Page 19 of The Discount Damsel

Now, before you go on and start thinking Bradley Donmarin is a prima donna, how would you like an unwanted roommate disturbing your nightly routine which just so happens to be one of the only joys you have in your life after a day of complete suck? You’d be a bit of a sourpuss fighting for a scrap of patience, too, and perhaps want to proverbially rip your hair out as well.

Bradley was there.

The only thing preventing him from having a meltdown was, strangely, the very thing precipitating this meltdown.

After the princess learned he wasn’t someone she could push around, she would be in search of a new room tomorrow. Proper decorum and her reputation demanded it, and Bradley knew full well how nobles were sticklers for that kind of thing. Which meant there was hope for a return to normalcy and control and routine tomorrow, at least in the private haven of his bedroom. He could work with that, and he could make do with a sponge bath.

With a deep, calming breath, Bradley turned away from the mess of the tub—he’d rise early and clean it in the morning—and reached for his toothbrush in its cup on the sink.

The bristles were wet and smelled faintly of mint.

Bradley pressed his fingertips into his temples like he was trying to skewer his own brain. The Kraken take me straight to the Locker.

CHAPTER 8

NOBODY WANTS A NOSEY BUSYBODY FOR A ROOMMATE AND EVERYBODY APPRECIATES SOMETHING TO NIBBLE ON

Millie snooped about the kitchen as quietly as she could. The cupboard hinges were in desperate need of lubrication and made the most wretched squeaking noises, which seemed, to her at least, to echo most dreadfully throughout every inch of the tower.

The sunrise of the Ashburnum desert was different to the dawns that stretched over the Amberly forests and pastures. It was shockingly silent—no birdsong, no hum of insects warming their wings, no rustle of leaves in the wind. There might be an infrequent whisper of shifting sand, but the vast majority of sound originated inside the tower.

It had been ages since Millie had seen a sunrise, since it was fashionable for princesses and highborn ladies to sleep until at least nine o’clock (the better to partake in evening balls), but excitement had roused her with the same efficiency of an overly enthusiastic rooster crowing directly into her ear canal. A dragon had kidnapped her yesterday! Who wouldn’t want to be awake through every moment of this new adventure?

And that meant she needed a goodly supply of caffeine. Last night’s tea had been abysmal, despite the addition of sugar, and she was determined to take exact stock of what was available and create her own blends if necessary. Millie had no idea how long she should expect to be a dragon’s hostage, and like the suitcase and toiletries she’d wanted to pack, there really was no excuse to be without good tea while she waited to be rescued.

If she even wanted that.

It was inevitable, though. She was a kidnapped princess. Her parents had probably drafted the reward flyers within an hour of her abduction. Despite her dreams of piracy, she was still their daughter and certain customs of the kingdom had to be upheld.

Well, her rescue was their problem, and a good cuppa was hers.

Millie had seen quite a few dried herbs, flowers, and roots in the shelves of that sorcerer workroom last night, but she wouldn’t venture there unless her tastebuds and standards demanded it. Olabeus had been adamant that no one but a sorcerer or an apprentice should ever enter such a workroom, as sorcerers were covetous by nature and often boobytrapped their private spaces while away on holiday or continuing education conferences. The Amberly court sorcerer was a rarity amongst sorcerers—endearing and compassionate rather than aloof and snotty—so she trusted his warnings. And no doubt her intrusion would send that Brad fellow into hysterics, just like her presence in his bedroom.

She’d known full well that the suite she had commandeered was his, and it’d been a risky move to annex it. He could’ve been an utter rake and taken advantage of her, but after watching him interact with the baby luck dragon, she knew that wasn’t his personality. Rude and brutish and arrogant, perhaps, but not evil.

Besides, this stunt with the bed served as her first test to determine if she really had the gumption to become a pirate. What were pirates anyway than those who boldly acquired that which wasn’t theirs to begin with? And what kind of pirate would she be if she’d apologized and beat a hasty retreat? The luck dragon had told her to choose whatever room she’d found most acceptable. Millie gave herself an Exemplary grade for sticking to her proverbial guns.

Her second test had come when the sorcerer apprentice had joined her in bed. A dark shadow, for the candle had burned out, he tugged the bedsheets back, and a strange thrill zinged through her. She should be scandalized, not thrumming with anticipation. A handsome man she barely even knew, and not even her husband, was entering her bed. His bed that she had stolen from him, technically, but hers presently and that’s all that mattered.

She should’ve walloped him with a pillow or jabbed at him with her hairpin, but she’d been frozen. Transfixed. Millie could see nary a thing, but she could certainly sense the heat from a freshly scrubbed male body rolling off the large shadow like mist down forested hills. She was suddenly very aware of the pebbling effect the nighttime air was having on her skin, and elsewhere.

The moment the mattress dipped under the apprentice’s weight, she shot from the center of bed for the far edge as that zinging she’d felt at his appearance turned into a foreign throb. Thus her grade slipped from Exemplary to Satisfactory, for a true pirate would have fought for what she had rightfully stolen. She hadn’t retreated fully from the bed, though, hence the passing grade.

She blamed the retreat on the propriety that had been drilled into her since she was four by her governesses and all those etiquette tutors. Saboteurs, the lot of them.

Millie consoled herself with the fact that she was still very much a pirate in training and not a full scallywag, and thus cycles of failure and improvement were to be expected.

And she couldn’t very well pirate when she was dehydrated, so snooping about the kitchen in search of tea that didn’t taste like burnt moss water was a must. She found a tin of Earl Grey that smelled acceptable, but there was no lemon in the fruit basket with which to enjoy it. There was that rancid Darjeeling from yesterday—whoever had spoiled that tea should be strung up by their toes. A third tin yielded a fragrant oolong, and Millie went positively weak at the knees. She immediately put the kettle on.

The desert heat demanded something more light and floral, such as any tea variety of white or green, but apparently whoever had stocked this kitchen insisted black teas were the only way to live. Well, whenever she became a pirate in full, she would stock her cupboards with whatever she liked.

“Millie?” came a young voice, drowsy with sleep. “Duchess and I heard all this— Is that oolong?”

She yanked her head out of the icebox, closed it with a solid whump. “Good morning, Master Dirk. Thank you once again for supper last night. It was quite unconventional but most satisfying. And yes, that is oolong. Good nose on you.”

His feathered mane fluttered at the compliment. The cat in his arms swatted a luminous plume out of her eye.

“Here, Duchess. Mummy found you some nice milk.”