain it is from a dragon. This is a sign, Moire. It must be.” He searched her gaze, seeking reassurance that she agreed with him.
Moire tried to recollect what she had read of dragon eggs. So few were ever found, and those that were discovered were jealously guarded until they hatched—so others did not steal them. A bright shaft of hope lit her soul. “If others doubt what it is, that means fewer men will fight to win it.” The enormity of what he intended to do sank into her. The prospect equally thrilled and terrified her. But Oliver possessed the courage and tenacity to succeed. “If anyone can do this, it is you. And I will stand by you every step of the way.”
“You cannot go, Moire. It is an illegal match. Apart from the risk of arrest if we are caught, it will be a bloody scene and no place for a gently bred woman.” He took her by the shoulders.
Moire huffed. “You cannot expect me to sit and do needlework while you fight for our future. I will be there to support you and cheer every blow you rain upon your opponents.”
“Does your family have any idea that your serene exterior hides a dragon’s heart?” He lowered his head to kiss her.
Moire surrendered herself to the pleasure that coursed through her limbs, his kiss more heated than a summer sun. All too soon, he pulled back and showered smaller kisses on her neck.
“Winning the match is merely an obstacle we must overcome,” she sighed.
Oliver chuckled. “Perhaps one day, you can write our tale about what true love can achieve.”
“And how a lunar dragon blessed us with a stolen egg.” She recalled the incredible sight of the luminous dragon dancing among the stars.
Moire stood on her toes to kiss Oliver again while her heart soared as high as a dragon playing among the stars.
* * *
Three nights later the moon cast a soft glow as Moire, draped in a dark-grey woollen cloak, tiptoed down the creaking staircase. She paused for a moment, listening to the soft exhales of the slumbering house. Her family were blissfully unaware of her daring escape. Outside, she crept across the grass until a familiar figure detached from the shadows.
“Faustus,” she whispered.
The wyvern approached, his leathery wings rustling like the pages of an old book. The creature’s silver eyes whirled as he sat before her.
“Can you take me to the fight, please?” Oliver had instructed her where to find the barn. The wyvern was the quickest way to reach the location, if she could stomach the trip.
“Yes.” He dipped his body, an invitation for her to climb on board.
As she placed a hand on his shoulder, fear turned her body to stone. She couldn’t. The wyvern would fly far higher than her bedroom window. Her breath came in gasps, and her muscles trembled at the thought of leaving the ground far behind. Or more accurately, of returning to it with a thump.
“Safe,” Faustus whispered. Turning, he nuzzled her and imagined them flying over the midnight landscape. The picture projected into her mind was wrapped in a solemn promise that he would never let her fall.
Moire laid both hands on the wyvern’s warm side and steadied her breathing. If she didn’t brave the short flight, she wouldn’t be able to stand by Oliver as he fought for the egg. If he could face physical opponents, she could face her mental one—heights.
Before the tenuous strand of bravery snapped, Moire climbed onto the wyvern’s back. Given his size, it was not unlike riding a winged horse bareback. She sat in front of his wings and when he raised them, they secured her position.
“Take me to him,” she squeaked as fear stole her voice.
Faustus leapt, and Moire bit her tongue to stop the scream that surged up her throat. She refused to look and buried her face in his warm scales, her fingers locked around his neck. After what seemed like only a few minutes, Faustus landed in a field of wheat.
Moire slid from his back, her knees buckling as though made of jelly, and she leaned against Faustus to let her muscles solidify once more. At the edge of the field stood a barn, light escaping from chinks between the boards. “Thank you, Faustus, for taking good care of me.”
“Wait,” he rasped and leaned into her touch. The loyal creature would hide in the wheat until the fight was done.
Moire set off, tremors of excitement now replacing fear. By the end of the night, Oliver might be in possession of a dragon egg. At the barn doors, others made their way into the illicit event.
“Out of the way,” came a gruff voice accompanied by the scent of stale ale.
Moire froze as a group of drunken men passed her. She clutched her cloak tightly, praying that she wouldn’t be the only woman in attendance. It wasn’t as if she could have asked one of her sisters to accompany her. Then high-pitched laughter came from inside, and she let out an exhale. There were other women present.
A burly man leaned against the door. “Ticket,” he said in a gruff voice.
Moire extracted the crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. Oliver had given it to Faustus. As a competitor, he could give her a free pass to the evening.
The doorman stared at it and then waved her through. Inside, they had made a ring in the middle of the large barn. Men crammed around the edge of the roped-off area. Women were dotted among the crowd like splashes of colour on a drab canvas. Younger lads sat up in the crossbeams and supports, where they peered down like bats. The organisers had stacked crates to create raised seating for those in the back.
Moire didn’t want to be squeezed in between the unwashed bodies in the front rows. Nor would she be able to see from further back. Instead, she climbed onto an upended keg that was slightly higher than a chair, but not so high as to trigger her anxiety. The spot provided an excellent view of the ring across heads, and since it stood next to a solid post, she could lean on it for balance.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat and ale. Lively chatter swelled as a short and squat man walked into the middle of the ring and held up his hands. The chatter settled to a murmur. “We all know what we’re here for, you lot! Last man standing gets his hands on a dragon egg and his chance to be a toff!”
The crowd roared and stomped their feet. The noise was a visceral thing that tumbled through Moire’s body and made her clutch the beam.
“Introducing our first fighter,” shouted the announcer, his voice booming across the crowd. “The Beast from the East, feared by all who face him in the ring!”
A deep rumble of excitement rippled through the throng as a mountain of a man lumbered into the makeshift arena. His broad shoulders and barrel chest were covered in a tapestry of scars. Fighters were drawn by lot, and the first few matches were over in less than a minute each. When the Beast’s opponent hit the dirt floor, he was dragged away like a fallen tree branch.
The next figure to step between the ropes made Moire’s jaw fall open, and her heart missed a beat.
Oliver was stripped to the waist. Muscles clearly defined beneath his skin as he flexed his arms. His hands were bound with cloth.
“Ready for the next bout? We have here the Sailor, joining us while on a bit of shore leave,” bellowed the announcer. The crowd screamed with anticipation.
Oliver surveyed the audience, his gaze picking out Moire. He nodded at her, and her heart swelled with pride and worry in equal measure. As he prepared to face the Beast, she sent up a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening, begging them to keep him safe.
The Beast’s eyes held a feral glint, and his lips curled into a snarl. “Let’s make this quick, pretty boy,” the behemoth growled, cracking his knuckles ominously.
“The Beast will make quick work of the Sailor,” a man near Moire chortled.
“The Sailor is stronger than he looks, and he’s fast,” Moire retorted.
“Ha! We’ll see about that,” the man scoffed, and he raised his mug to her in a mocking toast.
“Begin!” yelled the announcer. Then he ran for the rope and dived underneath as the Beast launched himself at Oliver.
Each blow exchanged between the opponents echoed through the room, a cacophony of grunts and gasps punctuating the deafening cheers from the crowd. Moire’s heart clenched with each hit that landed on Oliver. She gripped the post so tight that her knuckles turned white. She refused to let her fear show. Instead, she raised her chin. Her eyes never left her beloved’s face, even as she winced when one blow split his brow open, and blood dribbled down his temple.
“Show him what you’re made of!” she yelled out, her voice surprisingly strong amidst the din.
Oliver glanced at her, his chest heaving with effort. Their connection was an anchor, tethering them together in the storm they faced.
“I’ve fought fiercer squalls at sea!” Oliver taunted. He dodged a wild swing from his opponent, agile as a cat playing with its prey. His nimbleness contrasted with the brute force of the other man, whose face glistened with perspiration. The sound of fists colliding with muscle reverberated through the room, interspersed by the excited cries of the spectators.
As she watched, the tide of the battle turned in Oliver’s favour. His agility and determination gave him the upper hand against the lumbering brute. Each strike he landed brought them one step closer to their dreams, and Moire marvelled at the strength and resilience he displayed.
“Victory is within your grasp,” she whispered into the ether, willing her words to reach his ears.
With a surge of determination, Oliver feinted left before launching a devastating right hook that connected squarely with his opponent’s temple. The burly man staggered, momentarily dazed, as the crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and curses.
“Go on!” Moire shouted, her voice joining the fray. “You have him now!”
Oliver grinned, sweat beading on his brow as he pressed his advantage. He danced around his opponent, peppering him with quick jabs that seemed to land with unerring accuracy. The burly man snarled and lunged, but Oliver sidestepped the attack with ease.
“Merely a sailor, they said,” Oliver yelled. “We’ll see who’s laughing when I claim my prize.”
With one final, powerful blow Oliver sent the burly man crashing to the ground. The crowd roared with excitement as he stood, panting and triumphant, over his fallen opponent. Moire allowed herself a moment of satisfaction as two men were needed to drag away the Beast.
Then her gaze turned to the fresh competitors, all waiting their turn to step into the ring. The competition was not over yet. Oliver walked a dangerous road to win the dragon egg. Her faith faltered a little.
“You can do it, Oliver.” Her words were lost in the din of cheering spectators.
There was no time to celebrate and no moment of respite. The next challenger stepped into the ring. Twice more, Oliver battled and defeated his opponent. Holding his position in the ring and his claim to the dragon egg. Blood ran down both sides of his face and trickled over his chest, mingling with sweat and painting his torso red.
Moire’s nails dug into the post at her side when, finally, the last combatant of the evening stepped through the ropes—a lean, fox-faced man whose every movement seemed to be calculated for maximum efficiency. His dark eyes flicked over the crowd, settling briefly on Moire before flicking back to Oliver.
“The Fox versus the Sailor!” the announcer called.
“How good of you to save the last dance for me,” the cunning fighter said, his voice smooth and polished like a well-worn sword.
“I must warn you, I’ve been known to step on my partner’s toes,” Oliver replied, his voice steady despite the fatigue that slowed his movements.
A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd, and Moire couldn’t help but smile at her beloved’s wit. But her amusement was short-lived. The small fighter was not to be underestimated. As the last to fight, he had not faced anyone else.
Oliver’s body tensed, preparing for the onslaught. Once the match began, the Fox darted forwards like a striking snake, his fists flying at Oliver with alarming speed and from every angle. Oliver parried and dodged, but the wily fighter was relentless, forcing him back step by step.
Moire watched in awe as Oliver, while clearly fatigued from all the previous bouts, deflected most of the Fox’s blows. The smack of fists colliding echoed through the air.
“Stay strong, my sailor,” Moire urged. “You can do this. I know you can.”
But even as she said the words, doubt gnawed at her. The slippery fighter proved a formidable opponent. Oliver’s exhaustion became more apparent with each passing moment. Moire winced at each blow that landed. Pain lanced through her as though she were the one under attack.
“Enough,” she commanded and pushed back her doubts. “He will not fail.”
Climbing down from the keg, Moire pushed her way through the frantic crowd, using her elbows to make room when rotund bellies refused to move. At last, she was right at the front and close enough to grasp the rope.
Her gaze never wavered from the man she loved, watching as he refused to back down in the face of adversity. With every ounce of strength she possessed, she willed him to victory and turned her thoughts into a beacon of hope in the darkness.
“Is that all you’ve got, sailor boy?” The Fox taunted with a mocking grin. “I expected more from His Majesty’s Navy.”
Oliver staggered backwards. Sweat and blood had turned his naked torso into a landscape of pain. The wiry fighter advanced, a wicked gleam in his eyes that sent shivers down Moire’s spine. Weariness was etched into every line of Oliver’s body. His punches grew sluggish and strained.
“Show him what you’re made of, Sailor!” Moire called out, making her voice heard above the din of the raucous crowd.
Oliver’s gaze lighted on her for a moment, and then he focused on his opponent, his fists raised in anticipation. The two men circled each other, each waiting for the other to provide a weakness they could exploit. It was a deadly dance—one wrong step, and the consequences could be disastrous.
“Women make you weak, Sailor,” the Fox sneered, his voice dripping with contempt as he gestured to Moire with his head.
“No. She makes me stronger,” Oliver replied.
“I love you!” Moire yelled as loud as she could to an answering cheer from the men around her.
At the sound of her words, something remarkable happened. A spark ignited in Oliver as though he drew from a hidden wellspring of strength. For an instant, his eyes flared silver like the lunar dragon. Then he straightened his posture and raised his fists once more.
“Come on, then!” he bellowed at his opponent, defiance lacing every syllable. “Show me what you’ve got!” Like a coiled spring being released, Oliver lunged forward, his fists a blur as they rained down upon his adversary.
As Oliver pressed forward, Moire’s heartbeat synced with each strike, skipping with every near miss. She willed what strength she had to him.
Oliver sidestepped a lunge and followed through with a swift uppercut that landed squarely on the other man’s jaw. The Fox staggered back, dazed. Oliver didn’t give him an opportunity to recover. He pressed forward, delivering a series of powerful blows that left his opponent reeling and gasping for breath.
“Finish him off!” Moire yelled, then she slapped a hand over her mouth, never expecting to hear such words bellowed from her lungs.
And finish him, Oliver did. With a final, thunderous blow, the Sailor sent the smaller fighter crashing to the ground, unconscious. For a moment, the entire room held its breath. Then the crowd erupted into cheers so loud that they reverberated through Moire’s bones. Her eyes brimmed with tears—made of pride, relief, and love—as she watched Oliver stand victorious in the ring.
“Bravo!” cried one man.
“Jolly good show, old chap!” another called, raising a mug in salute.
“Never thought anyone would defeat Darius Blackwood,” the man beside her muttered, and Moire tucked the name of the Fox away in her memory.
“To our winner, the Sailor, goes the prize!” The announcer returned to the ring, holding a crate in both hands. A rounded top peeked out of the straw.
He handed it to Oliver, who took the container and stared at the contents. His chest heaved with exhaustion. Bruises formed beneath the sweat and blood. One knee buckled and without thinking, Moire darted forwards and under the ropes.
She wrapped her arms around his waist to lend him her strength.
“You did it,” she said, unable to think of what else to say.
“For us.” He gazed at her from one eye, as the other had swollen shut. But that one eye blazed with triumph.
Her body ached in sympathy at the toll the brutal fights had taken on him. It would be impossible for her to love him any more, for all that he had willingly endured to secure their future.
“You were magnificent.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “Now, let’s get you out of here so I can tend to your wounds.”
Letting him lean on her shoulders, they left the ring and headed for an open side door. People congratulated him as they passed. Outside, cool, fresh air washed over Moire’s skin as they walked a little distance to a well.
“Sit,” Moire instructed.
Gingerly, Oliver lowered himself onto the stone edge and placed the crate at his feet.
“Is it dragon or wyvern?” Oliver asked her. Only now did doubt creep into his one good eye.
“I need to tend to you first. We can dream of what the egg contains later.” Grabbing the rope, she raised the bucket from the cool depths below. From the satchel she had slung over her shoulder and under her cloak, she pulled out a cloth and salves. By the light of the moon, Moire washed the blood, sweat, and dirt from his body and then dabbed the soothing balm onto cuts and bruises.
The gash above his brow worried her. “This is deep and should be stitched. I fear it will scar.”
He winced at her touch but did not protest. “Let it leave a scar, as a reminder of the night I battled for a dragon. Moire,” his voice broke on her name. Reaching out, he took the cloth from her hand and dropped it back into the bucket. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Nor I without you. I rode Faustus even though heights terrify me, but I refused to let you battle alone,” she confessed. Although the idea of facing the return trip home made her blood run cold.
“We have both faced demons tonight and emerged victorious.” Oliver placed a kiss on the centre of her palm.
“Together, we will face whatever our future holds.” She glanced at the crate and a tendril of worry wormed through her. The egg seemed particularly small and the wrong colour to be a dragon.
“Even if it brings us a dragon?” he asked, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his bruised and split lips.
Moire swallowed. Oliver did not doubt what slept and grew inside the egg, so neither should she.
“Especially if we have a dragon,” she agreed, her own lips curving into a playful grin. They stood on the cusp of an extraordinary adventure, and she couldn’t wait for it to unfold.
