"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?"

"Ah, it's been put away for safekeeping." Cahill eased his grip on her to unbuckle his saddlebag. He pulled the small sword out of the bag, but before pa.s.sing it to Brea, added, "I trust you won't try to impale me with it."

"Only if I'm provoked."

His lips twitched at her comment. "Was I right? Is it three?"

"You're close," Brea said as seriously as she could. Then she ran her thumb up and down the rough notches in the handle and pa.s.sed the blade back to Cahill haft first. "Count the notches."

He accepted the blade and started to count. Brea watched with amus.e.m.e.nt as his brows slowly drew closer and closer together across his forehead. Finally he looked up at her, his expression one of incredulity. "Impossible."

Brea shrugged.

"There is no way you've slain twenty-two dragons."

"Actually," Brea said with a finger tapping her lips in thought, "it's twenty-three. I didn't get a chance to notch the last one before I was attacked." Brea put her hand out for her sword, and Cahill returned it to her without a word. She slid it into the scabbard strapped to her back and then flipped her good leg back over the horse's neck so that she was once again facing forward.

Cahill remained silent for the remainder of the ride. Even his grip on her loosened to the point that Brea could have slipped between his grasp and slid off the horse. But she wasn't about to do that. There was no reason to escape now. She was a dragon slayer and there was a horde of the nasty beasts that required her attention. She was so intent on the pending battle, imagining her blade penetrating a host of yellow eyeb.a.l.l.s, that nothing could distract her, not her throbbing thigh, not Cahill's warm body. Well, almost nothing. Brea was still aware of Cahill's breadth, but his strength no longer troubled her as much as it had. In fact, Brea felt so comfortable, so certain of herself, that she forgot everything and nestled her head against Cahill's shoulder and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

When Brea awoke, it was to that unnerving, panicky feeling of having no idea where she was. The steady gait of the horse no longer moved beneath her. In fact, she was not sitting, she was lying down, on a pile of furs no less. Brea sat up, automatically reaching for her dagger. But of course it was gone.

"Ah, you're awake. Just in time for the evening meal."

Brea spun around at Cahill's voice and found him watching her from a stool beside a table. On the table lay maps and beside that dishes that still steamed with the aroma of meat and turnips.

Gingerly, Brea pushed herself up and approached.

"Don't worry," Cahill a.s.sured her, "I've already tasted everything. Nothing's been poisoned."

Brea rolled her eyes. She reached across the table for a roll and split it open with her fingers. Then she dipped the roll in the steaming stew and ate. It was delicious.

"Please sit." Cahill motioned to a stool across from him.

Brea sat and ate, not knowing when she'd enjoyed a meal more. Fresh air always did that to her appet.i.te. "Where are we?" she asked through a mouthful of food.

"The royal lodgings," Cahill said. "I know it's not much, but it's better than where the troops are quartered and certainly more preferable than a ditch."

"I prefer the ditch," Brea muttered as she reached for a flagon of ale. Then she cleared her throat and said, "You know what I mean. Where are we? How far are we from the horde?"

"We're camped outside of Lumbreck, a half-day's journey from the border, where the dragons attacked two days ago."

"Have you received any news from your scouts?"

"No. But I expect to hear something any minute."

Brea nodded and Cahill turned back to the maps spread out upon the other half of the table. Brea helped herself to another serving of stew, this time eating more slowly and enjoying the flavors. After a few minutes, Cahill's valet bowed through the door and removed the empty dishes.

Brea had to admit that there was something nice about going to battle as royalty. Hot food, warm bedding, servants. "Well," Brea said as she pushed herself to her feet. "Thank you for the meal. I'll be on my way."

"Where do you think you're going?" Cahill asked, looking up from the maps.

"To my tent."

"This is your tent." is your tent."

"Oh. But where are you staying?"

"Here."

With her hands on her hips, Brea shook her head. "I can't stay here with you."

"There are few options."

"Few options means there are more than one. I want to hear the alternative to staying alone in a tent with you."

Cahill sighed. "Your only other option is to camp amongst the soldiers where you will be unprotected and likely molested."

"I think I'll take my chances with the soldiers," Brea said as she turned to go.

With a loud smack, Cahill pounded the table, "Dammit, woman, what is wrong with you? What do you take me for? An ogre? I I will not molest you. will not molest you. I I will not take advantage of you. You have my word." will not take advantage of you. You have my word."

"Your word," Brea spat. "What is that worth?"

Cahill stood so suddenly he knocked his stool flying. He stalked Brea like a mountain lion advancing on a young fawn. "My word is everything," he seethed. "I am an honorable man, Brea, and I do not take kindly to such insults on my character." He did not stop his approach until he towered over her, making Brea feel both small and insignificant. Then Cahill took a deep breath and a reluctant step back. His smile did not reach his eyes. "This tent is big enough for the both of us. I will not compromise you."

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." He paused and his smile grew. "I will not seduce you, Brea...unless of course you want me to."

"See!" Brea pointed at him. "That! What you did just there. Those innuendos. That's seduction! You've proven over and over again that you can't be trusted."

In one step, Cahill stood chest-to-chin with Brea. He wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her against him. In a low voice, he whispered in her ear, "Truly, Princess, you need a lesson in seduction. I am only engaging in courtly banter." He traced her jaw with the tip of his finger. "The fact that my banter bothers you tells me that you take my innuendos seriously." He c.o.c.ked his head to the side, "Tell me, Brea, who is it that you don't trust? Is it me...or is it you?"

Before Brea could answer, the door to the tent swung open and the valet stepped through. "The scouts have arrived, Your Highness, and the officers are gathering to hear the news."

Cahill released Brea and turned back to the table to gather the maps. "Please make yourself comfortable, Princess." Then he pushed the flap at the door and ducked out.

Brea watched him go, her heart pounding, her pulse racing. She couldn't stop thinking about Cahill's question. Who was it that she didn't trust? Was it him or was it her?

"I'm coming too," Brea insisted.

"Stop it, Brea, and I mean it. You sound like a petulant child." Brea stamped her foot, and Cahill turned to her with a single brow raised as if to say, "You see?" But what he said instead made Brea even angrier. "If you want to be of use, help me with my armor."

Picking up the nearest weighty object, a clay jug, Brea flung it at Cahill's head. He ducked just in time, and the urn thudded heavily to the ground. "Men!" Brea fumed and then pushed her way out of the tent. The morning sun had yet to burn the moisture from the ground and pockets of mist clung to low-lying depressions, giving the perfect cover for hunting dragons. If the hunters knew what they were doing, that was.

The telltale sounds of battle preparation met Brea's ears as she wandered through the camp. Steel against steel, steel against stone, as last minute sharpening of weapons took place-probably more out of nerves than necessity-steel against leather as swords were sheathed and unsheathed. Conversation was at a minimum, none of the raucous laughter of the night before, and even the horses shifted peculiarly as they sensed the tension in the camp. A familiar whinny brought Brea up short.