Dragon's Moon by Lucy Monroe Page B

civilized conventions, but if Lais were to lay eyes on Ciara in all her nude beauty, Eirik was not entirely sure he would be able to control the instincts of the beast.
    Lais nodded his head toward a pile of cloth on the ground. “I brought covering for Ciara as you asked.”
    Eirik hadn’t asked, he’d ordered. Nevertheless, he said,
Thank you,
through the mental link before calling forth his human form.
    As soon as he had completed the shift, he grabbed light fabric he knew to be one of his shirts and tossed it to Ciara. “Cover yourself.”
    â€œBossy dragon.” But her beautiful green eyes still glowed with the happiness she’d experienced in flight and her mouth curved in a sweet smile he wanted to kiss.
    She pulled the shirt on quickly. The hem hung down past her knees and in the moonlight it did an adequate job of preserving her feminine modesty. But if he looked closely, he could see her nipples, still hard from the cold air, poking against the thin material.
    He was looking closely. Very, very closely. So intently in fact, that he could just make out the juncture of her thighs behind the fall of fabric.
    He wanted nothing more in that moment than to rip the damn thing back off again and have his way with the little wolf that hid her caring heart behind a mask of indifference.
    Looking at her standing there in his shirt, he had to smile. Compared to him, she was a wee thing, but it was easy to forget that with her fierce spirit.
    A spirit the Sinclair insisted that she had kept locked deep inside herself until Eirik’s arrival. Eirik thought it was fury at her brother’s killer coming to live among her clan that had brought her emotions to the surface.
    But unlike Ciara, Talorc had not blamed Eirik for Galen’s death, or the subsequent suicide of Ciara’s mother. Thelaird maintained that the feelings Ciara was finally exhibiting did not run along the lines of hatred.
    Unwilling to argue the matter, Eirik had left the deluded laird to his illusions.
    â€œAnd you?” Ciara demanded.
    Eirik’s brows drew together in confusion. “What?”
    â€œMairi could wake up any moment.”
    â€œAye, ’twould be a good thing.”
    â€œNot while you are still naked,” Ciara gritted out.
    And Eirik smiled. It pleased him more than it should that the femwolf was apparently afflicted by a strain of un-Chrechte-like modesty on his behalf as well.
    She’d made it clear that she was no more interested in finding a mate right now than he was. And though she had finally acknowledged that her brother’s death was of Galen’s own making, it did not follow that she would ever consider aligning her life with his killer.
    If Eirik
were
looking for a mate, which he was not. He had too much to do for his people right now to spend time trying to placate or woo a woman. He could not even be sure a woman existed that he could share his life with, much less one that he could call true mate. He had two natures besides his human one to appease when choosing his lifelong bed partner.
    The raven and dragon were often at odds inside him when it came to choosing a course of action. What were the chances they would agree on his mate?
    â€œWhat has you scowling?” Ciara asked in a teasing tone. “You were smiling just a moment ago.”
    â€œIs a near-dead human woman found on Sinclair land not reason enough to frown?” he asked as he donned his kilt.
    It was made of the hide from the first boar he had brought down on his own. His aunt had tanned the leather before fashioning a hunter’s kilt from it, since his mother had not been alive to do so and his sister had been too busy protecting their people as a full-fledged guardian warrior.
    As prince of his people, he had never worn a plaid, not even the weave of muted forest tones the Éan had taken to be their own colors.
    He had not decided if joining the Sinclairs would change that fact.
    Ciara