Yet when Ghleanna could only gawk at him, the hand with the blade sitting limply in her lap, Bram asked, “You did know your father had written books on philosophy and war tactics, didn’t you?”

As a matter of fact . . . no! She didn’t know. She’d had no clue. Her father? Writing books? Even with her mother’s help . . . her father barely read! Not that he was stupid. Far from it. But he’d always been so busy raising his offspring and teaching them how to protect themselves—mostly against him and his two brothers—that he’d never bothered to share his philosophy on anything other than what they should do the next time he and Uncle Arranz tossed their human forms off the roof.

“Gods, Ghleanna, you didn’t know, did you?” Bram asked, sounding appalled. She knew the peacemaker’s family was very close and very . . . cultured. They probably sat around a dinner of roasted oxen and discussed world events. When her family got together, there was mostly just drinking and arguing, arguing and drinking. She loved it, though. Still . . . Bram would know if his father had written any books. And he would have read them. Bragged about them. Ghleanna, as much as she loved her father, also resented him because he hadn’t seemed to be able to keep his blasted c**k in his pants before he’d taken her mother as his mate. A reputation that had haunted her since she was of an age to take lovers.

Yet Ghleanna was still ashamed she hadn’t known something so important about her own father. “No. I didn’t.”

“He never told you?”

“No. But he did teach me how to use two axes at once to disembowel someone in seconds.”

“Well . . . I’m sure that’s quite helpful, too.”

She slid her blade back into her boot. “I wonder why he didn’t tell us.”

“Maybe he thought . . .”

“Thought what?”

Bram shrugged. “Maybe that you wouldn’t care.”

“Of course I would.” Ghleanna reached over and wiped the bit of blood away from Bram’s throat where the tip of her blade had dug in a little too deep. “He’s my father. No matter what, I love the old bastard.”

“Aye,” Bram said with a sweet smile. “I can see that.”

She planted her elbow on her knee and rested her chin on her raised fist. “Now I feel bad.”

“Why?”

“Because I should have known. I should have cared enough to find out.”

“And when would you have done that, I wonder? During the Battle of Hoesgyn or perhaps the Battle of Prothero in the Medus Mountains? Or maybe during the Battle of—”

“All right. All right. I get your point.” She gave a short laugh. “You certainly are Lord Know-It-All this evening, aren’t you?”

“Only when necessary. Otherwise I try not to let my brilliance overshadow my giving and loving nature.”

“Do you know that you’re not nearly as arrogant as most of my family?”

“Actually . . . I do know.”

She gazed at him. “I’m so sorry I thought . . .”

“The worst of me?” he guessed.

“Something like that.” She rubbed her hands across her face. “It’s been a very long few months. And not very good ones, I’m afraid.”

“Want to tell me about it? I’m a very good listener.”

“Tell you? So you can feel sorry for me, too?”

“Ghleanna, you just had a blade to my throat. There are limits to my mercifulness I’m afraid.”

That made her smile. A little. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell really. I usually spend my time in battle. Dragons have few wars, but humans fight all the time. When one battle ended, there was always another. Another fight. Another war.” She briefly closed her eyes. “But one time . . . this one time in a very long decade, I . . .” She cracked her neck. “I took a chance.”

“You loved him,” Bram said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.

She shook her head. “Gods, no. I didn’t love him. I don’t love him. I’m ashamed to say I was just lonely. And stupid. Very, very stupid.”

“We all make mistakes, Ghleanna. The point is not to dwell on them.”

“Easy enough for you. You probably never make mistakes. When you fart, I bet rainbows shoot out your ass.”

“That is far from the truth,” he said around a laugh. “I’ve made my share of mistakes. Especially with females.”

“Like what?”

“Apparently I’m easily distracted—”

“You are.”

“I don’t need your help in listing my mistakes, Captain.”

“It’s not a mistake. You have a lot on your mind. One just needs to be aware of it so you can be . . . managed.”

“You manage me?”

“Quite well. And is that it? Being distracted because your brilliant brain is constantly turning isn’t much of a mistake.”

“I’m always involved in my precious books and papers.”

“Not a mistake.”

“And I spend more time doing things for the reigning queen than I do for anyone else in my life.”

She blew out a breath. “Still waiting on those mistakes.”

“Isn’t being a distractible dullard who’s never around mistake enough?”

“Not to me. Sounds like you’re just very busy. You simply need to find someone who can handle that. Who respects your space without crowding you. Probably someone who has a job of her own so you don’t become her job. That’s where you probably get into problems, peacemaker. You need an independent female who’s not threatened by all the work you’re doing.”