Defend the Dawn (Defy the Night #2)(59)

I take them both, then give her a nod. “You have my deepest gratitude, Miss Anya. I promise not to be late for breakfast tomorrow.”

She grins, but I turn away to extend a hand to Kilbourne, offering our “breakfast.” This time he is the one who’s looking at me as if I’m crazy.

“Close your mouth, Kilbourne,” I say.

He snaps his mouth shut, then takes one piece of carrot.

“Take them both,” I say to him as we turn for the doorway. “It’s my fault you didn’t get to eat.”

“Your Highness,” Dabriel calls from behind me.

I turn, and I’m glad I have quick reflexes, because she’s tossing an apple at me—and then a warm roll from the pan. “For your guard, too,” she says, and she tosses a second set. Kilbourne snatches them out of the air.

“My thanks,” he says to her.

“Mine, too,” I add.

“Just don’t make a habit of it.” She doesn’t smile.

But I do. It’s a tiny win, and rather meaningless, really, but for the first time aboard this ship, I feel like I’ve done something right.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tessa

Once the ship woke up, the deck became a flurry of activity. In the quiet of dawn, with wind billowing the sails and nothing but the rush of water below us, it was hard to imagine there’d be much to do. But once Rian’s crew got to work, I started to wonder how they have time to sleep. Torn sails have to be mended, and rigging repaired from what the captain identified this morning. The sail beams have to be adjusted for the changing winds and the river currents, and I quickly learned that every rope seems interconnected: if they loosen one, it requires tightening somewhere else.

I was serious in my offer to help, but it’s obvious that this crew is close-knit and used to working together. There doesn’t seem to be a place to fit, especially with so much to be done. When Rian called for Gwyn and Marchon in his stateroom, it was clear they had important things to discuss, and I didn’t want to be in the way. Through the windows, I could see them going over maps and jotting notes—and I’m sure they were also discussing the newcomers on board. I didn’t miss their eyes glancing my way every so often.

I watch the crew, listening for coughs or rough voices, wondering if anyone has any complaints about chills or exhaustion. They weren’t in Kandala for very long, but I’m still worried that the fever sickness might break out on this ship—and I’m pleased to hear nothing of concern.

Brock and Tor are the men who were bickering on the deck last night, but it seems they don’t hate each other; they just love to argue. They spent the morning stripping rust from chains and setting the fishing nets, and then, once those were tossed overboard, they worked with others to drag the haul onto the deck. By then, Lochlan had come up, and I’d tensed, wondering if he’d start picking at me again, but he barely even met my eyes. He took the medicine I offered, then saw the other men at work and set to join them.

I guess he didn’t have a hard time finding a place to fit at all.

Then fish were being gutted and nets were being repaired and the decks were being washed. The whole time, I don’t see Corrick or any guards aside from Silas, who’s taken a position at the front of the ship, probably so he can keep an eye on everything at once. By the time morning gives way to midday, the waves have gotten rougher, occasionally splashing over the side, forcing me to stand near the mast because I’m terrified I’ll go over the railing. I’m wondering if I would be better served to return to my quarters.

But then one of the men shouts, another swears, and a flurry of activity erupts near where they were gutting the fish. They’re all on their feet, tension thick in the air. At first, I can’t tell what’s happening, but Lochlan shoves Brock square in the chest.

The other man draws himself up, but he doesn’t fight back. He’s talking, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. There’s a fish knife clutched in one of his fists.

Lochlan shoves him again. Brock’s teeth are clenched, and his fingers adjust on that knife.

My heart leaps into my throat. All I can think about is Rian asking Corrick if his people are going to cause trouble, and we haven’t even been on the ship for a full day. “Hey!” I call, striding across the deck, praying I’m not going to lose my footing. “Silas!”

But Silas has seen the impending brawl and is starting forward himself. I’m distantly aware of booted feet behind me, but I don’t realize it’s Captain Blakemore until he puts a hand on my arm, drawing me to a stop.

“Slow,” he says. “Don’t make it bigger than it is.”

“They’re going to fight—”

“No one fights on my ship. Not like this.” He lets out a whistle, and half the men startle, then exchange glances. Many of them take a step back from where Brock and Lochlan are glaring at each other. Even Silas hesitates, his hand on a weapon.

“Brock,” Tor hisses. “Brock, it’s the captain.”

It’s like Rian’s presence is magical, because Brock blinks slowly, then looks up. The tense readiness eases out of his frame. “Sorry, Cap.” He jerks his head at Lochlan. “We were just fooling around. I didn’t know he’d be so sensitive.”

Lochlan inhales, his fists primed like he’s ready to surge forward. I expect Brock to retaliate, but he doesn’t. He takes a step back, out of the way, and I see the rebel preparing to go after him.