Page 116 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
Only a few people are about at this hour, and they don’t seem eager to greet us, which suits me.
“There.” Ducayne points ahead. “The Bent Lady Inn. Odd name, but it looks busy. Close to the docks, probably frequented by sailors.”
My stomach plunges again, but I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders. “Very well. We’ll go there.”
He leans toward me in his saddle. “You need to stop acting like—you know. You’re Nell, remember? My wife. And I’m the good Master Miles, harmless merchant of oddities.”
The wordsmy wifeaffect me strangely. They crawl under my skin and nestle there. I try to shiver them away, but it doesn’t work.
Ducayne is my thrall. He belongs to me, body and will. The termwifeconnotes that I’m his possession or his partner, or both. I cannot decide if I hate that or if somewhere, in the innermost shrine of my heart, I rather like it.
We dismount in front of the inn, and a stable boy asks if we’ll be staying the night.
“If you have room,” says Ducayne.
“Got some sailors staying on, but there should be a room or two left,” says the boy. “A rough lot, some o’ them, but the stories they’ve got—have you heard of the Pirate King?”
“Heard of him,” Ducayne answers.
The boy’s eyes spark with mischief. “Well, you’re likely to hear much more of him tonight. Nothing like stories over a bowl o’ hot stew, I always say!”
“Very good.” Ducayne smiles back at him. “Stalls for these two horses, my lad, and our bags brought safely to us once we’ve secured lodging. Thank you.” He gives the boy a handful of coins, more than I would have offered.
“Damn, it feels good to pay for something,” Ducayne says as the boy leads our horses away.
“You’re too generous. We need to be careful with our money.”
“Fiddlesticks, Highness. We have plenty of money collected from various deceased donors back at the palace, not to mention the jewels—”
“Which may be difficult to sell. People may think we stole them.”
“Wedidsteal them. Well—some of them. Some are yours—or the Crown’s, I suppose.”
“Mine by right,” I mutter.
I hang back as he approaches the door to the inn. It’s flanked by two windows, each one made up of dozens of panes of leaded glass. I can’t see anything inside but a soft amber glow. A faint din of merry voices and fiddle music leaks through the crack of the door.
“Ruelle. I mean, Nell.” Ducayne extends his gloved hand. There’s a lantern bracketed to the wall above his head, just under the inn’s sign, and it bathes him in golden light. He is handsome, kind, funny, strong—and he’s careless, devilish, merciful, and bold. He is everything.
“Ruelle,” he says again, softly. “Come. You’ll be safe with me. I promise.”
Defenses coil inside me, my inner serpent ready to strike. Safe? I don’t need ‘safe.’ I don’t need his protection—I am enough, I am strong—
But perhaps I do not have to be strong, or enough, all the time.
I don’t take his hand.
But I tuck my arm through his, and he pulls me against his big, warm side, and we enter the inn.
The inn’s common room is packed with sailors, as the stable boy warned us it would be. Usually my face, finery, and retinue of guards and servants are enough to clear a path through any room; but tonight I let Ducayne shoulder through the crowd toward the innkeeper’s desk, and I follow in his wake. He has to shout through the din of clanking mugs, sloshing ale, chinking plates, and boisterous voices.
The smell of savory stew digs into my belly. We ate little before leaving the palace—no stomach for it with the smell of death seeping into the kitchen—and I’m starving.
Ducayne finishes our business with the innkeeper and pulls me through the crowd. There are no tables left, but there’s a big barrel and a couple of high stools near a window. Just beyond that lies an enormous corner booth, and its denizens catch my eye.
I’ve not seen many sailors in my day, but from a quick scan of the room, they look to be mostly grubby, plain, and ragged. Not so the people in the corner booth. They are riotously, gorgeously dressed.
A woman with long red braids and densely freckled skin sits on the top edge of the booth, with one thigh-high boot on the seat and the other propped against the edge of the table. Her blousy white shirt leaves both shoulders bare, and she’s wearing a leather vest and striped silk pants. There’s a short sword at her hip. She looks utterly happy, carelessly dangerous, and free.
