Part 7 (1/2)

And she wanted Cahill.

Suddenly Brea sat up in bed because she could no longer remember her reasons for refusing him. For the first time, everything became clear. She loved him. She loved Cahill! She wouldn't give anything up by marrying him. She would gain a lover, a companion and a friend. With Cahill by her side, Brea could start living life all over again.

Now that she'd had her revelation, it took great restraint not to run out the door, down the hall, find Cahill's chamber and throw herself in his arms. But it was late, and she was suddenly exhausted, from the travel, from the battle, from everything. Though she loved him with all her heart and could hardly wait to tell the whole world, a part of her also wanted to hold on to the knowledge for just this night. To keep this one last thing to herself; at least until morning. Then, when the sun rose, she would go to his chamber, accept his proposal and make love to him, trying out that thing he said some women liked to do.

It was only moments later, as Brea imagined just how that act might be performed, that she fell into an exhausted, dreamless slumber. Sometime in the middle of the night, however, Brea was roused by something hard poking her in the back. ”Errrghh,” she mumbled and rolled over. But the poking didn't stop.

”Princess,” a voice slurred in her ear, ”wake up.”

Brea rolled toward the voice and smacked into a warm and fully naked male body. Her eyelids flew open, though it made no difference. The room was completely dark. ”Cahill?” she whispered.

”Ummph,” came his reply along with the sour stench of Brandy wine on his breath.

”Och, Cahill, you're drunk.” She gave him a nudge with her elbow.

”Drunk on love,” he slurred as he reached for her in the dark. His clumsy hands fumbled sloppily with the bedclothes and her nightdress.

Brea slapped his hands away. ”Cahill, enough! Go back to bed. We'll talk in the morning.”

”I'm already in bed. The only bed I want to be in,” he murmured as he grappled her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, squeezing too hard, hurting her.

”I said stop!” Brea brought her knee up. She didn't intend to have her knee land where it did, but she also didn't try to avoid that sensitive area between his legs.

Cahill groaned and curled around his injury.

”Serves you right,” Brea muttered as she kicked at his back with her feet. ”Now go back to your own bed!”

The growl started as a low rumble from beside her and then grew. ”She-devil!” Cahill spat as he turned and threw himself on top of her. ”You'll pay for that.” His s...o...b..ring mouth fell upon hers, forcing her lips apart, driving his tongue down her throat. Brea tried to kick free, but his weight bore her into the suffocating mounds of mattresses beneath her.

Everything was all wrong. Cahill's kisses, his body, his anger, his voice. This was not the Cahill she loved. This was not a man she wanted to marry. This was her nightmare version of marriage come true.

”You like it rough, Princess?” he s...o...b..red in her ear.

”Yeah,” Brea sobbed. ”I like it rough.” Then she slipped her hand beneath the pillow and withdrew her dagger, slas.h.i.+ng blindly in front of her.

”My hand!” he cried. ”Why, you b.l.o.o.d.y b.i.t.c.h.”

But Brea didn't give him another chance to attack. With both legs she kicked him from her bed. Cahill tumbled back, his body thudding dully against the wooden floor, twenty mattresses beneath her. ”And don't even think about coming back or I will kill you.”

She heard him rise slowly to his feet. He fumbled blindly in the dark, finally found the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Brea dropped the dagger, covered her face and wept.

At the break of dawn, Brea dressed, her traveling cloak around her shoulders, her purse of gold hidden beneath her tunic, her heart empty and desolate. She felt as if her soul had died and left her body drained and numb. With slow steps she descended the stairs to the foyer where the queen waited with the captain of the guard by her side, probably having been alerted to her departure by the footman she'd asked to ready her mount.

As Brea approached, the queen stepped into her path and said, ”My dear, I'm so sorry to see you l-”

”Get out of my way.” Caring nothing for the queen's gasp of surprise, Brea pushed roughly past her. She had her sights set on the door. She had to get out. Now.

Just as she felt the doors swing out beneath her hands, she heard the unmistakable sound of rapid footfalls down stairs. Her empty heart dropped into her stomach, and suddenly all of the emotions that eluded her returned with a vengeance.

”Brea! Wait!”

Brea ran. She ran for the stables where Elrond stood, saddled and waiting. With a hop she was on his back and riding hard across the courtyard.

”Stop!”

Brea kicked Elrond into a gallop, only to have to pull up on the reins as she came upon a closed drawbridge. ”Open the bridge!” she shouted to the keeper.

To her relief, the bridge started to move under the loud clanking of chains against cogs.

”Stop! Stop that bridge!” Cahill ordered as he sprinted toward her only a few hundred paces behind.

With a thunderous squeal, the drawbridge ceased its movement. Brea cursed and then spun Elrond around to face her once-again nemesis. ”What do you want?” she scowled.

Now that it was obvious she could not leave, Cahill slowed his stride. He put his hands up in supplication. ”Please, Brea. Wait. There's something I need to say.”

”You said everything you needed to last night.”

”What?” He paused and then continued. ”I just wanted to tell you that I don't want to marry you.”

”You don't...” Brea didn't think her heart could break into any more pieces. But it could and it did. ”You're no better than any of them, do you know that? You're a stinking, filthy, rutting pig.” Brea sat straight and tall in her saddle. She looked down her nose at the man who stood beneath her. The man she'd thought she loved. The man who'd hurt her worse than even the dragon who'd scarred her. With a flare of her nostrils, she sucked all the moisture from her mouth and spat on the ground by the side of his boot. She turned back toward the bridge and said, ”Tell the keeper to lower the bridge.”

She didn't hear him give the command-perhaps it was as simple as a flick of his wrist-but the bridge roared to life and Brea closed her eyes to wait as tears gathered behind her lids. But all she could see was Cahill. His expression, pale and crushed. His hands held out to her, pleading with her; open, strong, those hands had given her such pleasure.

Frowning, Brea realized there was something wrong with the picture in her mind. What was it? Suddenly she spun her horse around, finding Cahill standing in the very same position she'd left him, as if she'd turned him to stone. ”Show me your hands.”

”What?”