Slayer (3 page)

“Perhaps it is time that the law was changed.”

“That’s just it,” the queen said as she rubbed her large sapphire ring with her thumb. “This is one of those sticky situations. Only a king has the power to change the law that governs your marriage. But you will not become king until you marry—and you must marry according to the law if you want to become king. You see?” She implored him with a sickening air of innocence. “This is why the test is so—”

Eleanor didn’t get a chance to finish as Cahill roughly grabbed her and shook her. The queen had the decency to look shocked and perhaps a bit fearful for a split second, but then her gaze flicked over Cahill’s shoulder and her smile told him Peacock had entered the room and was now standing only a few steps away. Cahill released her and through clenched teeth said, “I don’t know what you’ve done or how you’ve done it, but I do know this: the next princess to walk through the doors to this castle will become my wife.” Cahill smiled and added, “And once she is queen, I will send you back to Dunvegan, that scorched and barren kingdom from which you came.”

Pushing past his stepmother and the captain of the guard, Cahill moved with haste down the stairs of the tower, cringing at the sound of Eleanor’s laughter as it followed him, echoing off the stone all the way down.

Eleanor rolled over onto her stomach, the damp covers tangling between her legs. “Rub my shoulders, will you?”

Peacock complied. As always. The man had turned into her greatest asset and ally. Not half bad beneath the covers either. She’d always enjoyed the attentions of powerful men. Though Peacock didn’t have the rank she had grown accustomed to, his was a physical power, and it was intoxicating in its own way. More and more she found herself ordering him to her bedchamber at all hours of the day. Though she still preferred his company at night. And tonight, with the rain pounding the stone walls, and the wind whistling through the halls, she enjoyed Peacock’s massive warmth more than ever.

She stretched languidly beneath his large and calloused hands, feeling almost as if she could purr in contentment. She’d won. There was not one princess left on the continent. She had dispatched all eligible prospects, and now there was no hope of Cahill ever becoming king. She would reign until the day she died. And she would keep Peacock by her side. At least until she no longer had any use for him.

“Ah, lower. Yes, that’s it.” She smiled into the goose pillow. There was a moment there, this afternoon, when she’d almost felt sorry for Cahill. But it didn’t last long.

She shifted beneath Peacock’s hands. “No, not there, lower.”

“How’s this?”

Lifting her head from the pillow, she turned to look at him. “Lower,” she commanded with a twist of her lips.

His eyes widened, “But we just—”

“Are you arguing?”

Without another word, he shook his head. A brief smile pulled across his face before his hands moved lower to caress her backside. Eleanor flopped back down, spread-eagle, anxiously anticipating Peacock’s lips and adept tongue. After the night he’d spent with the lusty Zaina, the man was exhausted, no doubt. He may not even manage an erection. But that didn’t matter. All he had to do was please her. She was his queen, and though she enjoyed his company, it was important that he knew his place, important that she remind him of his position, and that she remind him often.

“Ah!” she gasped as he hoisted her hips up and back, roughly pressing his thumb against her clit before his tongue invaded her. “Now you have the spot.” She clamped down on the pillow with her teeth, not allowing herself to groan, not wanting Peacock to know just how much she enjoyed his ministrations.

Eleanor first became aware of the absence of Peacock’s mouth when a cool breeze fell across her heated body. Finally the insistent banging on the chamber door registered.

“Hellfire and damnation,” she snarled. “Go find out what that noise is all about.”

But Peacock was already throwing his shirt over his head and bending over to pull on his breeches. Eleanor leaned farther back to get a view of his muscular backside before he covered himself up completely.

“Don’t trouble yourself, my queen. I’ll take care of it.”

Eleanor nodded and pulled the cover up over her now-chilled flesh. “Oh, and Captain,” she called as he unbarred the door. “Once you’ve finished with the matter, I’d like you to come back and finish what you started up here.”

Cold. Like the large floating masses of blue ice in Northern Belgravia, Brea was colder than she’d ever been before. She hugged the shaggy neck of the horse beneath her, but even Elrond was cold. His gait had slowed hours ago as they traveled countless miles in the torrential downpour. At least the cold served to dull the pain and slow her heart rate so that the gash on her thigh oozed thickly rather than spurting blood like a fountain. The tourniquet helped, but now her leg was numb, and she vaguely wondered if she’d ever have use of it again.

The hollow thud of hooves against wood barely registered in her muddled brain. A voice demanding, “Who goes there?” did not rouse her. The screech of a rusted bolt as it slid within its wet casing and the squealing hinges of the massive door could not make her lift her head.

“What’s that stench?”

“Dragon.”

“It’s a slayer.”

“Injured, by the looks of things.”

“What should be done, Cap’n?”

Someone grasped her hair and pulled her head back. “You,” a loud voice boomed. “What do you call yourself?”

When she did not answer, the man raised his other hand and slapped her soundly across the cheek. Brea shook her head, startled into awareness. “What?” She reached automatically for her sword, but her scabbard was empty. She had been disarmed without her knowing it. She found enough energy to scowl down into the face of the large man who still had his fist caught in her hair.

“Your name, slayer. What is your name?”

“Brea,” she spat. “Princess Breanna of Morainia.”

“He’s a she?”

“A princess?”

“Not likely!”

The last thing Brea saw was the huge man’s face. He squinted up at her through the rain, and Brea was startled by the way his pupils glinted like the polished tips of a matching set of daggers. Then the world turned in upon itself, and Brea’s eyes rolled up into her skull. Her frozen body grew limp, and she slid off her horse into the open arms of the stunned captain.

“Impossible!”

Cahill could hear the queen’s cries from down the hall. He’d heard the news himself, the moment he’d been roused, as his valet was bursting with information about the late-night visitor.

“Morainia was decimated years ago. There were no survivors. She’s nothing but an imposter!” came his stepmother’s irate voice.

Cahill grinned and then wiped the smile from his face before pounding on the door to the queen’s chambers. When the door finally opened, the queen stood before him with a grim look upon her flushed face, and Cahill struggled to keep a victorious smile from his lips.

It was quite possible his struggle was unsuccessful.

“Cahill.” She scowled. “I imagine you’ve heard we have an unexpected guest. I suggest we go and greet this new arrival immediately.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Stepmother.”

Cahill followed the queen down the hallway, surprised when she turned into the western wing. It was the oldest part of the castle, run down and never used for quartering guests. Until now. A guard standing outside a closed door was the only indication that any of these rooms were inhabited. But, as Cahill drew nearer, a rotten odor hung heavy in the damp air. It was a stench he was well familiar with.

“Och!” The queen held her nose. “What is that?”

“Dragon,” Cahill informed her.

She turned to a member of her ladies-in-waiting and ordered the lass to do something about the reek. “I will not abide such putridity in my castle.”

Cahill cast an examining glance at his stepmother. Her castle, was it? Well, he would see about that. Without further ado, he pushed open the door to the chamber, only to be struck in the face with an even more concentrated aroma of dragon. By the door lay a pile of rags that must have once served as the occupant’s clothes. Another guard sat in a chair by the hearth, a greenish tinge to his pallor, his weapon lying carelessly on the floor by his feet.

“You, man,” Cahill called, “whose sword is that?”

The man scrambled to his feet and executed a wobbly bow. “Why, Your Highness,” the man stammered. “The broadsword belongs to him, er…that…I mean…her.” He pointed to the lump thrashing beneath the bedclothes.

Cahill stooped to retrieve the sword, turning it this way and that in the dim light. He tested its heft by swinging it in an arc. It reminded him greatly of the first sword his father gave him when he was only a lad. He sheathed the weapon and propped it against the wall, then turned with interest to the enigma still abed. “A female slayer,” he muttered to himself. “Extraordinary.”

His stepmother stood beside the bedstead, gingerly prodding the covered lump with a closed fist while she held a sleeve up to her face. “You there,” she demanded in a muffled voice that sounded less than regal. “Wake up and explain yourself.”

A low moan was the lump’s only reply.

Cahill strode across the room to the other side of the bed and drew back the quilts. He was surprised by the slight size of the occupant. He was more surprised by the flushed skin, the fever-matted hair and the perceivable heat the slender body emitted. Then the sour, metallic scent of blood caught his attention, and he yanked the covers all the way down. Crimson stained the bedclothes and the rough shift worn by the girl.

“Guard,” Cahill called. “Call the surgeon. Our guest is injured.”

The surgeon confirmed that the injury was the result of an entanglement with a dragon. The claws of the beast seeped venom that charred flesh like acid. For Cahill’s benefit, the surgeon pointed out the mottled flesh high on the girl’s thigh. The queen noticeably wavered at this sight before her ladies hurried her out the door. But Cahill observed the wound with a detached interest. It must have been incredibly painful. How long had the woman ridden before finding herself at the door to the castle?

Whether she was a princess or not, the female was most certainly a slayer, and her unusual choice of occupation automatically qualified her for a higher degree of regard than what she’d so far been afforded. Once the surgeon attended to her wound, Cahill ordered the slayer moved to the guest quarters in the east wing.

For a fortnight, the woman fought fevers and sweats caused by the ugly wound on her thigh. During that time, Cahill prayed for her recovery, for though he had no special regard for her as a woman, her situation intrigued him. In addition, he was determined to take on a wife. Cahill had long understood that affection rarely played a role in a royal union, and this mysterious woman could be his final chance to step into his birthright and take his rightful position as king.

“So,” the queen said during one of their rare meals taken together, “you’re intent on marrying that…” She waved her hand around in disgust, “…that thing.”

“Her name is Breanna.”

“So she says.”

“She is a princess.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“You will not sabotage this.”

The queen had no opportunity to reply as at that precise moment a footman burst into the room, trembling with excitement. “Your Highnesses, the…er…guest. He…she is awake.”

Cahill stood from the table, but the queen was quicker. She strode so rapidly after the footman, Cahill almost had to jog to catch up. With her back straight, her head held high, her long nose pointed in a downward direction, the queen pushed through into Breanna’s chamber clearly prepared for battle. But the queen could only stop and stare, as Cahill was certain she was as shocked by what she found in the chamber as he was.

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.”