The Seventh Champion

1

Rosie

If this is going to work, the kiss had better be believable.

I mean, it doesn't have to be the most passionate kiss in the history of kisses. Not the sort of kiss one hears about in ballads when the more lovelorn minstrels wander through town, plucking at their lute strings and sighing soulfully at passing maidens. Those kisses were always a bit much for my taste, though perhaps I would think differently were I one of the participants and not merely hearing about them thirdhand.

But if I'm going to convince Prince Taigan that he does not, in fact, own me-that I am free to do what I like with whomever I like, and it's none of his dragon-eaten business-I can't very well look as though I'm kissing a statue. Which is what this kiss feels like in the first moment of contact when my lips crash against the stranger's.

To be fair, I can't blame the poor man. I'm sure he did not take up position in that shadowy alcove, half-hidden behind a curtain, expecting to be collared by a frantic young woman and dragged out of hiding, only to have her whisper a hasty "Excuse me, but I need to kiss you now," just before smashing her lips on his. It's not the sort of thing one anticipates when going about one's day.

I'm not even sure which one of my half dozen unobtrusive guardsmen he is. With my luck, I'll step back from this embrace only to discover I've amorously assaulted poor old Captain Norlan, whose mustache droops well past his upper lip and who smells overwhelmingly of stale tobacco. Worse still, what if it's the weaselly one? The one with the spots and the larynx, who spits gobs when he thinks I'm not looking?

Not that I care. To prove my autonomy to Prince Taigan, I'd kiss a goblin if I had to.

One might think, as far as kissing is concerned, Taigan himself would make an excellent candidate. For one thing, I know his name and what he looks like, which is more than I can say for my current partner. And I'll be honest, when it comes to sheer charisma, it would be difficult to find any man Taigan's equal, what with his sweeping tangle of golden curls and those vivid green eyes shadowed with just enough delicious darkness to be intriguing. No doubt he leaves blushing maidens swooning in his wake wherever he goes.

But I don't like the way he looks at me. As though he already owns me. It was bad enough being stolen from my home in the middle of the night, carried off to this gods-forsaken subterranean fortress in who-the-hells-knows where. To be told I belong to a stranger? I don't care how broad his shoulders or how warm and throaty his voice. It's not to be borne.

"Don't you go bestowing your favors on any other champion," he said just last night, mere moments after our introduction. With the confidence of a man inspecting a newly acquired mare, he trailed a lazy knuckle down the curve of my cheek. My skin crawled in response, but his smile only broadened. "You're mine. I won't stand for anyone else laying a finger on you."

Oh really? You won't stand for it, won't you?

That's about as much thought as flashed through my head when, about thirty seconds ago, while strolling along the dim passage on my way back from an eye-achingly long lesson in the court library, I'd spotted the prince climbing the stairway toward me. He strode with all the purposeful force of a dragon-slaying hero. Which is what he is. And why he is the First Champion and the odds-on favorite to win the upcoming tournament and claim my hand in marriage.

But he's not won anything yet.

A thrill of panic raced through me at the sight of Taigan. He hadn't spotted me, and I cast about for an escape. My gaze landed on a nearby windowed alcove where a bit of curtain stirred in a . . . well, not a breeze. There aren't many breezes this far underground in the subterranean dwarven palace of Stromin; I've learned that much in the week since my arrival. There aren't many windows either, considering the distinct lack of view. Perhaps someone thought it would make the place feel homey to hang up curtains and pretend we're not all living under several tons of solid rock.

Regardless, there was a man standing behind that curtain. I couldn't see who. It didn't matter; at sight of him, inspiration struck. He was male. He would do.

And now I'm kissing him.

He doesn't smell of stale tobacco. I'll give him that at least. Instead, there's a not-at-all-unpleasant aroma of burnt cedar about him. If he is the weaselly guardsman, neither his spots nor his larynx seem to interfere with his lip skills, so perhaps I shouldn't have been so hasty to judge. Because this is . . . a nice kiss. Unexpectedly nice. Startled, yes. That first moment of lips meeting felt rather like kissing marble (this I can state with confidence, having practiced kissing on an old carved bust of King Glorindal before graduating to live subjects).

But then a hand slips around my waist to the small of my back, pressing me against a warm, hard slab of manly chest clad in a leather cuirass, all of which is quite unlike anything in my past experience.

This is a mistake. Isn't it? Yes, it must be. After all, kissing a stranger isn't going to make Taigan any less determined to possess me. And it might cost this poor, unsuspecting guardsman his job. There are rules among the ranks, surely. Fraternizing with the Dragon Queen's daughter is probably frowned upon, even if the Dragon Queen's daughter started it in the first place. I should take a step back, put a little distance between us, and murmur a quick apology before Prince Taigan reaches the top of the stairs. Yes, that's what I'm going to-

His mouth moves against mine.

It's not a lot of movement. Just enough to make me suddenly aware that I am not actually kissing King Glorindal's stony visage. This is a living person. A living person who knows what to do with his mouth. It's amazing what a difference it makes. Granted, I might be too easily impressed considering my rather limited frame of reference. But something about that movement-that slight change of angle, that subtle parting of lips, that unexpected sense of giving and taking-sends a bolt of pure heat shooting straight to my gut where it blooms in petals of fire.

Please, gods, don't let this be old Captain Norlan! Because if it is, and this is how I'm reacting, then . . .

"What is the meaning of this?"

Taigan's voice lances through my awareness. I yelp, yanking my mouth free of the stranger's, and try to retreat a step. But the hand at my back doesn't relent, and when I press my palms flat against that massive chest, it offers no give. Not an inch. I suck in a breath, flicking my gaze up to the face of the man with whom I've just shared what can only be described as a moment.

I'm caught by a pair of jet-black eyes. So dark, I might be staring into the void between stars.

My head goes light. And a little fuzzy. The ground under my feet seems to dip, though that might have something to do with the fact that I've stood here for I don't know how long holding on to that gasped inhale. With an effort, I push air from my lungs, simultaneously forcing my gaze to drop from those terrifying eyes to his mouth. His very full, sensual mouth, the lips still slightly parted. He's breathing hard in short, sharp pants. But then, can I blame him? It must have been a shock to be dragged from his nice, cozy lurking spot where he'd been quietly minding his own business.

Why exactly was he lurking behind that curtain anyway?

The question scratches at the back of my brain. I've no time to consider it, however, for just then things start to happen in a rush. First a hand clamps down painfully on my upper arm, and Taigan's voice is shouting words I cannot in this moment fully comprehend. It's all a kind of wordless roaring, mostly drowned out by the thud of my pulse. There's a sudden flurry of movement, which, combined with the way the room is still pitching around me, should send me sprawling to the floor.

Instead, I find myself gripped around the waist by a powerful arm and pressed protectively up against a lean, muscular side. The stranger-my kissing partner-stands at a protective angle, one fist gripping Prince Taigan by the front of his shirt.

Taigan is no puny young squire. He's as broad and muscled as one would expect from a man who was trained to be a warrior from the time he was five years old. The rigors of knighthood carved him into a glorious dragon slayer by the age of eighteen. Now twenty-four, he's had time to add both bulk and experience onto what must have already been an impressive frame.

And yet, using only one arm, this stranger has lifted the prince up onto the tips of his toes.

Oh.

My.

Taigan's voice, abruptly cut off, still rings against the stones around us. As those last echoes vanish, a new voice speaks in a low, dangerous rumble: "You will learn better manners, Prince. Do not attempt to handle the lady so roughly in my presence again."

For a small eternity, the three of us stand frozen, an odd little tableau for anyone who might happen upon us. My blood roars and my eyes bulge from their sockets. I'm quite certain if that supportive hand at my side is suddenly removed, I'll simply fall to the floor like a flower with a broken stem.

Reason returns at last with a gust of exhaled breath. "No, please!" I cry. When the stranger doesn't take his predatory eyes off the prince, I reach up and pluck at his sleeve to get his attention. "I'm sure he didn't mean any harm!"

"Are you?" The stranger turns and fixes me with those void eyes of his.

My heart jolts to a stop, transfixed by that gaze. "Please," I manage, pushing the words from my still-warm lips. "Please, put him down! I'm sure he saw us . . . you . . . when we were . . . and assumed . . . assumed . . ."

For the life of me, I can't think how to finish. After all, Prince Taigan, coming upon us like that, probably assumed some assault of virtue was taking place. And he wasn't wrong. Just not quite in the way he was thinking.

Heat erupts across my cheeks. In this moment, I could probably light up these dark caverns brighter than a freshly ensorcelled scintil. "I'm sure he was just trying to protect me," I finish lamely. Gods on high, am I actually defending Taigan? Of all people?

The prince's stare is fastened on me over the arm of his captor. I cannot bear to meet it, not if my life depended on it. I shift my gaze up to the stranger again. A nearby scintil flickers across his features as I take my first good look at him. Once one gets past the absolute massiveness of his shoulders and chest, the utter blackness of his eyes, there's plenty to take in. Like the scar that cuts through one eyebrow and trails just past the outer edge of his left eye. It looks unsettlingly like a talon slash. His skin is startlingly pale, almost to the point of sallow. It's the one flaw in an otherwise oddly perfect specimen. Though perfect isn't the right word, if I'm being honest. Everything about this man is built on a theme of power, not beauty. His features are large and strong, his nose prominent, his jaw rock-solid. The only thing that might be considered pretty about him is his mouth. Those full lips, flushed and a little swollen by the aggressiveness of my unexpected kiss.

Why do my eyes keep going back to them?

Taigan is speaking again. With an effort, I drag my attention back to the prince, who struggles now in the stranger's grasp. "You will give me satisfaction, sir!" he cries in a half-strangled voice. "Unhand me at once and face me like a man!"

The stranger's gaze finally slides away from me and slices into the prince like two onyx blades. "As I recall, it was you who provoked us. The lady and I were peacefully occupied before you so rudely inserted yourself. You had not even the courtesy to launch your attack on someone your own size. Tell me, do you prefer to manhandle women?"

"I wasn't manhandling her!" Taigan snarls, his face almost purple with rage. "I was saving her!"

"From what?" The stranger smiles. It's the deadliest expression I've ever seen. "From me?"

Oh gods. With a little shrug and a wriggle, I pull out from under the stranger's arm. The air is oddly cold now that I'm no longer pressed against his side, and I struggle to find my balance. Find it I do, however, and glare up at the two men. "This is all a misunderstanding."

"Indeed?" The stranger looks at me again, and I wonder if this is how a mouse feels when caught in the hypnotic gaze of the cat. "Tell me what I have misunderstood."

My throat goes dry. I clear it with an effort. "Well, you see, I was . . . I didn't want the prince to . . ." Now they're both looking at me. Whatever explanations I'd half concocted evaporate from my brain. "Um . . ."

"Was this man bothering you?" the stranger demands.

"Bothering her?" Taigan's eyes flash with righteous fury. "I'm not the one who assaulted her honor! Do you not realize who this is? She is Princess Roselle Pandracor!"

At the sound of that word-princess-my stomach cramps and my shoulders hunch. It makes me positively sick; I'm not sure I'll ever get used to it.

Taigan, unaware of my reaction, continues relentlessly. "Go take your fun in a harlots' den where the likes of you belong. The princess is far above the base cravings of your foul dreams!"

The stranger's grip tightens on Taigan's shirt as he lifts him a fraction of an inch higher. "You dare speak of such things in her presence?"

All right, this is starting to get ridiculous.

"It's not as though I don't know what a harlot is!" I snap, tossing up my hands. "I'm not some frail hothouse flower. I know things." The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Gods above, is there any way to get out of this mess with my dignity intact?