Page 41 of Spar of Hearts

There wasn’t mead aboard, but there was ale.

Lots of it.

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.