Slayer. Part 3

"Peac.o.c.k need not go. He's better off staying here, guarding the castle."

"A horde is forming, Stepmother. The dragons haven't horded since '73, and we all know what resulted from Morainia's miscalculation of that threat."

"It is for the best, my queen," Peac.o.c.k a.s.sured her to the murmured acknowledgements of the other soldiers.

The queen smiled stiffly. She was outnumbered and she knew it. Why she insisted Peac.o.c.k remained behind, Cahill could well guess. It likely had something to do with the fact that she watched him as if he were a fatted lamb and she a malnourished she-wolf. Whatever her relationship was with the man did not bother him; it was her lack of judgment in matters of the kingdom that reminded Cahill of his rightful position as king.

The thought of his kingship prompted Cahill to think of Breanna. He lingered until the plans had been finalized and the soldiers filed out of the room. Then he turned to the queen. "The princess Breanna will be our guest for another month at least."

The queen wrinkled her nose at the mention of the princess's name. "I see."

"Do you still require proof of her purity?"

"Of course. Why should she be the exception?"

"Why indeed," Cahill agreed as he turned to leave, although he was certain that if Brea was anything, it was an exception.

Brea closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. The throbbing in her thigh had dulled to a constant ache and made it difficult to get comfortable. After rolling onto her back, she carefully stretched her legs. She needed exercise. That must be the reason she felt so restless. Her body was rebelling from all this d.a.m.nable bed rest, making her squirm as if she had bedbugs beneath her skin. She scratched, but the scratching did nothing to ease the strange sensation that continued to spread from low in her abdomen up through her body and along her limbs. The sensation wasn't exactly itchy, it was...tingly.

As she attempted to will herself to sleep, her hands lay restlessly on her stomach, unconsciously rubbing her abdomen and the dint between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Without knowing why, Brea spread her hands up and over the mounds of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and then circled her nipples with her thumbs. She gasped. Her nipples stood hard and erect, like they did when she was cold, but Brea wasn't cold right now. She was hot. Stifling hot. She kicked at the bedding with her good leg to let some cool air beneath, then sighed as the air rushed across her skin like a cool caress.

Cahill's caress.

She closed her eyes and imagined the air was his hands hovering just above her heated flesh. She turned her head to the side and moaned as her right hand slipped down her stomach to her hip and then to the top of her injured thigh. While her left hand kneaded her breast, her right delicately traced the healing skin, tracing the scar she would have. Suddenly her hand slid between her legs, urging her thighs apart so that she could caress the softer, unblemished flesh of her inner thigh. Brea fondled the terrain of her body as if it was someone else's-unfamiliar, unexplored. She wound her fingers through the damp curls that hid her s.e.x, marveling at her body's sensitivity. She ran a fingertip along the length of her opening, nearly bucking off the bed when she skimmed her tender c.l.i.t. At least she thought that's what the engorged flesh was called.

"Let me get some spit on me c.l.i.t, eh?" she'd overheard the serving wench say when Brea had happened upon the copulation in the back of a tavern. The coa.r.s.e image of the two commoners rutting in that dark, filthy room normally would have had Brea cringing in revulsion. But at this moment, while her hands stroked her restless body, Brea pictured this scene much differently. Suddenly she she was the serving wench and her partner's slouching form straightened into a tall physique with fine, broad shoulders. The greasy tangled strands of hair became thick and black, and his bowed legs grew taut with muscles. He reached for her, and she willingly moved into his arms, pulling her bodice low, baring her nipples for his hands and lips. was the serving wench and her partner's slouching form straightened into a tall physique with fine, broad shoulders. The greasy tangled strands of hair became thick and black, and his bowed legs grew taut with muscles. He reached for her, and she willingly moved into his arms, pulling her bodice low, baring her nipples for his hands and lips.

Brea slid her hand from her breast up her neck to her mouth, rubbing her lips with the pad of her thumb. In her mind's eye, it was the man touching her lips, first with his thumb, then with his lips and his tongue. His kiss melted her, and she sighed into his mouth, pressing her body closer to his, opening her mouth and her legs in an invitation to plunder her.

He deftly pulled her skirts up, revealing her bared bottom. "There is one advantage to gowns," he whispered before he reached beneath her skirts to fondle her. "Easy access."

"Oh, Cahill," she moaned, arching into him.

Cahill?

Brea blinked.

The room was cool and dark. The bed too soft beneath her. She sat up and scrubbed a hand up and down her face, causing her lips to tingle under her touch as if Cahill were still- "Cahill? Ugh!" she muttered. "What is wrong with me?" She shook herself like a horse shakes its withers to flick away flies. Then she lay back down and tried to sleep, but images of Cahill-his head bent above hers, his broad chest supporting her as she walked, a definite bulge behind the cover of his breeches nudging her hip-plagued her. She pulled her hair, trying to yank the images from her mind, but they wouldn't stop. The harder she tried, the faster the visions came-Cahill's naked body glistening from a dip in a shaded pool, Cahill lying gloriously nude on a mossy bank beside her, stroking her side and hip, urging her to part her legs for him. Cahill whispering sweet words of seduction in her ear, nipping at her lobe and running his tongue the length of her jaw to her lips until he penetrated her mouth like a dagger just as she begged him to penetrate her...

"Stop it!" Brea cried, her hands on either side of her head, her eyes shut tight. "Stop it!"

But it was useless. The harder she tried to think of something else, anything besides Cahill-slaying dragons, for example-the more Cahill a.s.saulted her thoughts. Finally Brea sat up and shoved all the bedding onto the floor. She pushed herself off the bed and tumbled, exhausted, into the pile of bedding below. Eventually, she fell asleep.

Chapter Five.

The next morning, Cahill followed his stepmother into the breakfast room only to find Breanna already there, though once again he almost didn't recognize her, dressed as she was this morning in snug-fitting leggings and an oversized tunic belted at her slim waist with a wide leather sash. He paused at the doors to stare at her figure. If he thought she'd been attractive in a gown, she was doubly so in her new, unorthodox attire. The leggings hugged her long, muscular legs, leaving very little to the imagination. The sash emphasized her slim waist and, even though the tunic hung loose, the swell of her bosom was exposed through the loose lacing at the neck.

But when Breanna looked up at his entrance, her face appeared altered. Dark shadows rimmed her gla.s.sy eyes and, instead of a smile, she greeted him with a deep scowl.

"How did you sleep, my dear?" the queen asked in a falsely congenial voice.

"Horribly," was Breanna's curt reply. "I think you've got a bedbug infestation." As if to prove her a.s.sertion, she scratched a band of skin beneath her collarbone. Then, before either of them could inquire further, Breanna motioned to a footman who promptly came to her aid and a.s.sisted her out of her chair and toward the door. As she moved pa.s.sed him, she cast one more withering look in Cahill's direction.

Despite the look-she was probably still put out by their conversation yesterday-Cahill grinned and exhaled in satisfaction. "She pa.s.sed." He turned to his stepmother. "She is a princess. There is no denying it now."

But Eleanor's features displayed none of the dismay he'd antic.i.p.ated. From the wide sleeve of her gown she withdrew the now-familiar ancient scroll and tossed it onto the table before him. "Not so hasty, my son. The test is incomplete."

"What are you talking about?" He unrolled the scroll and skimmed over it, mumbling as he read. "Yes, yes, a true princess will be unable to sleep...plagued by visions and discomfort." Cahill looked up. "What? What is incomplete?"

Eleanor pointed at the scroll. "You must read to the very last."

Cahill looked down. Sure enough, on the very bottom of the scroll, in very small print, was a pa.s.sage he hadn't read before. "It's so small, I can hardly make it out." Cahill squinted. Holding the scroll very close he read silently. Then burst out, "Twenty feather mattresses! Is this some kind of a joke?"

Eleanor raised her hands in false earnestness. "It's no joke, my son. The only way to be absolutely certain this...slayer is who she claims to be, is if she can feel the pea beneath twenty mattresses."

"Why didn't this come up before?" Cahill demanded.

"Because all of those other women were harlots. They didn't even make it past the first stage of the test." The queen smiled and this time her expression appeared genuine. "Patience, my son. If she is true, she will pa.s.s the test. But you must have patience."

More than two weeks pa.s.sed and Cahill watched as Brea endured restless night after restless night. Every morning it was the same, no matter how early he rose, she'd already be up and she would leave the room before Cahill could even enter, scowling and hissing at him like he was a demon sent from h.e.l.l. As time pa.s.sed, he could see the worry etched across his stepmother's brows. Yet Cahill didn't feel much better himself, for with every mattress added to her ever-growing bed, Breanna's body also grew stronger. It wouldn't be long before she left, and chances were she would leave not only before the test was complete, but before he could convince her to become his wife.

He did his best to appease her, though from a distance, as she spoke not more than a couple of words to him at a time. He let her have free rein in the castle, he had a bow constructed specifically for her so that she might practice archery, and he promised to have the nicks in her sword repaired and its edge sharpened. Though the last task he put off, sensing she would abandon him the moment her weapon was ready.

It was after the nineteenth night that Cahill followed Brea to the archery field and watched from the cover of the gardener's shed as she practiced. He was taking no chances that she might try to leave without saying a word. He watched her walk back and forth across the field, her limp less p.r.o.nounced. Though she still required her crutch for walking long distances, she seemed able to stand on her injured leg with the steadiness essential for the sport. And based on her skill during the session, Cahill would never have guessed she was injured.

She might not have the power in her arms to let arrows fly great distances, but he'd never seen her equal in accuracy. The court archer was obviously accustomed to her by now, as he coached her and corrected her even though her aim was nearly always true. In fact, the only time it wasn't was when Cahill stepped out from behind the stone cottage and drew near. Brea did not turn, but he saw how her body stiffened at his approach. The arrow she let go wobbled awkwardly through the air and then fell dully a good ten paces to the left of the target.

"What was that?" the archer demanded, whipping a young willow branch across Brea's knuckles.

Cahill grinned. He well remembered the archer's lessons and the swollen knuckles that resulted from his instruction.

"Oh! Your Highness. I didn't see you there." The archer bowed low as Cahill came to stand by Brea's side. "Have you come to practice?"

"Yes. Bring me my bow." He smiled down at Brea's snarl.

"I'm done," she said and handed her bow and quiver to the archer.

"But m'lady! You've only just started."

"Let the lady leave," Cahill instructed. "I wouldn't want to embarra.s.s her."

Brea paused. "Embarra.s.s me?"

"Yes." He looked down into her upturned face. "I had hoped to engage in a little bit of fun. A contest, perhaps, with small wagers. But I see that I make you nervous." He smiled and winked.

Her upper lip curled, showing her small white teeth, but she did not leave. The archer returned momentarily, and Cahill took his bow, a longer, much more powerful bow than the one Brea used, and nocked his first arrow. He let fly and the arrow hit the target only a pinky width off center.

"What kind of wager were you thinking of?" Brea asked in a restrained voice.

"A bag of silver." He let his second arrow fly. This time it was wide of the bulls-eye in the other direction.

"You know I don't have any silver to wager with."

"You have a horse," Cahill lowered his bow and turned to her. "You have your family ring."

"Neither of which I care to gamble."

"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 compet.i.tive 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 provided 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 pa.s.s, 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.