Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(47)

I take a step back and run my hands across my face again. There’s a tiny mirror in the corner, over the empty washbasin, but my eyes still look like thunder, so I glance away. I unroll my sleeves and refasten the cuffs.

I wish I had Quint. Or Harristan.

My chest tightens unexpectedly, but I lock this emotion away with the others. I walk to the small, barred porthole and stare out into the blackness. The bars remind me of a prison cell. Only a few tiny lights along the shore glow in the gloom. I count to ten. To one hundred.

And then I do it again.

Eventually, my temper cools. I’m no longer inhaling fire.

A knock sounds at my door, and I whip my head around. My heart kicks. Maybe she’s come back. Maybe I have a chance to fix this.

I grab the handle and jerk the door open.

It’s not Tessa. It’s Kilbourne. There are two men behind him, both lugging heavy trunks that glisten with rainwater.

“Your Highness,” the guard says. “Your trunks have been brought down.”

I stare at him. I’m trying to decide if he looks like he knows what happened between me and Tessa.

Maybe I can’t swallow all that emotion.

While I’m deliberating, one of the men blows a lock of hair out of his eyes and says, “They sure are getting lighter, Your Highness,” and the other man makes a sound like he’s trying to stifle a laugh.

My eyes narrow, and I’m tempted to make these men hold them for a solid hour, but it feels petty. I know how loyal Rian’s crew is. I don’t want to turn them all against me.

“Forgive me,” I say. “Just set them inside.”

They do. They’re not gentle about it either. With hardly a glance at me, the men leave the trunks, then head back into the hallway. One of them wipes sweat or rain—or both—from his brow as he goes.

I’m irritated, and I probably don’t have any right to be. They aren’t here as my servants.

“Where are the other guards?” I say to Kilbourne.

“Silas is setting our room to order. Rocco is walking the ship.” Kilbourne casts a glance at the empty hallway, then drops his voice. “The captain promised a thorough tour once we’re ahead of the storm, but Rocco doesn’t want to wait that long.”

Interesting. Probably smart. I glance across the hallway at the two closed doors. I wonder which one is Tessa’s. “Miss Cade is comfortable?”

He hesitates. “As far as I can tell.” He studies me, and in that moment, I can tell he noticed Tessa’s sudden departure from my quarters.

He has the good sense not to mention it, which I can appreciate.

“What did Lochlan say to her?” I ask.

Kilbourne draws a slow breath.

I’ve been on this ship for less than an hour, and I’m already exhausted. “Just tell me.”

“He said the king placed him on the ship for the purpose of making him disappear. He said you were a liar who deserved to be tied to the rudder.” He hesitates. “He said you brought Miss Tessa along for … ah, companionship.”

My jaw is tight.

“In the bedroom,” he adds.

I give him a look. “Thank you, Kilbourne. I made the connection.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

I sigh and close myself back into my quarters. No wonder she started demanding to know my intentions—especially when I did nothing to put her fears to rest. Instead, I probably stoked them.

I need action, but I’m not in the right frame of mind to go find it. I really would wring Lochlan’s neck. I crouch beside the first chest and unlatch it. The clothes on top are a bit damp from where rain has snuck past the leather stitching of the trunk, and I sigh, then move to hang them from hooks in the wardrobe. I could call for someone to do this for me, but now that my hands are buried in the fabric, I’m reminded of the scents of the palace, so different from the scent of seawater and fish that seems to cling to everything on board the Dawn Chaser. I’m sure Geoffrey, my valet, chose each piece carefully, because everything is practical for a journey by sea, with a few more regal pieces, surely intended for once we reach Ostriary.

But then, at the bottom of the chest, I find a worn leather riding jacket that’s jarring with familiarity, though I’m sure I haven’t seen it in years. My brows flicker into a frown, because I can’t imagine what inspired Geoffrey to add it to my trunks. It’s fine leather, with detailed stitching, a belted waist, and buckles across the chest, but I have little use for riding attire on a ship. Honestly, I’m rather certain this used to be Harristan’s, anyway—

I freeze, struck by a memory. I was fourteen, so Harristan was eighteen. It was late autumn, and our parents were still alive. We were visiting the consul of Trader’s Landing. My parents wanted Harristan to travel by carriage, because the colder air always seemed to make his breathing worse, but by then he’d reached an age where he could refuse. He’d ridden beside me through miles of leaf-strewn trails—and he’d paid the price. By the time we reached the consul’s estate, Harristan couldn’t speak a full sentence without gasping halfway through.

He recovered quickly once we were inside, but after hours at tea and luncheon and afternoon gossip in front of a fireplace, I grew bored with all the royal protocol. I left my brother and my parents and slipped into the dimness of the stables. I heard the low rumble of voices in the tack room, but I didn’t think much of it, until I realized what the stablehands were doing: mocking my brother.