by D. L. Snow
Forcing his lips into a smile, Cahill replied, “Good morning, Stepmother.”
There was barely time for the queen to seat herself before a footman informed them that the princess would be joining them shortly.
Cahill swallowed and pushed his plate away. He felt like a man about to be sentenced—acquitted or the gallows, which was it to be? Acquitted, of course. He was certain of the outcome. Almost entirely certain.
Finally the double doors swung open and Abelinda swept into the room. Her scent was stronger than ever, honeysuckle covered in dew and warmed by the morning sun, and the aroma reached across the room to tickle his nose. His heart soared at the sight of her. Her flushed cheeks, her sparkling eyes; her look of utter and complete…satiation. She glanced coyly at Cahill, watching him beneath her lashes as she moved across the room.
“Ah, my dear,” the queen intoned. “You are looking lovelier than ever this morning. May I inquire how you slept?”
Abelinda pressed her lips together in a sweet yet somehow sensuous smile. How it was possible for her lips to be even fuller and rosier than before, Cahill had no idea. Beneath the volume of her skirts, her rounded rump swayed back and forth as she moved in a way that begged Cahill to watch. He licked his lips in glorious anticipation of Abelinda’s answer, of their forthcoming betrothal and more specifically of the time he would spend with her in their wedding bed.
Abelinda paused after piling enough food on her plate to feed an army. “Oh, Your Majesty,” Abelinda gushed as she carried her plate to the table. Once seated on the edge of her chair, she turned to Cahill, her face alit with the most beatific smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well in my life.”
Breanna knew that smell. It wasn’t just the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs that gave it away. It was the undigested fats turned rancid in the sun mixed with decay and filth.
Dragon shit.
Stinking horseflies hovered above the puddle of refuse, the only insect brave enough, or stupid enough, to attempt to survive the sulfuric fumes. Brea approached the offensive pile and swirled the tip of her broadsword through the debris, looking for evidence of the dragon’s crime. Two dented helmets and a half-digested lower limb with boot still intact was all the evidence Brea needed.
She scanned the horizon, noting other buzzing piles of dung, but none so recent as this. Clearly the lair was nearby. She whistled once high and then low, a signal to her horse to stay put. Dragons had extremely keen senses of smell, and horseflesh was a favorite dish. She refused to lose another horse to a foul fire-breather.
Then, with a sigh of resignation, Brea sucked in a gulp of air and held it while she jumped into the dragon sludge with both feet. Quickly, before she had to take another breath, she scooped the still-warm waste into her hands and spread it over her leggings and tunic. With a shiver of disgust, she leapt out of the puddle and gasped for breath, gagging as she knew she would. She was covered in it, so there was no way of escaping the stench. But Brea knew from vast experience that the only way to successfully hunt a dragon was to smell like one. And this dragon was going down.
As quietly as her muck-sucking boots would allow, Brea crept up and over a hillock, only to find herself perched on the edge of a sheer chalk cliff. On the stony beach below sat a medium-sized, scaly, winged reptile. The creature was tossing stones down its gullet, which was a common enough occurrence. The beasts were indiscriminate in their diet, and the stones aided in digestion. With the dragon distracted by its task, it was the perfect time to attack. Brea reached behind her, pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it. With a deep breath, she drew back on the string to the anchor point on her cheek. She didn’t really need to aim. This arrow was not meant to kill, for dragons had only one weakness and were nearly impossible to kill with an arrow. No, this arrow was meant as a distraction.
She released the arrow and then dropped her bow, cupping her hands around her mouth to imitate the call of the trumpeter swan, another preferred snack of the vile reptile. Strips of cotton unfurled from the arrow and, though the fluttering missile looked nothing like a swan to her, it would appear swanlike to the pea-brained monster below. The enormous head of the beast lifted to the sound of her call. Then the dragon stretched out its wings and bounded in that awkward way it had when preparing for flight. Brea bounced on the balls of her feet, a loop of rope between her teeth, her hands twitching by her side, waiting for the perfect moment. Finally, the massive wings inexplicably lifted the beast into the air, bringing it, for only a split second, within jumping distance.
Brea sprang. She clung to the beast’s neck, pulling herself up so that she could grasp the curved horn between its ears. She looped the rope around the horn and then wrapped it three times around her left hand. With her right hand, she unsheathed the sword she wore across her back. There was no time for mistakes. The dragon tossed its head to and fro in an effort to dislodge her, but Brea hung on, though for a moment she was sure all was lost. Brea swore she was airborne, her head in the clouds, her limbs flailing for some kind of purchase, but then she realized the dragon had simply flown straight up and then turned its nose straight down into a dive, giving her the illusion of weightlessness.
Once gravity kicked in, Brea raised her right hand, aiming the tip of her sword at the center of the reptile’s eye. Squeezing the neck of the beast with her thighs, she let go of the rope so she could use both hands to drive the sword into the eye of the dragon—into the heart of its pea-sized brain.
With one final squawk, the dragon shuddered beneath her, but like all of the beasts she’d killed before, its wings spread wide in death, allowing the incapacitated body to glide gently to the ground where it then crumpled to a heap as Brea leapt nimbly to the beach. The still-warm body twitched and quivered, stinking worse than ever. With the edge of her sword, Brea was quick to dislodge a scale from the dragon’s flank before the carcass spontaneously combusted. She would notch the haft of her sword later, once she was clean and enjoying a hot meal and a mug of ale at the nearest inn.
Unfortunately, Brea would not get her wish. For no sooner had she slipped the pearly scale into the sleeve of her tunic then a burst of fire shot down from the cliff above. A squawk, louder than anything she’d ever heard before, rumbled along the cliff, dislodging boulders and debris onto the beach below.
Slowly, Brea turned to face her new adversary. She had to look up, way up. The beast was so enormous it blocked the sun. Brea’s mouth dropped open. “Shit on a stick,” she cursed, her hand automatically reaching for her broadsword. Above her soared the mother of all dragons. The biggest fucking beast she’d ever seen. And by the flames spewing from her nostrils, this mother was royally pissed off.
Chapter Three
Eleven. Eleven princesses had come and gone. Eleven princesses had failed the test. Cahill was at his wit’s end. Of course he wasn’t sad to see every one of them go. There were few he felt any real attachment for. But Zaina was one of them. Zaina, who was older than her predecessors; she had an air of maturity the others lacked, yet retained an element of innocence he’d found endearing. He’d been sure Zaina would pass the test.
But he was wrong. Again.
Not only did she fail, but he had been completely deceived by her wiles. When he informed her they could not marry, the woman screamed and cursed worse than the fishmonger. She spat in his face and clawed at his cheeks until Captain Peacock was forced to drag her from the room.
From the highest room in the keep, Cahill watched as the carriage transporting Zaina back home bumped across the drawbridge. When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the woman screaming out his name. Cursing him. Was it his fault? Was he to blame, as Zaina had accused? Or was it something else?
“It’s not your fault, my son.” The queen had silently entered the tower room behind him.
Cahill turned and scrutinized the woman he’d never felt comfortable calling Mother. “Isn’t it curious that none of the princesses have passed the test? I’ve run the gamut on
princesses, from A to Z. There are none left to choose from. How can every one of them be imposters?”
She sighed heavily. “It’s a mystery. A tragedy. Things were so much simpler in my day.”
“Were they?”
Cahill turned to the sound of footsteps outside the door. Peacock, the captain of the guard, stood at attention just beyond the doorframe. Eleanor didn’t go anywhere without the man these days. In fact, rarely did she consult Cahill anymore. It was always Peacock. Cahill needed to focus on acquiring a wife, she’d explained. But now, as he studied the queen more closely, he wasn’t so sure.
“Cahill?” Eleanor asked cocking her head to the side. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh yes, Stepmother, everything is perfect. Things are turning out just the way you want, aren’t they?”
“Whatever can you mean, my son?”
Cahill took a step closer, his face burning with suspicion. “You. You’ve sabotaged every one of them, haven’t you?”
The queen’s smooth features did not waver in the least at his accusation. “Me?” Eleanor raised a hand to her breast. “You accuse me of some form of ill? Such an insult!”
“An insult?” Cahill scoffed. “Not likely. Would Your Majesty care to explain how eleven out of eleven princesses can all manage to fail the test?”
“It’s simple really,” Eleanor said as she adjusted the crown of polished gold on her head. “These modern women have no care for virtue or chastity. And is it any wonder? Considering their parents?” She made a tsking sound and shook her head. “No, it is a corrupt world we live in. It’s such a pity there is no one good enough for you. But, you know the law.”
“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 i
tself, 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.