Chapter Twelve
Jasper could not remember much about seizing Miss Nettleford and flying away.
The threat to Miss Nettleford had released the hidden store of power he had sensed—and feared—for so long, and in the shock of becoming a dragon, he had thought only of destroying her enemies and taking her somewhere safe.
He had not consciously chosen the cavern in the Peak District where he and his father used to stay on hunting trips back when he was a boy, before he manifested a gift.
He had simply translocated, needing a safe refuge.
His power shredded the barrier as if it didn’t exist, and he found himself hovering over the ledge in front of the cavern’s entrance, Miss Nettleford dangling from his teeth by her gown.
He was glad it had been made of well woven fabric and strong stitches.
Once she was safely deposited on the slope around the curve of the path, he had collected bracken to make a bed, and then checked to see she was still unconscious. She was, which was a worry, but in this form, he could do nothing about it, and he couldn’t figure out how to change back.
It occurred to him that he should take her back to the castle, but his dragonish side refused to consider it, and his human side wasn’t in favor, either.
Until he could take human form again, and learn to control the power that fizzed through every vein and sparked in every cell, he could not ensure her safety.
He dimly remembered killing the Welsh mage during Delia’s rescue, if it had been the Welsh mage who was holding Delia.
That man was no longer a danger, but what of Uncle Percy?
What of the other traitors who must exist?
His uncle had written that the Foreign Office’s spies had discovered the French had known of the existence of the catalyst, her name and origins, even before she arrived at Dronsford Castle, and that meant someone must have told them.
Besides, Jasper’s precognition was no longer merely vague feelings of danger. With the deep well of power suddenly fully open, he was besieged with visions of multiple futures, and in every single one except that in which she stayed at his side, Miss Nettleford died, sometimes horribly.
No, even now he was in his full senses, he was determined she must stay with him.
“Mine,” said his dragonish side. It must be true, too, for all the dragon lords of legend and history had a catalyst at their side.
Miss Nettleford was undeniably a catalyst and he was a dragon, even if one with little control and therefore no right to call himself a lord.
Once he had full control of his power, she would still be his match.
Look how well she was coping with being abducted by a dragon!
She had calmly set up her kitchen and made herself a cup of tea, and she’d had no hesitation in addressing him like a sensible being, with whom one could discuss things.
She was sitting in a dragon’s cavern making rabbit stew, for all the world as if she had not been nearly kidnapped by an enemy mage who was then killed in front of her eyes while she was plucked up into the air by a dragon!
He sent up a silent prayer for the grace to be worthy of her.
There was a movement in the forest above which he was currently soaring. His dragon eyes, a hundred times sharper at this distance than his human eyes, detected a young buck, stepping carelessly through the undergrowth, oblivious to the danger above.
He spared a brief thought for rabbit stew, cooked slowly over the fire with vegetables and herbs. There was no pot in the cave big enough to cook a meal for his current size, and besides, his current appetite ran to raw meat and plenty of it. The buck would do nicely.
It was currently hesitating on the edge of a clearing, looking in every direction but up for danger. It must have been satisfied, for it stepped out from under the sheltering trees. It would never know what had hit it. Jasper plunged downward, claws stretched and ready.
*
The stew was cooking. The fish was filleted and wrapped in cabbage leaves ready to be placed in the embers.
She had found some wild thyme to insert in the package for extra flavor.
She had also found a wild apple tree laden with ripe fruit, and had a dozen of those ready to put in the fire—one for her and the rest in case the dragon had a wish for something sweet.
She longed for a way to spice, fill, and sweeten them—some cinnamon or nutmeg, dried grapes or even dates, and honey or sugar!
With a slice of bread in her hand and another cup of tea, she was feeling much better, the pain in her body slowly subsiding to a mere ache, albeit an ache in what felt like every bone.
She was seated on the box she had moved to the entrance of the cavern, watching the sunset over the mountains on the far side of the lake, when the dragon flew into view.
How beautiful he was!
The wind from his wings as he backstroked into a landing had her blinking and wiping away a strand of her hair that had blown across her face.
Her dragon lord. It was impossible to escape the inference. Catalysts and dragon lords were paired in legend and in history, and she was a catalyst. But why did he not show her his human form? And what about her role as a unicorn maid?
She stood to greet him. “Lord Dragon,” she said, “I am Delia Nettleford. May I know your name, sir? Can you write it for me in the mud there?” She pointed to a rapidly drying puddle left by the recent rain.
For a moment, she thought she had offended him, for he tossed his head upward, but perhaps it was only surprise, for he immediately stepped to the puddle and stretched out a paw.
Slowly, and with many hesitations and rewrites—for a second claw often obliterated what he had written while he was working on the next letter—he wrote letters she could read. J… A… S… P…
“Jasper Thornton?” she exclaimed. She found it hard to believe that fate, or a good angel, or whatever saint looked after love matches had paired her with the very man she would have chosen.
The dragon nodded.
Mr. Thornton might not have the same enthusiasm for the idea, she reminded herself.
Indeed, why should he? Apart from a magical gift for sparking magic in others, over which she had no control, Delia was nothing special.
But he did rescue me, she reminded herself.
And he did steal me away. That had to mean something, but what?
*
Delia soon realized that Mr. Thornton—or Jasper, as she had taken to calling him in her own thoughts—was suddenly in possession of a great deal of power, and he was trying to learn how to handle it.
One thing he was apparently unable to do was change back into his human form. He managed to convey this in a long frustrating session involving gesture, more writing in the mud, and many guesses by Delia.
He agreed when Delia said he would figure it out, but so far, after two weeks of exercises and practice, he was still stuck in dragon form.
Meanwhile, he point-blank refused to seek help from his uncle, the duke, the College of Mages, or anyone else, and nor would he take Delia to see other humans.
Not those at the castle. Not his mentors and masters in London.
Not even the people in the local villages, which she assumed existed since he robbed them every day of food and other necessities.
If one can call it robbing when those deprived of bread or fruit or vegetables found a lump of gold in place of their missing property.
While he had not yet succeeded in transforming himself, he was making progress in other ways. He worked in the field beyond the slope, and she often stood on the path and watched him gesturing and even dancing as he learned to manipulate his power.
Sometimes, there was little to see beyond the emerald shimmer of his power, though she could feel great forces moving around him—it was something akin to the feeling of an imminent thunderstorm, as if the very air was full of lightning and the world hushed in preparation.
On other occasions, she was treated to a light show, as streams of color flew from his claw tips, making patterns in the air—though what they were for, she could not imagine.
Her favorite times were when she could see him working magic.
Calling the wild beasts to him and then letting them go again.
Transforming a rock into a chair or a tree into a table with little more than a stare and a gesture.
Causing a wave to rise twenty feet high to rush along the still waters of the lake.
He had stopped flying out of sight to purloin the food and other items they needed.
Every morning, he changed several pebbles into gold, stared into nothing—or perhaps into another place, and then made a quick gesture as if beckoning with one mighty paw.
Immediately, the gold would disappear and some other item would be there in its place.
A loaf of bread. A string of onions. A jar of tea leaves. Whatever they needed.
Whatever Delia needed, that was. Jasper flew away every day to eat whatever it was that dragons ate.
A deer perhaps, or a wild pig. He often brought back a fish or a rabbit or a pheasant, carried in his talons.
Delia was fully recovered from whatever had ailed her and was eating well, and at least cooking gave her something to do.
Delia tried to keep herself busy, cleaning the cavern, mending and altering the clothes Jasper had found for her, making her meals, exploring their environs—being careful never to go too far, for if she did, the dragon would arrive in her path, ready to pick her up and return her to the slope by the cavern.