Brea narrowed her eyes and scoffed, “Easy?”
“I mean efficient,” Cahill said and grinned. “There’s no hacking at a writhing neck covered in almost impenetrable scales. No fire, no mess.” He raised his hand to Brea to pull her down from the horse and she accepted the help without hesitation. “We make quite a team.”
She nodded, but her face was turned to the surrounding countryside where only blackened patches on the ground indicated the number of dragons that died that day. “That’s it,” Brea sighed. “We did it. We killed them all.”
In a voice filled with wonder and dread, Cahill said, “Maybe not all. What the hell is that?”
Brea followed his outstretched arm and finger and then muttered, “Fuck a duck.”
Cahill swung his head to look at her in surprise, then turned his attention back to the monster that glided overhead.
“That, my prince, is the beast that gave me this.” Cahill glanced back at Brea and to where she was pointing down at her leggings which were stained where her old wound had reopened and oozed blood.
“You fought that thing?” he said with admiration.
Brea nodded grimly. “As you can see, it won.”
Slowly Cahill shook his head back and forth. “You’re still here,” he said. “I call that a draw.”
The enormous dragon circled high overhead, squawking shrilly so that both Cahill and Brea had to cover their ears. Then it swooped, flying low over the land, its head swaying back and forth as if looking for something, or someone. Finally the dragon rose and flew off, out of sight.
“We’ll save that one for another day,” Cahill said as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.
Brea settled back against the copper tub, her knees drawn to her chest, reveling in the soothing warmth of the water. She’d washed first in a nearby stream, but only lye soap would get the dragon smell out of her hair. As for her clothes, the cook had confiscated them in order to boil them in vinegar in hopes of removing the stink. After another dunk of her head beneath the water, Brea rose, dripping, and used a blanket to dry herself. Cahill had given her one of his spare shirts to wear and Brea laughed at herself as she cinched the garment around her waist with a strip of leather. It was long enough to be a dress. Not a proper dress, but a nightdress at least, and that’s all she needed it for. Her clothes would be dry enough by morning when the company rode out.
Peeking out through the tent flap, Brea called to Cahill’s valet to remove the washtub and bring in some food. She tucked a fur around her shoulders for decency’s sake, then Brea sat at the table and waited for the food and Cahill to arrive. He came in moments later, smelling clean and masculine. Brea kept her lashes lowered as a sudden shyness descended over her.
They ate in relative silence, making mundane remarks about the flavor of this dish and that. Finally Cahill cleared his throat and said, “I cannot go on like this. I must make my intentions known.”
Slowly Brea looked up from her food. The firelight flickered in Cahill’s dark eyes, making him appear more sinister than regal.
“Breanna, I beg you. No, I beseech you to consent to be my wife.”
Though Brea knew it was coming, had known his intentions all along, her answer became lodged in her throat. She licked her suddenly dry lips and said, “I’m sorry, Cahill. I can’t.”
He didn’t move for a long time. Finally he spoke. “Why?”
All her old resentments, her old prejudices about marriage reared their ugly heads in her mind. “I know how these things work. The minute I marry you, I belong to you. I give up everything.”
“What do you give up?” Cahill argued. “Marry me and you gain a title and a kingdom.”
“Both of which I already have,” Brea countered.
“Bah!” Cahill fumed. “You have nothing.”
“Nothing?” Brea rose in anger. “I have everything I need, Prince.” She limped purposefully around to the other side of the table, using the fact that he was still seated to her advantage. “I don’t need your land, I don’t need your title.” With each item she listed, she poked him in the shoulder. “I don’t need a stinking husband to making demands of me once he thinks he owns me.”
“What do you mean, make demands?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m not one of your sheltered young princesses who has no idea of the filthy rutting tendencies of men. I know what goes on behind closed doors.”
Cahill’s expression changed. First understanding, then shock, and then anger. “You’re not a virgin,” he said in a low voice. “Someone abused you.”
Brea laughed. “No, I’m a virgin.” She pulled her dagger out from her leather belt and twisted it between her hands. “I wouldn’t let a stinking, breeding male near enough to abuse me.”
Cahill frowned. “Then what do you know of things that take place ‘behind closed doors’?”
“You may find this shocking, Your Highness, but commoners rut regardless of whether doors are open or closed. In fact doors have very little to do with it. Stables, tavern floors, up against walls.” Brea shivered with revulsion. “Beastly copulations. No thank you.”
“Ah,” Cahill said. “A tavern education.” He stood, and Brea found herself no longer at an advantage. “I’m afraid, Princess, your education may be lacking. What you have witnessed is only a very limited version of the act in question.”
“I’d wager I know more than enough.”
“A wager.” The prince smiled as he lifted her chin with his thumb, forcing her to look at him. “Now that’s a wager I’d be willing to take.”
Brea scowled, but Cahill tightened his grip on her chin, holding her in place. “What if I was to convince you otherwise, Princess? What if I was to prove there was more to this carnal act than you are aware and what if I was to wager that by the end of it, you will be begging me to take you to our marriage bed?”
Still holding her dagger, Brea pressed the tip into the juncture of his rib cage. With satisfaction she watched his eyes widen at the sharp pain of it. “I will make no such wager.”
Cahill released her face and stepped back, out of the reach of her dagger’s lethal point. “Because you know you’ll lose.”
“Ha!”
“Remind me, Brea, who was tugging at the draw to my breeches the other day. I might be mistaken, but I’m almost certain it was you.”
“You swine!”
“Yes. A talking swine, at that. Come on, Brea. Stop fighting it.” His hand moved so swiftly she wasn’t able to get away in time. He grasped her wrist and squeezed until she dropped the dagger. Then he pulled Brea to the bed of furs and pushed her down. “Tell me you don’t want me.”
“I don’t want you,” she snapped. And she didn’t. Not logically. But apparently her hands did because they wound around Cahill’s neck and pulled him down onto the furs beside her.
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Snow: An Enchanted Story Page 9
