by D. L. Snow
“Of course,” Cahill said absently as he nodded to the archer to move the target back ten paces. Then he shot another arrow. This time it was just a tad low. “You can’t afford to lose. I understand.”
He felt her stare. Out the corner of his eye, he could just make out her face, her narrowed eyes, her lips pressed together in a hard line. It took Cahill a great amount of control to keep from laughing.
“Two bags of silver for my horse. Ten arrows at one hundred paces.”
Cahill’s lips twitched. So, she wasn’t new to the art of wagering. It came as no surprise. “Two bags of silver for that decrepit animal? I hardly think he’s worth that. He’s so old he should be let out to pasture, or better yet, made into a hearty stew.”
“Two bags,” she growled. “What’s wrong, Prince? Are you afraid you’ll lose? To a girl?”
He had to admit, she was good. She even understood the importance of competitive banter. He allowed the smile that had been playing at the corner of his mouth to cross his face. “Perhaps I am, Princess.” Then he bowed gallantly and said, “Ladies first.”
The archer paced the distance and set the target. Each of them drew ten arrows for their quivers, inspecting each for flaws. Once both were satisfied, Brea limped up, took a deep breath and drew.
“I understand you didn’t sleep very well again last night,” the prince said quietly just as she loosed her arrow. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
Brea cursed as her arrow wobbled and struck the ground at the base of the target.
“Nice try,” Cahill said, stepping up and rapidly firing, as if drawing a bowstring and aiming required very little effort. His arrow struck true. Ten points for him.
For the next eight arrows, Cahill kept quiet, giving Brea an opportunity to catch up. He even used the arrow that she’d secretly sabotaged by pulling on a corner of the fletching when his back was turned. But when each of them were down to their last shot, he wandered directly behind Brea and whistled as she pulled her arrow from her quiver, inspecting it once more before nocking it. She would need a perfect bulls-eye to beat him.
“I don’t know why more ladies don’t dress in fitted trousers,” Cahill said. By the set of her shoulders, she was doing her very best to ignore him as she raised the bow to her face and pulled. “The view is spectacular from back here. You, my princess, have a deliciously firm rump.”
The arrow flew straight up, and Cahill pulled the princess back beneath the eaves of the shed for cover.
“Why you!” She pounded on his chest, taking her anger out with her small fists. Cahill had to admit, for one so slight, she packed quite a punch. “You distracted me! You cheated!”
“I cheated? That’s rich coming from you. Interfering with my arrows behind my back! Not very ladylike.”
“If you knew I’d done it, why did you use that arrow?”
Cahill grasped her flailing fists and pulled her close. “Because I knew I would win regardless.”
Brea’s expression turned volatile. She yanked her hand from his and slapped him soundly across the cheek.
His cheek stung from the impact, but did not succeed in wiping the grin from Cahill’s face. “I guess a kiss to the winner is too much to ask.”
She slapped him again. “You promised. You promised you would not make…you said you wouldn’t…make advances.”
With a hand on the wall on either side of Brea’s body, Cahill leaned down into her. For the first time since he’d known her, she looked afraid. “That was not a seduction, Princess,” Cahill whispered as he stared deeply into her troubled eyes. “That was gamesmanship. If you would but allow me, I could show you the difference.” He blew gently into her ear, for which he was rewarded with a third and final slap.
Cahill stepped back and bowed. But before he left, he grabbed Brea’s right hand and pressed a kiss to her reddened palm. “What do you think?” he asked as he moved away before she could slap him again. “I’m thinking horse stew for dinner tonight.”
Turning, Cahill sauntered away, fully aware of the wretched state he’d left her in. He may not be any closer to wooing her, but at least he had relieved her of her horse. The woman wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.
Brea struggled to regain her breath. She was so angry her lungs refused to draw air. It was crazy. So she’d lost a simple wager. So she’d lost said wager to her arch nemesis. It wasn’t the end of the world. It wasn’t like coming home to find your family and home utterly obliterated. Yet, for some reason, she felt nearly as angry now as she did that day.
It was this place. It was driving her insane. She couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t eat. There was no escape. And, everywhere she went, there was Cahill. Smiling at her. Pretending interest in her. Looking dashing. His body beckoning hers until it took every ounce of self-control to leave the room before she flung herself into his arms, wrestled him to the ground and tore his breeches open with her teeth.
Pressing her palms hard against her temples, Brea moaned in frustration. With the loss of her horse, she truly had no escape. She’d been in financial straits before, but she’d always had her health to count on and her ability to hunt. Though she was more mobile than when she’d first arrived, Brea had no delusions about her ability as a slayer. Based on this current loss to Cahill, Brea even doubted her ability to defend herself.
Misery settled over her shoulders like a cloak, and Brea absently twisted the ring on her finger as she considered her options. As far as she could tell, she had two. She could stay and continue to be tormented by visions of Cahill in various stages of undress, ideas of matrimony and carnal pleasures luring her in, attempting to convince her of the myth of happiness in marriage. Or she could sell the only thing that remained of her family, buy a horse and ride far, far away from Cahill and all the unworthy temptations he represented.
She removed the ring and studied it before making up her mind. She pressed her lips to the insignia and then slipped the ring back on her finger.
Her decision was made.
There was nothing more valuable to Breanna than her freedom.
She was not a prisoner, Brea reminded herself. There was no reason to creep. But she couldn’t help it. For some reason she knew that Cahill would stop her if he had any idea what she was up to. And Brea was certain that if he restrained her with those big, strong hands of his, his face hovering only inches away, she would do something heinous, like drag his face down to her and kiss him. Then all would be lost.
So she crept along the dark halls of the castle, making sure no one saw or heard her leave.
Once outside she kept to the shadows, holding her cloak and hood fast against her face. As luck would have it, a regiment of about a dozen soldiers rode through the gates into the fortification, giving Brea the perfect opportunity to slip outside without drawing any attention to herself.
Once across the drawbridge, Brea felt her shoulders relax. She was free. Her progress was slow and she would probably have to sleep in a ditch or a field for the next few nights, but Brea didn’t mind. For the first time in over a month, Brea felt as if she could breathe. She had a bag of provisions she’d squirreled away and some other supplies, a flint and an extra cloak, nothing of any value or that anyone would miss. Eventually she would come to a village far enough away from the castle where she could safely sell her ring and buy a new horse and anything else she might need.
Brea supposed she could have taken some silver or gold from the castle. Why, she probably should have taken Elrond, her horse. But the only thing Brea had left was her pride and her honor, and theft, even theft of her rightful property, was beneath her.
As the moon rose, traffic along the road thinned to naught. It was late. The only people out at this time were idiots and highwaymen. Brea was neither. She yawned as she tried to gauge how far she’d come, but there was no hint of the castle behind her in the dark. She wandered to the side of the road, looking for a safe spot to spend the night. A small stand of trees caught her attention. They provide
d the perfect cover from the road, and the fallen leaves could be gathered up to make a warm nest.
Lying down in her bed of leaves, Brea curled up, gripping her dagger in her left hand and her sword in her right. Within moments she was asleep, sleeping more soundly than she had in weeks.
The approaching thunder of hoof beats awoke Brea early the next morning. As quietly as she could, she crawled from her nest to the edge of the woods and peered between the spiky leaves of a holly bush to watch the procession approach from down the road. There must have been a hundred horses at least. And by the looks of things, the soldiers were prepared for battle.
As the company drew nearer, Brea could just begin to make out the faces of the riders. Her breath lodged in her throat when she realized she recognized the face of the man at the head of the contingent. There was no mistaking his shock of black curls, his regal face, his powerful breadth and the flag under which he rode.
Cahill!
Brea had to cover her mouth to keep from uttering his name aloud. What was he doing? Where was he going? With wide eyes she watched him pass, feeling a strange sense of concern over the notion of him leading his troops to war. But her concern did not bring her to her feet. She stayed crouched behind the bushes, the pain in her leg all but forgotten.
However, some commotion in the ranks just behind Cahill brought the procession to a halt. Brea held her breath as only a few leaves separated her from the fidgeting flanks of the horses a few feet away.
“What is it?” Cahill demanded in that deep baritone of his.
“Sorry, Your Highness. It’s this horse.”
Brea ducked her head to see what was going on. A soldier two rows behind Cahill was pulling up hard on his reins trying to get his prancing mount under control. But the horse was not cooperating. It kept tossing its head, rolling its eyes and sidestepping around the other horses.
Brea covered her mouth again.
Elrond!
Her former steed whinnied and danced until he’d maneuvered himself to the edge of the company, sniffing the branches of the bush only inches from her face.
“Shoo,” Brea whispered. “Go on boy, shoo.”
But it was too late. The guard must have heard her. “There’s someone here.”
“Could be bandits.”
Before Brea had time to run, ten hulking soldiers surrounded her with swords drawn. Her capture was swift, and Brea knew better than to struggle. The King’s Guard did not have much tolerance for highwaymen and often meted out immediate justice whether warranted or not.
With her arms restrained behind her, she was at the mercy of Elrond’s wet nose and more than one snicker from the company of soldiers.
“It’s a woman!”
“What should we do with her?”
“I’ve got a few ideas,” one man called. “If you boys don’t know what to do, I suppose I could let you watch—teach you a thing or two.” The company roared with laughter and sneers.
“Enough!” There was no mistaking the prince’s voice. He rode closer, but Brea didn’t look up. “Princess Breanna. As always, it’s a pleasure to see you.” At the mention of her name, the rough hands released her. Brea stumbled forward and finally lifted her head to regard the prince. There was no mistaking the raw, calculating glint in his eyes. It troubled her greatly and sent an immediate flush to her cheeks and to other parts of her anatomy farther south.
Cahill leaned down and instructed her to grasp his hand. With one deft pull, he hoisted her up and onto his horse. Her backside nestled much too snuggly against his parted legs for Brea’s comfort. He secured her to him with both arms and then kicked his horse forward. “Move out!” he called as he cantered up to resume his place at the head of the procession.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, her heart battering the inside of her ribcage.
“I’m taking you to battle.”
“Why?”
“I don’t trust you to wait for my return.”
She struggled to free herself, but Cahill held her easily in place. “You said I wasn’t a prisoner,” she complained.
“I lied.”
Chapter Six
For most of the ride, Brea held herself completely still. She managed to ignore the warmth of Cahill’s broad chest, the weight of his arms around hers and the pressure of his thighs on her backside by focusing on the pain in her leg. This was the first time she’d been on a horse since she’d been injured and, after nearly a full day’s ride, the pain was becoming unbearable. She needed a distraction.
“Tell me,” Brea began, but her voice cracked from a day of disuse. She cleared her throat and started again. “Tell me, who do you go to war with?”
“Dragons.”
Brea’s ears perked up. “Dragons? What? More than one?”
“Yes. A horde has formed and entered Lorentia from the southwest.”
“A horde,” Brea muttered. “How many?”
“A dozen at least.”
An icy chill ran down Brea’s spine. The last horde had decimated her kingdom. There’d been nothing like it since. “I’ll help,” she whispered. Cahill didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t hear her. She half turned to him and said in a louder voice, “I’ll help. I’ll help slay the beasts.”
The rumble started low in Cahill’s chest, but soon spread up and out his throat in a loud roar of laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
It took a moment or two for Cahill to get his mirth under control. Finally he said, “I know you’re a slayer, Brea. But this is a horde. I’ve amassed an army. Your services will not be necessary.”
Brea heard his words, but she also heard the subtext in what he said. She was a woman, a weak, insignificant woman. Her help was laughable.
She flipped her leg over the neck of the horse and spun to face him. His look of shock lasted all of three seconds. Then he smiled. “Did you know you’re beautiful when you’re angry?”
Before she could slap him, he dodged out of the way. He grabbed her wrist with his left hand and said, “As much as I like it a little rough, Princess, I’ve had enough of your abuse for one day.”
She scowled and pulled her wrist free of his clutch. “Just so you know, I’m the best slayer on the continent.”
Cahill raised a single brow. “The best slayer? Really. Says who?”
“Me.”
Cahill smiled. It was the kind of smile an adult bestowed on a small child who’d said something amusing.
“Tell me, Prince. What is the name of your champion?”
“Pritchard.” Cahill indicated the man who rode to his right. Pritchard was as big as a house. His arms were the size of tree trunks. He could probably circle her neck with one hand and easily squeeze the life out of her. His face was large and broad, his brows heavy, his nose thick like a summer squash. “He’s a brute,” Brea said. “How many dragons has he killed?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen,” Brea nodded, her gaze still on the giant of a man. “That is impressive.” Then she turned her attention back to Cahill. “So, what about you, Prince. How many dragons do you have under your belt?”
He grinned. “Not so many.” Then he leaned closer and whispered, “Only eight.”
Brea was impressed, though she wasn’t about to say so. Members of royal families, though trained in combat, rarely put themselves in danger. Eight dragons was a respectable number of kills. Particularly for a prince.
“Aren’t you going to ask me?” she asked innocently.
Cahill’s smile was patronizing. “Of course. How many dragons, Brea? No. Let me guess. Three?” He chuckled.
Without thinking, Brea reached for her sword, but her scabbard was empty. “Where’s my sword?”
“Ah, it’s been put away for safekeeping.” Cahill eased his grip on her to unbuckle his saddlebag. He pulled the small sword out of the bag, but before passing it to Brea, added, “I trust you won’t try to impale me with it.”
“Only if I’m pro
voked.”
His lips twitched at her comment. “Was I right? Is it three?”
“You’re close,” Brea said as seriously as she could. Then she ran her thumb up and down the rough notches in the handle and passed the blade back to Cahill haft first. “Count the notches.”
He accepted the blade and started to count. Brea watched with amusement as his brows slowly drew closer and closer together across his forehead. Finally he looked up at her, his expression one of incredulity. “Impossible.”
Brea shrugged.
“There is no way you’ve slain twenty-two dragons.”
“Actually,” Brea said with a finger tapping her lips in thought, “it’s twenty-three. I didn’t get a chance to notch the last one before I was attacked.” Brea put her hand out for her sword, and Cahill returned it to her without a word. She slid it into the scabbard strapped to her back and then flipped her good leg back over the horse’s neck so that she was once again facing forward.
Cahill remained silent for the remainder of the ride. Even his grip on her loosened to the point that Brea could have slipped between his grasp and slid off the horse. But she wasn’t about to do that. There was no reason to escape now. She was a dragon slayer and there was a horde of the nasty beasts that required her attention. She was so intent on the pending battle, imagining her blade penetrating a host of yellow eyeballs, that nothing could distract her, not her throbbing thigh, not Cahill’s warm body. Well, almost nothing. Brea was still aware of Cahill’s breadth, but his strength no longer troubled her as much as it had. In fact, Brea felt so comfortable, so certain of herself, that she forgot everything and nestled her head against Cahill’s shoulder and promptly fell into a deep sleep.
When Brea awoke, it was to that unnerving, panicky feeling of having no idea where she was. The steady gait of the horse no longer moved beneath her. In fact, she was not sitting, she was lying down, on a pile of furs no less. Brea sat up, automatically reaching for her dagger. But of course it was gone.
