“Heard their ship came to port badly beaten. It’s one of Galeborne’s crews.”
Not justoneof his crews. It washiscrew.
And what if they mutinied against him? If I told them where he was, would they come to my cottage to finish the job?
I had no answers until Alaric fully woke.
What was I to do until then? Well…
I reviewed everything I knew or heard about Alaric Galeborne: He was from Moanalei Kingdom. He was the famous huntsman who saved Sereth’s life from her “wicked” stepmother. And since that day, his fame only grew until he became the most feared and powerful whaler in all of Tempest Seas.
I thought about telling Noni, but decided that the less she and others knew about me, the better. What if they knew my connection to Sereth and Moanalei Kingdom by realizing my fears about Alaric and his ties to her? Then my hiding place would be revealed, and Serethmight come after me.
I can’t risk it.
So I stumbled back to my cottage, basket full of food and clothes for Alaric. With the whaler’s condition, he might be hereverylong, a thought that filled me with dread.
When I opened the door, Alaric tried to sit up, his eyes on me. But he grimaced in pain and grabbed his side. Another line of curses fell from his lips and, this time, I gave him a look.
“You’re in my home now, and in my home, you will not use filthy whaler’s profanity.”
His hardened expression softened, but only for a moment, where he winced and looked down, an expression of disgust on his face. He was obviously not used to being told what to do. He submitted anyway. He had no choice but to. “Very well, Ginger.”
“Ginger?”
“It’s what I’m calling you since you won’t tell me your name.”
I placed my basket on the counter. My cottage was small, with a kitchen on one side and a small living space on the other. A door led from the living space to my bedroom and washroom. “Why Ginger?”
“Because your house smells like gingerbread.” He took a shaky breath, and almost immediately, I knew he was hungry. He wouldn’t say it–after all, this wasn’t his home,and he depended completely on me. Alaric tried to sit up again, but let out a desperate breath and lied back down.
“It was deep,” I said, handing him some clothes. “You should rest as much as you can for the first few days.” He took the clothes, but he didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he seemed annoyed that he was so vulnerable. “I’m not sure if they’ll fit,” I said, “but I gave it my best guess.” At that, I entered my kitchen and began preparing a stew. The huntsman, no doubt, had to be starving, and the sooner I got him fed, healed, and out of here, the less he would know about me.
He groaned quietly as he changed, but I gave him his space and wouldn’t look. After a moment of silence, I dared glance into the living room. He sat up, his face pale from the effort, and his fingers clutching the edge of the settee. His shirt was off, a smart move on his part. If he put it on, I’d only have him take it off again to tend the wound.
But, for whatever reason, my stomach tightened at the sight of him. I’d seen men without their shirts before but my… he was quite muscular. He’d been lying down most of the time with a blanket on him, and, when I helped him to the washroom to relieve himself, he wore the blanket around his body. But now, seeing him sit up, and very much alive…
It was slightly terrifying and intriguing at the same time.
Malia!I returned my attention to the batch of fresh baked rolls I’d whipped. An island breeze wafted through the cottage and a light rain pattered again outside. The noise was soothing, and I tried to focus on that feeling rather than the anxiety knotting in my stomach about Alaric’s presence.
“Here, eat.” I handed the whaler his bowl, then sat onthe rocking chair. He watched me for a moment, and when I took a bite, he took his. It was quite… sweet of him to wait for me to eat first.
Very gentlemanlike,I thought, but shoved it away. Whalers werenotgentlemen.
Alaric ate slowly, his breaths shaky. No doubt any movement in his upper body affected the wound.
“What happened?” I finally asked. The stew filled me with warmth, the carrots a perfect softness, the meat salty and tender, and the onions and potatoes just the perfect diced size to add flavor and comfort.
“We were attacked,” he said, his voice low and smoky. “The ship bore the flag of Corallure, so the king or prince–one of them–sent an assassin to kill me.”
I blinked. King Halstead? Crown Prince Damien? Or Prince Elias? They wouldn’t do such a thing… unless…
“Were you whaling off the shores?” I asked.
“I was on a mission from the queen,” he said, his tone impatient. My heart froze at the word “queen.”
He’s loyal to her,I thought, and that re-emphasized the reality: He had to go as soon as possible. So how was I going to get him out of here?
