Part 4 (1/2)
”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 ama.s.sed 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?”