Page 3 of Spar of Hearts

“It is my mess, My Lord,” she huffed. “I will clean it up.” She seemed surprisingly upset about a mere piece of dishware. It was of little consequence. He could pay to replace it a thousand times over.

“I insist, Anya. And for the last time, please call me Roderick.” He loved saying her name. It was thrilling when she introduced herself for the first time and permitted him to use it. He couldn’t pass up any opportunity now.

“As you wish.” She shoved away from the table. “Lady Rowan, let us check if Ornella needs any help in the infirmary.”

So diligent. She hardly ever sits still.

“Yes, My Lady.” Lady Rowan and Anya gathered the kettle and cups and returned them to the kitchen. He disposed of the broken plate and beat them at the door.

“After you, Anya. Lady Rowan.” He tipped his head respectfully as he held the door. Lady Rowan smiled, but the Princess kept her eyes trained forward. Her focus on their mission was yet another of her admirable traits.

They would be a duo for the ages.

Chapter 2

Anya Delemond

Infirmary was a loose term. Storage room was far more apt. But it was all they had. It was the most spacious, quiet portion of the lower deck. With a few bunks lining the walls, tables and chairs, and a chest full of herbs and tinctures, they had a halfway decent triage setup. Many of the Centarians turned around or feigned sleep when they saw her assisting Ornella Lune-Stonefoot in the infirmary. Those who didn’t likely didn’t know Anya’s royal identity yet. After yet another pair of glaring red eyes turned from her, she relegated herself to crushing herbs and cutting roots for tonics and teas. At least the children didn’t seem to mind her presence. It was the adults who regarded her with ire, and rightfully so. The time to prove herself an ally to them and gain their trust in a personable manner was waning.

“Duel on deck! Duel on deck!” Ornella’s son, Damien Stonefoot, shouted through the halls. Anya looked out the porthole. It was nearly dusk. The deck feast would start soon. It was a Lupus Star tradition to dance and eat on the upper deck the last night of a voyage as a thank you to the Mother Moon for guiding them safely to shore. A duel on deck was a form of entertainment—and in this case, a smart distraction to offer the Centarians. Their lives were about to change in many good ways, but it still must be a terrifying step.

Clamors of excited feet went up the stairs. Blackbird finished cleaning a boy’s scraped knee and sent him on his way. The boy followed the crowds out of the belly of the ship.

“Well, Blackbird, should I throw my hat in the ring?” Anya quipped, standing and stretching generously. It had been a while since she’d sparred, but perhaps it would show she was not the stuck-up Princess many of them seemed to think, even if she lost. Revelry was revelry, after all.

“Ooh! Yes!” Blackbird clapped her hands together. “Let’s fetch your cutlass and scabbard!”

“My bow and quiver too!” She picked up her skirts ever so slightly and hurried behind Blackbird, following her to their cabin.

Who wouldn’t enjoy an archery contest? Perhaps Lord Bryson would even be foolish enough to compete. It would be a delicious end to the voyage.

They retrieved Anya’s weapons and ascended the rickety stairs to the upper deck. The tinny schink of steel on steel carried over the crystal waters, unhampered by the furled topgallant sails. Sir Oshfeldt was giving hearty chase to a young Lycanian sailor, who was blocking hits with a broadsword and jumping from crate to crate in an attempt to catch the knight off guard with his agility.

“Too late for one more?” Anya swung her cutlass in an arc.

“The more the merrier!” Sir Oshfeldt answered with a smile, his long, low tail of silver hair swinging back and forth as he lazily parried the sailor’s attacks. The sailor seemed stronger than the knight, but Sir Oshfeldt was angling his blade to his advantage. He swiped at the sailor’s feet, who stumbled off a barrel onto his back. Sir Oshfeldt levied the blade to the sailor’s chest with a victorious grin.

“I yield!” The sailor raised his hands in surrender. Sir Oshfeldt helped him to his feet and patted him on the back. The gathering crowd clapped and hooted.

“I need a rest.” The knight swiped a hand across his forehead. “Now, who will challenge Princess Anya?” he yelled, riling up the sailors and Centarians.

Anya was pretty sure the Centarians were cheering because they wanted to see her experience a tail-tucking defeat. If that was what they wanted, she would give them one hell of a show along the way.

“A rare opportunity,” Lord Bryson said, slipping between the crowd. Anya bristled at his tone. It was positively dripping with nerve. He stepped into the clearing and brandished his rapier in an X. “I would relish the chance, if Her Highness does not object.”

Great. Now she was faced with two options: anger the Centarians by defeating their hero, or stab her own pride in the back. It wasn’t really a debate. She knew what she had to do.

“And why would I object, fine knight?” She tossed the hilt of her cutlass from her left hand to her right. “You think me too fair a maiden to duel?”

“I simply wish to save your lovely dress from my ogre-stained blade.” The crowd oo’d at the taunt. He was smart with words. He was currying favor with the Centarians with his jest and likely expected her to fume and solidify their opinion of her as a haughty Princess.

Two can play at this game.

“I am as nimble with a needle as I am with a blade,” Anya countered, stepping closer to him. A smile spread on his face, wider with each step she took. Those fangs were more distracting than anything he could say.

“I will only object,” she leaned forward and whispered, “if you go easy on me.”

He whispered back, “I wouldn’t dream of it, Anya.”