"Elrond!" she said with a smile as she patted the horse's nose. "You're a good boy, aren't you?" The horse nuzzled her hair and whickered softly.

"Was this your horse, Highness?"

Brea turned and recognized the rider from the day before. "Yes. What's your name, soldier?"

"Bailey."

With a nod, Brea said, "Listen, Bailey. There's something you should know about Elrond. When you're hunting dragons he's trained to-"

"Begging your pardon, Your Highness," Bailey interrupted. He ignored any further instruction from her as he stepped into the stirrup and mounted the horse. Before he rode away he said, "A token, Princess?"

"How about some spit in the eye?" Brea mumbled beneath her breath. Then she forced a smile and pointed at her unconventional attire and said, "I have nothing to give but words of encouragement. Fight well, Bailey."

He touched a hand to his sword and then turned Elrond and kicked him into a trot to catch up with the forming ranks.

"Idiot," Brea muttered as she watched Bailey join ranks. Then she started to follow the company on foot as they moved slowly down into an open field. "You're all a bunch of overblown, armor-clad, sword-wielding idiots!" The battle drums sounded and banners waved in the morning breeze and Brea grumbled under her breath. Who did they think they were going to battle with? A neighboring kingdom? This was not the way to fight dragons. All that noise, all those horses? It would only serve to attract dragons and incite them into a feeding frenzy.

A lone tree stood atop a knoll overlooking the field and soldiers below. It would be the perfect place to watch the ma.s.sacre and, though climbing sent sparks of pain down her leg, Brea didn't pay much attention. Once securely seated in an upper branch, Brea waited, as did the soldiers. The sun rose and burned off the morning dew. It was going to be a hot day. Excellent weather for dragons-the beasts preferred to attack in the heat. The sunshine was dreadful for soldiers who were already sweating in heavy armor and would be looking directly into the sun, battling dragons from above.

From the south, a strange black vee darkened the horizon. Brea watched with horrified fascination as the dragons drew near. She'd never seen anything like it. A horde of dragons, flying in formation. Even from this distance, their angry squawks filled the air, their stench burned her nostrils. Within too short a time, the dragons were upon them, circling the field and the soldiers below. The futility of the company's arrows brought a lump to Brea's throat. She shut her eyes when she heard the first burst of flames and the screams of agony from the men and horses.

A sob tore through her chest, and Brea pressed her hands to her ears. Behind her closed lids she did not see a company of soldiers-she saw a crumbling castle, she watched as her three younger sisters and her four older ones ran for cover, but there was no cover to be had. Her mother fleeing with the new babe cradled in her arms, blackened with one breath of a d.a.m.nable beast, the baby charred into a lump of coal in her mother's singed arms. Her father, sword in hand, doing all he could to save his family. It wasn't enough. Not nearly.

With tears streaming down her face, Brea swung down from the branch and jumped the remaining three feet to the ground. She didn't even notice the searing pain in her leg as she ran, hobbling, back to camp. It was one thing to fight dragons. It was quite another to watch. Brea would be a spectator no longer.

The rest of the day was spent in preparation. She sharpened her sword herself, gathered arrows and fitted them with strips of cloth. She scoped out the surrounding landscape, devising battle plans in her mind, all the while trying, without success, to ignore the sounds of anguish from the battlefield. Her only consolation was that if there were still men to feel pain, there were still men who were fighting.

Brea stopped and lifted her face to the sky, sending a silent prayer that one of those men still fighting would be Cahill.

It was the silence that alerted Brea to the end of the battle and had her scrambling out of the tent. With a hand to her forehead, she searched the sky, but only benign clouds floated overhead. The dragons were gone. Limping as quickly as she could, she hurried toward the field, but the soldiers were already returning. What was left of them. Comrades leaned upon comrades. Others had bodies lying limp in front of saddles. Beyond the sad procession Brea could make out wisps of smoke where piles of the dead smoldered on the field.

In her panic to spot the prince, Brea nearly missed him. The plumage atop his helmet was singed beyond recognition; he dragged his feet like the two horses he led, one of which was piled high with injured men.

"Cahill!" Brea shouted and rushed to him.

Cahill barely acknowledged her. He handed her the reins to one of the horses and instructed her to take the wounded to the surgeon's tent. It took her a moment to realize the horse carrying the burden was Elrond. He hung his head next to hers as if in apology and Brea patted him and whispered soothing words into his tired ears.

When she returned to the tent, she found Cahill sitting on the stool, staring blank-eyed into s.p.a.ce. She didn't think he noticed her until he said, "You can have your horse back."

Brea sucked in a breath. "Bailey?"

Cahill turned his empty eyes on her. "He's alive. But he refuses to ride a horse that's afraid of dragons." Cahill studied her, and Brea watched as all the emotions of the day flitted across his face. Suddenly he was on his feet. "What kind of dragon slayer has a horse that is afraid of dragons? Tell me that?"

But Cahill wasn't the only one with battle scars. Brea had watched and listened all day and her own emotions ran raw. "Afraid of dragons! You idiot!" She stormed up to Cahill and gave him a good hard shove. "Elrond is not afraid, he's trained trained to stay back unless I call him. What kind of fool takes horses into battle with dragons? Do you know nothing about the beasts?" to stay back unless I call him. What kind of fool takes horses into battle with dragons? Do you know nothing about the beasts?"

Brea found herself in a staring match with Cahill. Sparks of anger, hatred and humiliation flew between them. It was Cahill who blinked first. "If you know so much about dragons, why don't you enlighten me?" His voice shook with barely concealed rage.

Brea turned away from the intensity of his gaze. Her breath came hard and fast as she tried to decide where to begin. "First of all, dragons have very small brains. They're governed by their instincts, which are essentially food and destruction." She paced the room, stopping every few moments to glare at the prince. "How many horses did you lose?"

"About fifty."

"And how many men?"

Cahill was slow to reply. "Not quite so many, but close."

"Tell me, did the dragons eat the horses or the men?"

Brea watched as Cahill considered her question. Then his eyes widened as realization struck. "They ate a few men, but...mostly horses."

"And, how many dragons did you slay?"

Quietly, Cahill said, "One."

Brea clenched her fists and groaned. "One? One!" She shook her head and cursed as she paced some more. "I'm not a mathematician, Your Highness, but I think the odds are heavily in the dragons' favor."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Cahill shouted. "Do you think I don't know that I led my men into a slaughter?" He stormed up to Brea and grabbed the front of her tunic to pull her face closer to his. "I watched them die, Brea. I was there." Brea had seen Cahill upset. She'd seen him angry. Brea had never seen Cahill like this before. He looked like he wanted to tear out her throat with his teeth and, in his current state, Brea had no doubt he was completely capable of such a feat. In fact, Brea was pretty sure that was exactly what the prince intended to do as he twisted the knot of her hair in his fist, yanked her head back and exposed her throat. But instead of her throat he devoured her mouth, in a terrible, frantic, crushing kiss.

To her surprise, Brea kissed him back. She met his ferocity with a fierceness of her own. When he plunged his tongue into her mouth, she sucked on him, nipped him and then sucked some more. It was she, not Cahill, who pulled and tugged at Cahill's clothing, trying unsuccessfully to rip the chainmail from his chest, needing to touch him, to hold him and feel his skin next to hers. Having no luck with his chest, Brea instinctively moved lower, finding the knot at his waist and frenetically working it with one hand.

At first when Cahill covered her hand with his, Brea thought it was to help her undo the tie. But then he held her hand still against the conspicuous ridge beneath his trousers, not allowing her to move. He tore his lips away from hers, panting heavily as he rested his chin atop her head. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice heavy with torment as he pulled away. "I gave you my word. I'm sorry, Brea."

Brea licked her swollen lips and gulped air in order to get her own breathing under control. "It's not your fault," she said in a breathy voice. "It's the battle. I've seen it before, how battle makes men..." Brea didn't finish. She stepped forward to lay her hand on Cahill's arm, but the prince backed away.

"Don't come too close, Princess. I'm not sure I have myself completely under control."

Stopped in her tracks, Brea wondered if she should admit to him that she didn't want him under control. That after all her protests, the very thing she wanted at this time was to give in to Cahill's angry pa.s.sion. To soothe him with her body, to ease the guilt she recognized in him because she'd lived with it herself for five years.

But Cahill would never forgive himself for using her, whether she allowed him to or not. Brea was beginning to suspect he was a better man than she'd ever imagined. So Brea turned and sat on a stool, using the table between them as a shield. "Let me distract you, then," she said. "Let me tell you the secret to killing dragons."

Chapter Seven.

Before the break of dawn, Cahill gathered his officers for a debriefing and to plan their new strategy of attack. Cahill had stayed up with Brea and gone over the maps, the princess pointing out ideal spots to ambush the beasts. But Cahill was no more than a few sentences into his explanation of the new form of attack when Pritchard stood.

"Your Highness," Pritchard interrupted with his booming baritone voice. "With all due respect, this manner of attack you propose will prove futile."

"Futile?" Cahill challenged. "Yesterday was futile. Today we try something different."

Pritchard pointed to the markings on the map. "You've got the men all separated. They'll make easy pickings for dragons." Pritchard turned to look at each of the officers, asking for support. By the number of nods, he had it. "We all know the best way to down a dragon is with numbers. Ten men take out their wings. Five to chop the beast's head off once it's on the ground." He waved at the map with contempt. "Two men here, three men there?" He shook his head. "We'll be annihilated."

The murmurs of agreement set Cahill's teeth on edge. "I am your prince," Cahill a.s.serted. "I have-"

"And I," Pritchard interrupted using his size to his advantage, "am your champion and an expert in slaying dragons." Pritchard turned to the men who all nodded at him with a clear look of relief in their eyes. "Now," Pritchard said, "here's what we're going to do."

Cahill looked away. Pritchard was right. He had authority because Cahill was only a prince. If Cahill were king, things would be much different.

Frustrated and angry, Cahill returned to the tent to don his armor, only to find Brea gone. He couldn't really blame her for leaving and he held little hope that she would return. Thus it was with a heavy heart that Cahill rode out with the troops. He glanced up at the cloudy sky. At least the day was cooler. The beasts would be sluggish without the sun to warm their cold blood. But they were still outnumbered. Horribly outnumbered. Cahill took one last look back, hoping to catch sight of Brea, but there was no sign of her, and Cahill tried not to think about the fact that he never had a chance to say goodbye.

Perhaps it was the weather, perhaps it was the hardened determination in the soldiers that made the battle more successful that day. Their casualties were still too high for Cahill's liking, but much less significant than the day before. In addition, they'd managed to kill two dragons. This was due, in part, to the fact that fewer dragons had flown out to meet them that day. That knowledge did not necessarily bode well with Cahill. If the other dragons were not engaging in battle, where were they? How much destruction had they wrought?

To his great surprise and pleasure, Brea was inside the tent when Cahill returned, shoveling food into her mouth like she hadn't eaten in a week. The sight brought a faint smile to his face, and then Cahill frowned. "Ewph! It even smells like dragon in here."

"Oh!" Brea turned and waved from her place at the table. "Sorry," she said after swallowing a huge mouthful. "That's probably me." She sniffed at her clothes. "Dragon is so hard to get out of wool." From the sleeve of her tunic she withdrew three glimmering scales and tossed them onto the table.

Cahill dropped his sword and gingerly nudged the scales apart. Dragon scales were as individual as the beasts themselves. It was not hard to tell these scales came from three separate dragons-one ruby red, the other opalesque and the third glittered like a sapphire. As Cahill well knew, the window for dislodging a scale from a dragon was small indeed; for dragon scales only loosened in death and must be pulled before the monster burst into flames. Cahill looked at Brea with a new and sudden respect. She'd told him she was the best slayer, but he'd never fully believed her. Until now.

He collapsed onto the stool beside her. "Three?" Cahill said with false nonchalance. "Only three?" He chuckled, "Princess, you're slipping."

Brea smiled in pleasure and then pointed at her injured leg propped on some cushions under the table. "I know. I'm not quite up to standard. But if you could spare someone, I could use some help tomorrow."

"I know just the man."

Cahill hung from the tree, like Brea had taught him, trying to regulate his breathing, but finding it difficult with a glob of dragon s.h.i.t sliding down his left cheek. This was soon forgotten, however, when the thundering hooves of an approaching horse alerted him to action. It was Brea riding Elrond hard, heading straight for him with a fire-breather right on her tail.

"Attack from above," Brea had said. Brea had said. "Dragons never look up "Dragons never look up."

Brea flew by, then Cahill let go of the branch, landing squarely straddling the beast's neck. With one swift movement, he pulled his sword, lifted it high and drove it to the hilt through the black slit in the dragon's yellow eye.

"Think of it as a bulls-eye," Brea had instructed. Brea had instructed.

Sure enough, death came instantly. The dragon's wings stretched taut in its final convulsion and the stinking body glided gently to the ground where Cahill was able to easily slide off. He jogged to join Brea and Elrond a safe distance away before the body went up in flames. "I can't believe it!" he crowed. "It's so easy."

Brea narrowed her eyes and scoffed, "Easy?"

"I mean efficient," Cahill said and grinned. "There's no hacking at a writhing neck covered in almost impenetrable scales. No fire, no mess." He raised his hand to Brea to pull her down from the horse and she accepted the help without hesitation. "We make quite a team."

She nodded, but her face was turned to the surrounding countryside where only blackened patches on the ground indicated the number of dragons that died that day. "That's it," Brea sighed. "We did it. We killed them all."

In a voice filled with wonder and dread, Cahill said, "Maybe not all. What the h.e.l.l is that?"

Brea followed his outstretched arm and finger and then muttered, "f.u.c.k a duck."

Cahill swung his head to look at her in surprise, then turned his attention back to the monster that glided overhead.

"That, my prince, is the beast that gave me this." Cahill glanced back at Brea and to where she was pointing down at her leggings which were stained where her old wound had reopened and oozed blood.

"You fought that thing?" he said with admiration.

Brea nodded grimly. "As you can see, it won."

Slowly Cahill shook his head back and forth. "You're still here," he said. "I call that a draw."

The enormous dragon circled high overhead, squawking shrilly so that both Cahill and Brea had to cover their ears. Then it swooped, flying low over the land, its head swaying back and forth as if looking for something, or someone. Finally the dragon rose and flew off, out of sight.

"We'll save that one for another day," Cahill said as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

Brea settled back against the copper tub, her knees drawn to her chest, reveling in the soothing warmth of the water. She'd washed first in a nearby stream, but only lye soap would get the dragon smell out of her hair. As for her clothes, the cook had confiscated them in order to boil them in vinegar in hopes of removing the stink. After another dunk of her head beneath the water, Brea rose, dripping, and used a blanket to dry herself. Cahill had given her one of his spare shirts to wear and Brea laughed at herself as she cinched the garment around her waist with a strip of leather. It was long enough to be a dress. Not a proper dress, but a nightdress at least, and that's all she needed it for. Her clothes would be dry enough by morning when the company rode out.

Peeking out through the tent flap, Brea called to Cahill's valet to remove the washtub and bring in some food. She tucked a fur around her shoulders for decency's sake, then Brea sat at the table and waited for the food and Cahill to arrive. He came in moments later, smelling clean and masculine. Brea kept her lashes lowered as a sudden shyness descended over her.

They ate in relative silence, making mundane remarks about the flavor of this dish and that. Finally Cahill cleared his throat and said, "I cannot go on like this. I must make my intentions known."

Slowly Brea looked up from her food. The firelight flickered in Cahill's dark eyes, making him appear more sinister than regal.

"Breanna, I beg you. No, I beseech you to consent to be my wife."

Though Brea knew it was coming, had known his intentions all along, her answer became lodged in her throat. She licked her suddenly dry lips and said, "I'm sorry, Cahill. I can't."

He didn't move for a long time. Finally he spoke. "Why?"

All her old resentments, her old prejudices about marriage reared their ugly heads in her mind. "I know how these things work. The minute I marry you, I belong to you. I give up everything."

"What do you give up?" Cahill argued. "Marry me and you gain a t.i.tle and a kingdom."

"Both of which I already have," Brea countered.

"Bah!" Cahill fumed. "You have nothing."

"Nothing?" Brea rose in anger. "I have everything I need, Prince." She limped purposefully around to the other side of the table, using the fact that he was still seated to her advantage. "I don't need your land, I don't need your t.i.tle." With each item she listed, she poked him in the shoulder. "I don't need a stinking husband to make demands of me once he thinks he owns me."

"What do you mean, make demands?"

"Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm not one of your sheltered young princesses who has no idea of the filthy rutting tendencies of men. I know what goes on behind closed doors."

Cahill's expression changed. First understanding, then shock, and then anger. "You're not a virgin," he said in a low voice. "Someone abused you."

Brea laughed. "No, I'm a virgin." She pulled her dagger out from her leather belt and twisted it between her hands. "I wouldn't let a stinking, breeding male near enough to abuse me."

Cahill frowned. "Then what do you know of things that take place 'behind closed doors'?"

"You may find this shocking, Your Highness, but commoners rut regardless of whether doors are open or closed. In fact doors have very little to do with it. Stables, tavern floors, up against walls." Brea shivered with revulsion. "Beastly copulations. No thank you."

"Ah," Cahill said. "A tavern education." He stood, and Brea found herself no longer at an advantage. "I'm afraid, Princess, your education may be lacking. What you have witnessed is only a very limited version of the act in question."

"I'd wager I know more than enough."

"A wager." The prince smiled as he lifted her chin with his thumb, forcing her to look at him. "Now that's a wager I'd be willing to take."

Brea scowled, but Cahill tightened his grip on her chin, holding her in place. "What if I was to convince you otherwise, Princess? What if I was to prove there was more to this carnal act than you are aware and what if I was to wager that by the end of it, you will be begging me to take you to our marriage bed?"

Still holding her dagger, Brea pressed the tip into the juncture of his rib cage. With satisfaction she watched his eyes widen at the sharp pain of it. "I will make no such wager."

Cahill released her face and stepped back, out of the reach of her dagger's lethal point. "Because you know you'll lose."