Slayer. Part 2

A person of slight stature sat up in bed, greedily devouring a goose leg. This person's hair was tangled and matted and stuck up at strange angles. The nightdress sat askew across her slim frame, revealing a very bare shoulder and more-though the individual seemed not to care in the least about the indiscretion. All angles and sinew, this individual was supposed to be female, but Cahill saw nothing in the least bit feminine about her. Except for, perhaps, her eyes. Large and grey, they were framed by long lashes and still glowed from what was likely residual fever.

"Merciful Joseph, this is good," the girl said with her mouth full and a large hunk of meat hanging on the wrong side of her lips. She swiped her face with the back of her hand and then wiped the grease unceremoniously down the front of her nightshirt. After tossing the gnawed drumstick back onto the platter across her knees, she grabbed a flagon of ale and downed it in one go. Once finished, she let out the most reprehensible belch and followed that with another backhand across her mouth.

Normally, the queen would have been visibly shaken by such a display, but instead she turned to Cahill with an arched brow and a look of unrepressed glee on her face. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and suddenly Cahill felt quite ill. A smelly, unkempt, belching, dragon-slaying wife? Was he out of his mind?

"My dear," Eleanor began, her voice sweeter than honey. "I can't tell you how pleased we are to see you feeling so much better. I hope that we are not disturbing you?"

The girl shrugged and picked up the bone to give its marrow another good suck. Cahill could only stare-like watching an execution, the sight was horrible but, inexplicably, difficult to turn away from.

"May I introduce my son Prince Cahill." Eleanor waved him forward, and Cahill did his best imitation of a bow. "And I am Eleanor, Queen of Lorentia."

The girl flicked her gaze briefly over Cahill, bared her teeth in what might have been a smile, then looked away just as quickly. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance." The sound of her cultured speech was in complete contrast to her appearance, and Cahill could not reconcile the two. "I am Breanna, Princess of Morainia. But, please, call me Brea."

"Morainia?" Eleanor stepped closer. "That's strange. I understood that the entire royal family was wiped out with their land and their subjects during the hordes of '73. 'Burned to a crisp' were the reports we received. The dragons left nothing, no castle, no villages, no forests, no farmland. Just pools of sulfur and charred ruins."

The girl stopped eating and pushed the tray away, staring at Eleanor with an empty-eyed gaze. "You're right," she said quietly. "There is nothing left." She blinked those large grey eyes and then shrugged and absently picked up a meat pie. "Except for me."

"You? You are the sole survivor? How is that possible?"

The girl took an enormous bite of the pie and, while her mouth was still full, said, "I wasn't there when the dragons attacked." After another couple of bites, she set the pie down. "Here," she said as she twisted a ring from her thumb and tossed it toward the queen. "If you don't believe me."

With a swift grab, Cahill s.n.a.t.c.hed the gravy-smeared missile out of the air before it struck his stepmother in the eye. It was a signet ring with the royal crest of the Morai family. He pa.s.sed the ring to Eleanor who held it with disgust between the tip of her thumb and index finger. She studied it briefly then set it on the table by the bed. "This proves nothing. If you are heir to Morainia, where have you been these last five years and why does no one know you are alive?"

"Heir to Morainia?" The girl's laugh sounded scornful. "Heir to nothing nothing is what you mean." She rolled her shoulders then raised her hands above her head and arched her back in a very feline-like stretch. The movement suddenly made her appear much more female as Cahill couldn't help but notice the gentle swells tipped with tiny budding nipples pressing against her nightshirt as she stretched. is what you mean." She rolled her shoulders then raised her hands above her head and arched her back in a very feline-like stretch. The movement suddenly made her appear much more female as Cahill couldn't help but notice the gentle swells tipped with tiny budding nipples pressing against her nightshirt as she stretched.

"Stepmother, I think it's rather obvious where Princess Breanna has been for the last five years." Cahill answered for her. He pointed to the sheathed sword that now hung from a hook on the wall. "She's spent that time hunting the b.l.o.o.d.y beasts that murdered her family."

Chapter Four.

Breanna breathed a huge sigh of relief once her hosts left the chamber. The queen sucked the energy right out of the room with her cynicism and calculated conversation. But that didn't bother her nearly as much as the prince. He'd watched her with something quite different but even more disturbing. She'd seen that look before. He was a.s.sessing her, measuring her, as if she were a piece of property or a beast of burden he meant to buy. It was the very same look every suitor who had ever pa.s.sed through the gates of her father's house had used to appraise her and her sisters.

Well, she would have none of it. She had no desire to ever belong to anyone. Never had, never would. Fleeing her arranged betrothal five years ago had saved her life. If that wasn't a sign Brea should never marry, she didn't know what was. Now that her fever had broken, it was time to move on before the young prince became any more proprietary.

"h.e.l.lo?" she called as she eased her legs out of bed.

Two young maids bustled into the room looking nervous and shaking with what could only be described as fear.

"Don't worry," Brea growled, "I don't bite..." She gnashed her teeth, "...very hard."

The taller girl jumped behind the other, using the plumper girl's body as a shield. Brea laughed. "Blessed G.o.ds in heaven! Relax, would you? I'm only teasing."

The girls looked from one to the other, and the squat girl in front curtseyed in apology, fear or both.

"Where are my clothes?" Brea asked.

"Oh!" The girl swung to look at her friend. "We, er...burned them."

"You burned my clothes!" The girls jumped, and Brea almost laughed until she thought of the scale she'd tucked into her tunic. She didn't collect them only as trophies, but as a source of income. Royal families paid bags of gold for dragon scales. Had it been burned too, or had she lost it during her fight with the mother of all dragons? Brea couldn't remember. "So now what am I supposed to wear?"

The taller girl stepped out from behind her friend and, as if she didn't want to turn her back on Brea, sided-stepped to a wardrobe on the adjacent wall. She pulled out some garment that seemed to be constructed of silk and satin, lace and crinolines-enough material to form a small mountain.

"Oh no." Brea shook her head. "I'm not wearing that."

The girls looked between one another again with that wide-eyed fearful look, and Brea rolled her eyes. Bother. She'd endured worse than wearing a dress. Although by the look of this monstrosity, Brea would rather endure a pile of dragon s.h.i.t than have to wear anything so frivolous.

She sighed. But, until she found something more appropriate, she'd just have to make do. "Would it be too much trouble to ask for a tub and hot water? I'd do anything to scrub this dragon stink out of my hair."

The girls both sprinted for the door in order to do her bidding, and probably to get out of her sight, and smell. Once they were gone, Brea pushed herself out of bed and tested her leg. The pain nearly dropped her to the ground. She pulled up the edge of the nightdress to look at the wound. It was still red and hot to touch, but looked better than she'd imagined. The surgeon had done a fine job of pulling the flaps of skin together and using horsefly maggots to eat away the rotten flesh. She'd have a fine scar when all was said and done, a scar to be proud of.

A flurry of soldiers approached Breanna as she limped awkwardly across the forecourt, her weight leaning heavily upon a crutch. She turned away as they pa.s.sed, but thankfully none of the men seemed to notice her or how ridiculous she looked. Brea had forgotten just how silly and impractical gowns were. Squeezing in here, pushing up there, with far too much material around the legs and barely enough around her torso. For not the first time, Brea wished she'd learned to sew. But her father had indulged her and allowed her to learn the art of swordsmanship and archery instead, probably because Brea was the closest thing to a son he and her mother were able to produce. Suddenly Brea stopped as she turned into the covered walkway leading to the stables. She leaned against the arcade wall, certain that it was the insistent throbbing in her thigh that had abruptly brought moisture to her eyes.

But Brea had no time to contemplate the tear that meandered down her cheek. The firm sound of boot against stone and a masculine stride brought her back to herself. Pushing away from the wall, Brea tried to continue on through the covered walkway, but her limbs decided against cooperation.

"Excuse me, Miss. Are you in need of a.s.sistance?"

"No, I'm fine." But her involuntary groan contradicted her words.

"Here, let me." He grabbed her elbow.

"I said I'm fine!" She pulled her arm away with force and made the mistake of glaring up into the man's face. Dragon's breath and brimstone! Cahill! Dragon's breath and brimstone! Cahill!

He reached out as if to finger a curl from her freshly laundered hair. Then he gasped and took two steps back, with dark eyes gone wide in incredulity. "Breanna?" he whispered. He looked her up and down, then swept his gaze over her once more, this time more leisurely. "Unbelievable."

Brea rolled her eyes and sighed with exasperation. The maids had spent two hours on her, insisting on unsnarling every tangle in her hair and pinning it up in a silly feminine style. Her scalp still throbbed from it. "Stop looking at me in that stupid manner."

Apparently he didn't hear her. So she stared back and scrutinized him-his size, the breadth of his shoulders, his inherent strength. Though it appalled her to do it, to ask for help, Brea considered her options. The quicker she got to the stable, the quicker she could leave. With reluctance, she held out her elbow. "Now that you're here, you might as well make yourself useful. Help me walk."

He shook himself out of whatever trance had stilled him and said, "But of course." Then he took her elbow in his right hand and wrapped his left arm about her waist. "Lean into me."

Brea blew air out through her lips because there was no way she was going to allow his large body to come any closer to hers. But after only the first few steps, she found she couldn't help herself. If it weren't for Cahill's arms-his strong arms-she would not be standing. Brea shook her head. Thank the heavens she'd soon be gone and never see him again.

"Where are we going?" Cahill asked.

"To the stable."

"Why?"

"I'm leaving."

Cahill stopped, forcing Brea to stop mid-step. Causing her to fall against his chest. "You're not leaving."

"But I am."

"You're not well enough."

"I'm fine."

"Really?" Cahill said with that insufferable degree of c.o.c.kiness that males his size too often exhibited. He let go of her and stepped around to face her. "Then go."

But Brea's wounded leg gave out and she crumpled to the ground. With what seemed too little effort, Cahill stooped down and lifted her into his arms.

"Put me down, you swine!"

"Stop squirming," he said, turning back in the direction of the castle and walking briskly as if she weighed nothing at all.

"I said put me down," Brea said through clenched teeth, pulling her dagger out of her bodice and shoving the tip under Cahill's chin.

Cahill stopped walking, but did not put her down. "What are you going to do? Slit my throat and then crawl away? Your neck is much too lovely for the hangman's noose. It would be such a waste."

Brea dug the tip of her dagger into the soft flesh beneath his jaw, drawing blood.

"Ouch."

"I don't play games, Prince. Now, put me down."

Reluctantly, he lowered her back to her feet, but did not let her go. "You are not a prisoner here, you know."

"Then help me to the stable."

"Where will you go?"

"I can take care of-" Brea was about to say myself, but the truth was, now that her belongings had been burned, the dragon scale along with everything else, she had nothing. The only things of value she had were her horse, her sword and her family ring, and Brea was not prepared to part with any of those three things yet.

"Princess, you are my guest. I beseech you to stay at least until you are well enough to walk on your own."

Brea squinted up into Cahill's face, considering his words. "And that's all? I'm simply a guest guest?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have any...designs on me?"

First Cahill's eyes widened and then they narrowed before Brea noticed a distinctive twitching at the corners of his mouth. "What in Cragmar's name makes you think I have designs on you?"

"It doesn't take a great sage to see what's going on here. You're young and attractive yet still single. You have a stepmother who appears to be sp.a.w.ned by dragons, and I'm guessing you need a wife to take over because you've been watching me like a hawk."

Cahill studied her for what seemed an eternity. Then a broad smile flashed across his face, and he burst out laughing. He laughed so hard, tears streamed down his cheeks. He let go of her only for a second to wipe the moisture from his eyes. But without his support, her knees buckled, and she cursed a blue streak under her breath as she stumbled forward.

"Fine language for a princess," Cahill said with mirth as he caught her before she fell.

The blush in her cheeks came as a complete surprise, annoying her to no end.

"Now that we have everything out in the open, will you stay?"

Brea studied him hard for a moment, but then dropped her gaze when she felt her cheeks grow even warmer.

"I won't make any untoward advances."

"Do you promise?"

He put his hand on his heart and swore, "I promise I will not attempt to seduce you...unless you ask."

She gave him a shove and said, "That's about as likely as a talking pig." Then she put her weight on her crutch and willed herself to move without his help. She made it a few steps before he took her elbow again and steered her toward the castle.

"A talking pig, eh?" he said conversationally. "I seem to recall someone calling me a swine swine earlier. Does that count?" earlier. Does that count?"

Brea bit the inside of her cheek. There was no way she would let him catch her smiling.

Cahill deposited Breanna in her chambers with the promise he'd send up the court tailor immediately so that she might have some clothing fashioned more to her liking. He still reeled from her transformation. If it wasn't for those luminous grey eyes, he would never have recognized her. Never! Although he should have identified her right away once he noticed the baldric. There was only one lady of his acquaintance who wore a shoulder belt to hold a blade across her back. He'd missed it because he hadn't been looking at her back. He'd been eyeing her slim waist, her long neck and the enticing dip of her bodice. Even her scent had caught him unaware-sunshine and pine. She smelled like a mountain meadow.

Contrary to what she might think, her reluctance only increased his interest. There was no doubt about it, Breanna of Morainia was a rare woman, and the challenge of wooing her and bringing her to her knees excited Cahill in a way that even the most beautiful princesses were unable to.

As Cahill turned down the hall to the queen's receiving room, his thoughts of the delights of Breanna's person were quickly forgotten. A number of the queen's guards milled about in the hallway outside the double doors to the chamber. At the sight of him, they drew to attention and parted, bowing as he pa.s.sed. Cahill threw open the doors and strode across the room to where the queen conferred with Captain Peac.o.c.k and four other officers of the guard.

"What is it, Stepmother? What is afoot?"

But it was Peac.o.c.k who replied, "A horde is forming and has attacked along the border of Arcana and Baldane on Lorentia's western border."

"When did this happen? Why was I not informed?"

"We've only just learned of the attack ourselves, Your Highness. Lieutenant Rodham just arrived from the western border."

Cahill nodded to the lieutenant, a man he'd met only twice before, and then drew near, peering down at the map unfurled across the large wooden desk. "How many?"

"Reports confirmed three fiends. Unconfirmed tell of four."

"Not so many, then."

"No," Lieutenant Rodham agreed. "But they've managed to decimate two villages and evade the slayers."

"What is your opinion on containment?" Cahill asked Rodham.

"Arcana and Baldane have always been allies. They should be able to manage this between them-"

"But it wouldn't hurt to fortify our western border," Cahill finished for the man.

"Exactly."

"Will fifty men do the trick?"

The lieutenant nodded, and Cahill motioned to Peac.o.c.k. "Ama.s.s fifty of our best soldiers and ride out immediately."

"Yes, Your Highness," Peac.o.c.k said with a pointed glance at the queen.