Chapter 18
Roderick Bryson
All things considered, Anya’s reaction was mild. Damn near friendly. That was unexpected. It made Roderick’s anxiety the entire day seem childish.
He could hardly keep his hands off her when she finally spoke to him; finally listened.
He had all and nothing to tell her. He just wanted to talk to her.
He’d kept her hands firmly at her sides, fearing she would change her mind and retreat to her cabin.
Her hands were soft like the flank of a newborn foal.
Soft from a cushy life, he tried to tell himself.
She was a pompous princess. A princess. Spoiled. Silver-spooned.
Then what does that make you? the hollow voice in his mind asked.
A privileged noble with no sense of what true suffering is. Your mind stirs, your heart hurts, boohoo, too bad. Just be happy your dice of life came up with two blue eyes. Without them, you would have died. Do you really think your family would have gone to the islands just to stay with you?
He folded his arms on the bow and let his head fall onto the point the two balusters met, praying for relief from the weight tugging him toward the bottom of the roiling sea.
You barely deserved the life you had. Who are you to call her spoiled? Your parents treated you like a prized pig. All you had to do was win that blue ribbon of nobility.
He pulled a peppermint cigar out of his pocket and dipped it into the lantern hanging from the rigging.
He took draw after draw, staring out at the moonlit waters.
Each puff numbed the voice just a bit. When the cigar was down to the end, he snuffed it out and tossed the bark fiber butt into the sea, then descended the steps onto the main deck.
He’d spent too much time brooding on the bow.
Most of the crew was probably asleep now, save for the woman in the crow’s nest and Bernard reclining against the main mast. He nodded to Bernard and made for the belly of the ship.
A drink. He needed a drink. His eye caught on a sliver of light streaming from beneath the door of the galley. He tugged on the brass handle.
Locked.
Only a handful of crew members had the key to the galley.
Bernard was on duty, so Annette was certainly not cleaning at this hour with the baby.
Anya was probably holed up with Lady Rowan.
That left the captain and Ornella, and he wouldn’t mind a drink with either of them. At least he wouldn’t be alone.
Roderick fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.
The dining area was spick and span, devoid of either of his anticipated drinking companions.
The partition that Annette used to close off the counter between the dining room and kitchen was shut tight.
A few metal lanterns were responsible for the glow under the door.
Maybe Annette was so busy with her daughter she’d forgotten to extinguish them.
He blew them out one by one, making his way toward the kitchen.
The circular window in the kitchen door became a beacon as he blew the last one out.
He’d grab a mug of ale, snuff the rest of the lights out, and slip out the back to his cabin.
A crack of shattering ceramic drove him into the kitchen. His pulse surged. A stowaway?
“Who’s there?” Roderick rested a hand on his scabbard as he turned the corner.
“Hehe. Oops.”
That didn’t sound like a thief caught red-handed. That sounded like—
“Anya!”
She whirled her head to him, leaning clumsily against the back counter.
The knotty oak cabinets above her were flung wide, and shards of plates and bowls were strewn around her.
Her blouse was loosened at the top, revealing inches of pale cleavage.
Her usual tight bun was long gone. Wavy blonde hair flowed freely down her back.
“What are you doing?” he asked, frozen in place. He’d never seen the Princess in such a state. Prim and proper was thrown out the window. Before him was a starry-eyed seductress.
“What are you doing?” she repeated mockingly, waving a sticky spoon in the air.
She shoved it into a jam jar, pillaged a spoonful, then slipped it into her mouth.
She pressed her lips into a tight line, gathering every last drop as she pulled the spoon out.
Despite this effort, there was a history of messy bites and bumbling scoops striping the wooden counter.
Roderick tried to quell his desire for the Princess all this time.
He really did. The frigid sea she so rudely introduced him to worked for a few days.
Burying himself in extra cavalry work was mildly effective.
But what worked best was the steady dose of forced hatred and lies he told himself about Anya.
She was prissy, spoiled, and ungrateful.
He despised her.
He hated her.
She hated him.
Every word was proven false the second her eyes met his as she licked the spoon clean. Her expression was unguarded, honest. She didn’t take him in with disdain. In fact, she was staring at him like he was next. And good gracious, he wanted to be.
Divine Almighty, turn me into that spoon.
His heart pounded in his chest like he was charging into battle. He knew her lips would taste incredible right now.
He pinched his wrist between two nails. No! He had to snap out of it. Anya just started talking to him again. He couldn’t mess this up. The mission! Think of the mission! Everything would go faster if they got along.
“I’m, uh, wondering why you’re in the kitchen by yourself at this hour.” He surveyed the space. It was positively a mess—shards of ceramic scattered across the floor, blue stains on the counter, and, to his surprise, a barrel of ale pried open, clearly with claws.
Dear lord.
The Princess was three sheets to the wind.
“I can go where I please,” Anya slurred, grabbing a mug off the counter. She dipped it into the barrel beside her, sloshing ale onto the floor and her dress.
“Oh, Anya, what did you do?” Roderick raced over to the barrel and peered in. It was nearly a quarter gone. They hadn’t even broken it out for the crew yet. There were plenty more barrels, but this meant she’d drank nearly six mugs’ worth.
Anya stared at him with confused brows, mouth slightly parted, not comprehending his question. Her spectacles were dotted with dried ale. She blinked like she was seeing him for the first time.
“You. Why are you here? I don’t want to see you!” She took a hearty swig and tapped the mug down. “I came here to get away from you!”
He sat on the floor, tapping his head against the barrel. “You’re drunk, Anya.” A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. A real one. It felt foreign on his face.
“Oh, thank the moon, you called me Anya,” she sputtered. “Never call me Princess again. I loathe it. Princess, Princess, Princess.” She practically shoved the mug onto her face and chugged, then slammed it down on the counter beside her.
“I hate this thing.” She stuck out her tongue, pulled the golden ring off her finger and skipped it across the counter. Her wide, wolfish pupils watched it with comical intensity as it swiveled in a circle until it finally stilled.
“You said it means trouble. What is going on? Who’s making it hot?”
A devilish grin crossed her face. “I’ll answer if you drink with me.”
“Fine. But you’re cut off. It’s my turn.”
She dipped the mug into the barrel and handed it to him. He took a generous sip and set it on the floor. “There. I drank. Tell me what you meant by trouble.”
“My stupid cousin.” She shoved her head into the barrel, tapping her claws on the sides. Her words became echoed within it. “He wants to be King. He thinks he’s sooooooo much better than me.”
“Count Scorer?”
She pulled her head out. “Yes. That mangy mutt is probably telling everyone what an unfit, crazy bitch I am. Or—” She reached for the mug with grabby claws.
“Ah-ah.” He swatted her hand. She looked down at him with a pouty face. “You’ve had enough. This is mine.” He took another drink. “Or what?”
Her eyes were starting to glaze over, but she continued, “Or he’s telling people what a disgrace I was during the evacuation. You”—she pointed an accusing claw at him—“did evvvvverythinggggg. Made me look like a bad leader. Now I’ll never be Queen.”
“What?” He’d never considered Anya not becoming Queen.
He knew linear succession wasn’t always the case.
But the only times he’d heard of that happening was when the monarchs didn’t have a child.
But the Delemonds did; a beautiful, smart, and tenacious one at that.
They’d be fools to appoint anyone but her.
“They think I’m,” she hiccupped, “irresponsible. Emotional. And stars, when I’m with you I’m at my worst. Maybe they sent me on this expedition so I’d go crazy and prove them right.” She slumped over the barrel, hiding her face inside.
Shame slammed into him like a hoof to the gut. He hadn’t considered for a single moment that his attempts to assist her during the evacuation had actually harmed her. If he was the reason she was passed over as her parents’ successor, the weight of guilt would surely suffocate him.
He tried to console her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
Anya pulled her head out of the barrel. “You nevvvvverrrr realize. Not even when something is right under your nose.” She grinned and leaned down, strumming his nose with a finger.
This was quite possibly the most he’d seen her smile since, well, ever.
It was endearing to see her so relaxed, even as she spouted her anxieties.
It seemed to help him relax too. But perhaps it was the alcohol settling in.
He set the empty mug down and sighed. One of them needed to keep their wits about them. “I’ll stay with you until you’re presentable enough to walk to your cabin.”
She crossed her arms and huffed like a petulant child. “I’m always presentable!”
“Prove it.” He stood and took a step back. “Walk straight to me.”