by D. L. Snow
Marriage? No, thanks. She’d rather kiss a dragon.
An Enchanted Story
All Prince Cahill needs to assume the throne is one simple thing: a wife. Except every virgin princess in the kingdom has turned up deflowered before the deal can be sealed. The very next maiden to cross this threshold, he vows, will be his bride.
When she appears—injured, half-frozen and reeking of dragon dung—he holds to his promise and puts her to the final test to prove her worthiness. A test that involves a mattress and a pea.
Breanna couldn’t be less interested in marriage, especially to a cocksure royal like Cahill. Since losing her family to a dragon horde, she has become the continent’s finest slayer—a job she doesn’t plan on giving up until the last dragon’s blood drips from her sword.
Yet her sleepless nights are plagued with visions of Cahill doing wicked things to her untutored body. And when she fights at his side to repel a dragon attack, her visions become delicious reality.
But Queen Eleanor, whose reign is about to end, has no intention of giving up her power. Not to Prince Cahill, and certainly not to some young upstart…
Warning: This book contains corruption, seduction, conspiracy and magically-induced erotic dreams. And that’s just the first chapter.
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Macon GA 31201
Slayer
Copyright © 2010 by D. L. Snow
ISBN: 978-1-60928-164-9
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2010
www.samhainpublishing.com
Slayer
D.L. Snow
Dedication
To all the strong women in my life (you know who you are) who battle dragons of all shapes and sizes on a daily basis. You are an inspiration to me.
Chapter One
Captain Peacock strode across the great hall, the heels of his Hessian boots echoing sharply against the polished marble. Queen Eleanor glanced up from the scroll open upon her knees and frowned at the expression on the captain’s face. The serpent that coiled in the pit of her stomach lifted its head in preparation to strike. “Tell me,” she demanded before he’d completed his bow. “Where are they? What are they doing?”
“Riding. Then a picnic to follow down by the lake.”
“A picnic.” Bitterness crept up her throat and twisted her lips into a snarl. “How romantic.” The idea of this latest young upstart, this Princess Abelinda, taking her place was unfathomable. But her stepson Cahill seemed smitten.
Peacock’s nod was curt, his back straight as he cocked his head to await instructions. She tapped the quill she held against her pursed lips, and then, suddenly aware of the tickle of the feather on her face, she stroked her lips with more purpose. With narrowed eyes she inspected the captain before her. Yes, he was about the right height and build—tall and powerful. It was no surprise the man had become captain of the guard at such a young age. His dark hair was thick and in need of a barber, but wavy and comely. His brows were heavy, his nose slightly off-kilter and his jaw firm. In his eyes was a glint that told the queen this man both knew his place yet held ambitions beyond the realm of his birthright.
“Remove your coat,” Eleanor ordered.
“Excuse me?”
“Your coat. Remove it.” She waved the feather in his general direction. “Your jerkin and shirt too, if you please.”
The man hesitated for only a fraction of a second before complying. The queen stood and regally stepped down from her dais toward her bare-chested subordinate to inspect the hardened planes of his physique. She ran her hands along the muscles of his back and sides, circling him, trailing her fingers around and up through the silky curls on his belly and chest, then over his powerful shoulders. “Now,” she whispered, “your breeches.”
“My queen?”
Eleanor tugged on the draw that held his breeches in place. “Off. I need to see what I’m working with here.” Beneath her feathery touch, the man held himself completely in check. That point pleased her. Immensely. Yes, he would do.
The sun glinted off the pond like polished diamonds, and Prince Cahill reclined upon the blanket feeling an utter sense of contentment. The cold duck, fresh butter rolls and wine filled his stomach and lulled him into nearly forgetting that he’d rather be out hunting the dragon that plagued the kingdom than courting princesses. But a prince had certain obligations, and this particular princess was not exactly a hardship to be around. With hands tucked behind his head, he watched through half-lowered lids as Princess Abelinda weaved a crown out of daisies.
“What do you think?” she asked in that high musical lilt of hers as she placed the crown upon her thick dark hair, adjusting it so that it sat at a jaunty angle upon her head.
“Beautiful,” he breathed and he meant it. The white of the flowers contrasted with her dark wavy hair and complemented the creamy hue of her skin. Yes, the prince nodded to himself; that was an apt comparison. And like some cat, one of the great mountain cats no doubt, Cahill longed to lap at that creamy shoulder of hers and taste the rich milk in the valley between her ample breasts, where her bodice hung low over her bosom. The longing was both exciting and torturous.
Slowly, the prince rolled over and contented himself with simply reaching for one of her dainty hands. There would be time for enjoying the princess’s more illicit delights once they were married. With a gentleness that in no way betrayed the impatient straining at the front of his breeches, Cahill lifted Abelinda’s fingers to his lips, inhaling the sweet scent of honeysuckle that clung to her like the ivy itself clung to the walls of the castle.
Roses blossomed in the fullness of her cheeks, and her dark eyes sparkled. “Oh, Cahill! Have you ever been so happy?”
With her hand still pressed to his lips, Cahill kissed her once more then pressed her hand against his cheek, closing his eyes and imagining what that small hand might feel like were he to slip it down to cup the ridge between his legs. He smiled. Tomorrow. They would marry tomorrow, and by tomorrow night, he would know.
“Your Highness?”
Cahill opened his eyes and squinted up into the shadow of the man who stood above him. With reluctance, he dropped Abelinda’s hand and pushed himself to his feet. It took more than a little effort to keep from groaning at the sudden uncomfortable pressure at the front of his snug breeches.
“I’m sorry to disturb Your Highness.”
Once standing, Cahill recognized the captain of the guard, a man not much older than himself. “What is it, Peacock?”
“The queen wishes you to take tea with her this afternoon.” The man glanced down at Abelinda, still seated on the picnic blanket beneath the overhanging branches of the massive willow tree. “That is, if the princess will excuse you.”
“But of course,” Abelinda cooed. “I don’t think I could eat again for a week.”
“You could do worse,” the queen commented once tea was poured and Cahill’s mouth was full of persimmon cake.
<
br /> He loathed the cake, but it was his stepmother’s favorite and their meetings always went more amiably when he managed to swallow at least one morsel. “She’s lovely and you know it,” Cahill responded once the dry cake passed well enough down his esophagus.
“Yes, of her beauty there is no question. Her parentage is another matter.”
Cahill swallowed a mouthful of tea to clear any stray crumbs. “What are you talking about?”
“I knew her father very well.”
By the inflection in Eleanor’s voice, Cahill was left with little doubt as to just how well she knew the King of Enravia.
“I always wondered how one as fair as King Henri could sire such a dark-haired daughter.”
Setting his cup down with care, Cahill replied. “My father was equally fair, and I am equally dark.”
“Yes, but that is from your mother’s side. I see your father in the breadth of your shoulders and the length of your nose. With you there is no doubt.”
Cahill shrugged. “It makes no difference. I’m marrying Abelinda tomorrow.”
“Oh, but my dear son, it makes a great deal of difference. Think of the scandal should the lovely Abelinda be proven to be a bastard.” She shook her head gravely, “Forced to divorce, any children of the union disowned.” After a thoughtful sip of tea, the queen sighed and continued. “I know you too well, my son. These things are law, and if they should occur, your gentle nature would not withstand them.”
Cahill doubted her belief in his gentle nature. But there was truth in his stepmother’s words. The law decreed that he must marry a princess—one of pure blood. “Well,” he said, “there is no way of knowing. Her mother is dead and gone. There is no proof either way.”
“Except for the test.”
“What test?”
The queen pulled a scroll from her sleeve and carelessly tossed it onto the table between them. “Oh, here, my dear, have another slice of cake.” Ignoring the scroll, she passed him the plate of sweets.
With a grim smile, Cahill slid a slice onto his empty plate. Somehow, impossibly, the cake was drier than usual. Then he reached for the scroll and pulled it taut against his knees to read.
“It’s a very old test,” the queen eventually continued while he read, “but trustworthy, nonetheless. For it is well known that a true and pure princess has the most delicate of skin.”
Cahill nodded. Although he had managed to refrain from exploring too much of Abelinda’s creamy skin—only one more day until he would enjoy those delights!—he had seen enough to attest that she was indeed a delicacy.
The queen continued to speak while Cahill perused the ancient scroll. “It’s simple, really. And though it has not been practiced for a few generations, the test is irrefutably accurate.” After an audible sigh, she said, “More’s the pity it’s been in disuse for so long.”
“The Enchanted Pea Test,” Cahill read.
“Exactly.” The queen motioned to a small silver plate upon which sat a gold gilt box. The queen flicked the catch with her fingernail and opened the lid, revealing a hardened pea that glowed with an ethereal luminescence. “We place the pea beneath her mattress tonight. If the pea disturbs her sleep, as it would disturb any true princess—”
“When,” Cahill interrupted.
Eleanor smiled. “Yes. When it disturbs her rest, it will prove, beyond a doubt, that she is of pure blood and body and you may marry your princess.”
“With your blessing?”
“Of course.”
Cahill considered the evidence in the scroll. He’d heard of the test, though his understanding was that it was a test of virginity, not purity of blood. Either way, it didn’t matter. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was Abelinda’s virtue. Setting the scroll aside, Cahill stood and brushed the crumbs from his lap. “I have no doubt Abelinda will pass this test. She will feel the pea, and I will marry her.” He nodded once in the general direction of his stepmother and strode purposefully across the room to the door.
“Oh, I have no doubt she will feel the pea,” Eleanor called. “None at all.”
Chapter Two
Princess Abelinda awoke suddenly. The merry crackling of the fire had all but sputtered out, leaving the tapestry-covered walls shifting with vague shadows from the few remaining coals. She pulled the feathered quilt up around her chin and turned over, preparing herself to go back to sleep. But the princess was unable to get comfortable. Tomorrow was her wedding day. Perhaps the thrill of her pending nuptials was keeping her awake. Was there any man more gallant than Prince Cahill? Any more handsome? Abelinda doubted it and considered herself to be among the luckiest women in the realm.
She closed her eyes and pictured Cahill as he appeared to her this afternoon: the smoldering look in his eyes that left her skin tingling as if he’d crushed her lips in an ardent kiss rather than simply brushing his mouth against her knuckles. Her response to his touch was uncharted territory and left Abelinda gasping and giddy. Why, with but a glance her nipples hardened urgently against her bodice. A simple caress on the inside of her wrist resulted in a strange quivering and throbbing between her legs.
Without thinking, the princess rubbed her knees together, recreating the tingling sensation she felt whenever Cahill was near. Her hand fluttered down to her belly and then lower, inquisitive and yet uncertain as to its purpose, following some instinctual path to unknown pleasure. Rolling onto her back, Abelinda eased her legs apart and gave herself up to her hand’s strange will as it hovered a hair’s width above the sheer cotton of her chemise. Even before touching herself she was aware of the moist heat that seeped out through the small unexplored opening that led to the internal blaze of her body. With a sigh, she pressed her slim fingers down into the heat and gasped. Her thumb prodded an unusual nubbin, like the pearl button on the overlap of her kid gloves, and Abelinda was certain it had never been there before.
Suddenly the quilt was much too heavy and her skin much too warm. She kicked her legs free of the cover and yanked up on her nightdress. Furiously her fingers explored as gasps and panting moans slipped past her lips. Barely did her brain have time to register the propriety of her actions as, for the first time in her young life, Abelinda was driven by a pure and physical need that she could never have guessed at. With dainty fingers, she fondled the moisture at the juncture of her legs, not fully comprehending what exactly it was that she needed but knowing, without a doubt, that there was a need and it ran strong and deep.
“Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” a deep voice rumbled from the foot of the bed.
Abelinda sprang into a sitting position, fear and dissatisfaction vying for control of her emotions.
“Be not alarmed, Princess, for it is only me.”
“Cahill?”
He did not respond, but Abelinda recognized him in the near darkness. His midnight hair, his enormous size. With measured steps, he rounded the bed until he stood in the shadow by her side. Starting with her ankles, his large hands grazed the length of her bared legs.
Her breath caught in her throat as she whispered, “Cahill, we aren’t yet married.”
His touch told her that it didn’t matter. Up those hands swept, knowing, understanding what was to be done. Where her own hands had moved with ignorance, Cahill’s moved with a certainty that hinted at pleasures beyond her wildest imaginings. With none of the gentleness from earlier in the day, he grasped the diaphanous material that clung to her heated skin and rent it easily from her body.
“Oh, my!”
His hands found her breasts, and he cursed softly under his breath, using unfamiliar words to tell her what he wanted to do to her. The profanity would have shocked Abelinda earlier, but now only served to increase the unspeakable tension that grew inside her. She squeezed her eyes shut once Cahill’s lips descended on her nipple. He pinched her other nipple, hard, and Abelinda shuddered in pleasure, barely registering that Cahill’s hands suddenly seemed more calloused than they’d felt earlier in the
day.
“Yes,” she moaned as she writhed beneath his skillful touch. His hands were everywhere, her hair, her face, her breasts, her thighs. He grasped her hand and held it against her naked heat, grinding her fingers into her slick moisture. Then he did the most bizarre thing. He wrenched her hand away and, one by one, sucked greedily on each of her slim fingers.
“Oh!”
While he licked the very last drop of juice from her fingertips, he cupped her with his other hand and rubbed her hard until her body arched like a bow pulled taut. Whipping her head from side to side, Abelinda knew she needed something. Something wonderful and terrible. Something only Cahill could give.
Finally Cahill climbed on top of her, his weight pressing her firmly into the mattress. But it was a weight Abelinda was glad to bear. Driven by instinct, she wiggled her legs out from beneath him and spread herself, wrapping her legs around his, the heat of her center searching desperately for satisfaction.
“Not yet, my love.” His voice sounded strained. In fact, he sounded nothing like the man she knew. But then, she didn’t recognize her own voice, her own groans of pleasure.
He grasped both sides of her face and kissed her. Finally. His lips so full, so large, bruised hers to the point of pain, but it was a welcome pain. She opened her mouth for his tongue and drank from him as if she was dying of thirst and he was a bottomless well. Suddenly his hand was in her hair and he yanked her head back. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice raw from panting.
“Abelinda. Your wife-to-be.”
“I would never have guessed.”
How a man could be both so rough and so gentle was a mystery. His tongue circled her mouth and her ear. He tasted her neck and collarbone. His hands returned to her breasts and kneaded them, plumping them up for him to suckle. To Abelinda’s surprise, Cahill moved lower still. His tongue trailed down the valley between her breasts to the indent of her bellybutton. But his downward journey did not end there and, though she had no idea where he was heading, her body seemed to guess as her hips strained unconsciously toward his questing mouth.
