Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(24)

Tessa says nothing to that. I glance over to discover that she looks wounded, and now she’s truly frowning.

Lord. “Tessa—I didn’t mean—”

“No! No, I know.” Her eyes have gone a bit glassy, but she blinks it away. She huffs a breath, then downs half her glass of wine. “It’s fine. I keep forgetting that there’s a reason you and your brother are so … cynical.”

“Again. Welcome to life at court.”

“Thanks. I hate it here.”

I frown. I don’t know if there’s a kernel of honesty in there or not, but I’m not sure my heart could take the truth right now. I tap my glass against hers. “Cheers.”

“Honestly. The two of you.” Quint sighs, looking at Tessa. “Don’t let them make you cynical, my dear.”

“How do you avoid it?” she says.

“Because I’ve already seen the changes you have brought to the palace.”

“Well, I nearly witnessed an assassination this afternoon, so I’m not sure I’m doing much.”

The guards swing the doors open. Again, I expect my brother. Instead, Captain Blakemore walks in, Lieutenant Tagas at his side, along with two other men who must be members of his crew. They’re both older than he is, by at least ten years. I half expected them to return in the seaworn clothes they were wearing during our first meeting, but they’ve clearly been given leave to return to the ship to prepare. Their attire isn’t Kandalan, but it’s not altogether foreign either. Rian is freshly shaved, his hair combed back, his clothes clean and more elegant than I expected. His jacket is leather instead of cloth, and shorter than the current style in Kandala, with buttons situated diagonally across his chest. His boots are buckled instead of laced. He’s quite obviously the youngest of the group—and just as obviously the one in command.

“Oh,” says Tessa, and there’s a note of intrigue in her voice that I absolutely cannot ignore.

I look at her and raise my eyebrows. “Oh?”

She hesitates. Her voice drops. “The sea captain isn’t what I expected.”

“Hmm.” I drain my glass. A servant immediately hands me another.

“Your Highness,” Captain Blakemore says when he reaches us. “A pleasure to see you again. And Master Quint.” He nods to the Palace Master, then bows to Tessa with perfect courtly manners. “An even greater pleasure to meet your lovely companion.”

It’s a throwaway comment, something I’ve said to a hundred courtiers over the years, but Tessa is so earnest that she takes it to heart. She blushes and takes hold of her skirts to curtsy in return. “I’m Tessa Cade.”

“Miss Cade.” His eyebrows go up. “The apothecary, then.”

“Yes.” She looks surprised—and a bit delighted—that he knows who she is.

His smile warms. “Around the docks, I heard some fascinating stories about an outlaw named Tessa sneaking into the palace to bring news of a better cure.”

“Well,” she says. “You know how rumors are. I just want to help people.”

“I do know how rumors are.” His eyes flick to me before returning to hers. There’s less flirtation and more genuine intrigue in his expression now. “Hopefully we’ll be seated near each other. I’m eager to learn the truth.”

She’ll be seated with me.

I almost say it. I almost growl it. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, hot and possessive. But every syllable would sound petty and chauvinistic, and I swallow my words with another sip of wine.

“I’m eager to hear about Ostriary,” Tessa says. “Weeks ago, I was asking Corrick if it could potentially be a resource for Moonflower petals.”

“I’m hopeful I can help that come to pass,” he says.

“We’ll see,” I say.

He finally looks back at me. “I suppose we will, Your Highness.”

Quint must sense the tension between us, because he says, “Captain Blakemore, I don’t believe we’ve met the other members of your crew.”

“Of course,” Rian continues smoothly, as if there’s no strain at all. “This is Sablo, my second lieutenant.” He indicates a heavily freckled man who’s well over six feet tall, thickly muscled, with a bald head, pink cheeks, and a dense red beard that’s neatly trimmed. “And Marchon, my navigator and quartermaster,” Rian says, indicating the other man, who’s as narrow and swarthy as Sablo is broad and pale. His hair is longer, slicked back and knotted at the back of his neck.

“Your Highness,” says Marchon, and his deep voice carries a rasp, and the same slight accent as Gwyn’s. “We are grateful for the invitation to dine with you this evening.”

Sablo gives me a nod.

“Sablo doesn’t speak,” Rian adds.

My eyebrows go up. “By choice?”

“No,” says Rian, and there’s a protective note to his voice that reminds me of how readily he spoke up for his people earlier.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” I say, but I take in Sablo’s size and wonder if he’s more than just a sailor. He carries himself with a certain stillness that speaks to military training. So does Marchon, now that I’m looking at them. He’s not as big as Sablo, but there’s a breadth to his shoulders that suggests strength. They could be bodyguards—or assassins. Surely the guards searched them for weapons before they came in here.