Chapter 3
Anya Delemond
Anya peered over the baluster. To the Lord’s credit, he was swimming rather well.
“Anya! What the devil was that for?!” Lord Bryson yelled between strokes.
“Consider it payment for your weeks of insubordination!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about! Throw me a rope!”
Of course he didn’t. He was far too in love with himself and distracted by the shining trophy he’d tried to turn her into. Still, the Duke of Eldenkeep would be rather upset to find his Earl had become a bobbing icicle in the sea. Best to haul him up, for diplomacy’s sake.
She reluctantly unraveled a rope and tossed it down.
“Take it before I change my mind!”
Lord Bryson grasped the rope and climbed with admittedly impressive stamina for a man who was just submerged in freezing water.
Is it not obvious, she thought mockingly. She heaved the rope in smooth, long pulls, puffing a strand of her from her face. Obvious that you’re no different than the rest of my suitors. Poison ivy trying to climb the Princess so you can sit beside the throne.
He was nearly aboard again. She reached a clawed hand out to him. “Hurry up. I am sure you’d rather your subordinates not see you like this.”
“I am not ashamed to be rescued by a woman.”
He grunted and grasped the baluster, vaulting himself atop it and onto the deck with a sloshing thump.
“That is the most sensible thing I have ever heard you say.”
“Apparently I am not a sensible man.” He stood and slicked back his persimmon hair, then wrung out his red, one-shouldered cape. “Thank you for awakening my better judgment.”
“Ha! Next you will say you were only jesting.”
He straightened his soaking collar. “Maybe I was. After all, I am a master at living a lie. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”
A growl rolled in her throat. “One more word and I will throw you back in, you scoundrel. I swear on the—”
“My Lord!” Sir Oshfeldt’s eyes widened as he tore up the steps to the bow. Anya snapped her jaw shut. “Am I—interrupting something? Why are you soaking wet?”
“It seems Her Highness prefers action over words.” Lord Bryson turned to her. “Please excuse me, Your Highness. I need to warm up and prepare for us to make port tomorrow.”
I think you mean I should prepare for us to make port tomorrow.
Her eyes followed the Lord as he and Sir Oshfeldt descended the steps and disappeared into the lower decks. A twinge of guilt nipped her conscience. She defiantly bucked it.
He claimed he wasn’t ashamed to be saved by her. So why did he not trust her to handle the duties of a commander? She was put in charge of this mission. He knew it. She knew it. His intentions were plain on his face. He was just another glory hound like her cousin.
Cyrus Scorer. Her hackles rose just thinking his name.
Her Elvani cousin was always out to shame her publicly and bolster his own laurels.
He had a motive besides cruelty. The Valerian throne didn’t have to be passed on to one’s eldest child.
In fact, the King and Queen could renounce their children’s place in line and select their heir from any blood relative, if they wished.
It was nearly unheard of, but it had happened a few times in the last millennium.
Every public slant from Lord Bryson could be used against her.
Could she have scolded Lord Bryson and retaken authority?
Of course. But to do so also meant drawing the well-deserved ire of the Centarians.
They’d been through so much. She couldn’t bear to weaken the image of their savior.
Was it not true leadership to consider the thoughts and feelings of her subjects rather than her own vie for the throne?
She hung her head and sighed. This was not how she wanted this mission to go. But maybe it was how it needed to go.
She quietly made her way back to the main deck. Blackbird was enjoying a flagon of mead with several deckhands and Dame Fletcher. Anya couldn’t pull her friend away from the revelry. If she wanted to mope, she would do it by herself.
She trudged down to the cabin she shared with Blackbird and flopped down on the wooden bunk.
It was a modest accommodation, with two sets of bunks on either side piled high with quilted linens.
A rickety table and chair rested below the brass porthole.
The captain had made their cabin as comfortable as possible, wanting to make a good impression on Anya.
She appreciated it, but the gesture only reminded her that she wasn’t one of them.
As hard as she tried to foster camaraderie and shake the preconceived notions that came with her class, she was still a princess at the end of the day.
To the crew, a navigator, not a commander.
To the Centarians, an enabler, not a savior.
To Lord Bryson, just another rung to climb on his ladder of laurels; not a woman with a heart—one who wanted to be respected, loved, cherished—treated like a person and not a prize.
Biting, salty sea air eked in through the cracked porthole, renewing her spirit.
This taste of freedom and breaths of wild uncharted air were well worth the grief from Lord Bryson.
She sat up and removed the outer layer of her dress, then reached her hands under the long-sleeve slip to loosen her corset.
It was an arduous chore without Blackbird.
No more moping. She would get a good night’s rest and wake earlier than Lord Bryson ever would.
She would distribute rations and wages, send a hawk to her parents to get housing assignments, then escort those who needed continued care to the capital infirmary, even if they spit vitriol at her along the way.
Roderick Bryson
Roderick lit the lantern hanging beside the cabin door, then stripped off the sopping clothes that clung to his body, trying his hardest not to shiver like a newborn fawn.
Seawater puddled at his feet. What had he done to deserve such treatment from Anya?
He’d spent the entire voyage helping her as much as possible.
She’d read his intentions with the duel perfectly.
She’d jested with him throughout the entire mission.
He’d even noticed her blush whenever he smiled at her.
He slipped his arms into a sandy-colored shirt with wide, billowing sleeves, then pulled on his most comfortable trousers.
There was no need to dress to the nines to do paperwork.
He’d had the port papers brought to him last night.
He had wanted to take the headache off of Anya’s plate.
But it would be spiteful and childish to throw the chore back at her now.
Her brief smile during the celebration above deck flashed in his mind.
The sensation of her body against his sent heat to his cheeks.
He shuddered at the reminder of her claw tracing up his chest. It had even grazed beyond the crest of his collar for a moment, scratching a thin red line on his bare skin.
Unsated desire simmered beneath the surface as he buckled his belt.
He quickly buried it with her chilling words.
You’re an insensitive, self-absorbed rake.
He glanced at the jar of dried Rhodias flowers on the bedside table. Was it possible the remedy that fended off his depressive thoughts also dulled his senses?
He stared into the moonlit porthole, greeted by the face of a man who was thoroughly embarrassed.
Angry. Embarrassed she said no. Angry he’d interpreted every moment so terribly wrong.
But were there not endless opportunities for the Princess to speak with him if he had done something wrong? She had two feet and a tongue.
His ex-fiancée, Millicent, was never like that. If she found something he did displeasing, she told him. Or at least, her actions bore her feelings quite plainly.
The bed creaked as he sat down.
The Princess was bullheaded and ungrateful. Millicent at least appreciated his desire to help her and protect her. Even after their engagement ended, she’d hugged him and called him a friend.
He picked up the jar of Rhodias, rotating it slowly in his hand. The little white flowers shimmered under the moonlit glass.
How could I have missed Anya’s hate for me?
The flowers were a critical part of keeping up the act of a hero in the daylight and avoiding darker straits in the night.
Without them, he felt anchored to cold, dark waters that were strangely inviting.
There was comfort in the wash of pain, like being welcomed home.
He belonged in the humble abode prepared for him by the eddies of emotion that clouded his mind.
But that comfort kept him prisoner. He’d struggle just to get out of bed.
He began to ignore his duties as Commander of the Petorus knights until Octavio knocked some sense into him.
He was more than just another knight in his command.
Octavio was his only friend and had gone so far as to relay Roderick’s depressive thoughts as his own to obtain the flowers discreetly.
The waters in his mind had reached that drowning depth when his former intended left to join the Church’s inspectorate “Hounds” a year ago.
It was a vicious group, tasked with investigating every suspected Centarian sighting.
It was the only way for Millicent to keep her family exempt from bloodlet testing without marrying him for his noble name.
She practically chose to dance with the devil to avoid his arms. While he knew their engagement had been for protective, practical reasons, that fact didn’t wash away his feelings, or the years he’d spent breaking his back to get that title for her sake.
He’d hoped that after a year of travel across Valeria, she would be ready, even excited to marry him.
He imagined spinning her in his arms upon her return and running to the chapel.
But instead of the daydream that kept him going coming true, the next time he saw her she was in the company of one who drew a sparkle from her eyes.
So he let her go. And without him, she blossomed.
Admittedly, he grew as well—far beyond the clandestine walls his family had forged around him.
He put everything on the line to help Millicent and their people.
Taking that risk changed their entire kingdom.
It felt incredible to finally make a difference without being ordered to, without staining his blade with blood.
But all the change in the world couldn’t win Millicent back.
He took a risk with Anya, vying for that same rush. Instead, he received an icy rejection. It was well within her right. But her words still hurt.
I tried to bring Anya closer to me, and all I did was upset her and myself. I offered to marry Millicent, and all I did was put her through needless distress. And to think Millicent truly feared I would try to force marriage upon her…Perhaps I am a rake.
He tightened his hold on the pathetic little jar. A pathetic jar of pathetic flowers for pathetic man.
Millicent had suffered.
His people had suffered.
Now it was his turn.
He crushed the jar in his fist, impaling the flowers and his hands with shards of glass. He steeled his heart as sweet Centarian crimson flowed from his fingers, staining the petals.
Maybe that Centarian man was right. Anya was a pompous fool.
After all, Roderick and Millicent had discovered what she could not, even though the Princess had access to all the information she could ever want.
She acted like such an academic, yet she couldn’t smell the deceit right under her nose.
Maybe if she’d removed her head from the dirt of diplomacy for even a moment, his people wouldn’t have suffered for so long.
I’m done with these. And I’m done with you, Princess.