Page 96 of The Discount Damsel

But he had thrown tea at her feet! Since he had yet to brew her a pot of tea and present it to her with his sincerest apologies (and preferably something sweet like fruit jellies), she could not forgive him. And enemies were only nice to each other when they were lulling their opponent into a false sense of security before stabbing them in the back. She’d spied on her father’s war room meetings concerning the Duchy of Evertea many a time, so she was familiar with the tactic and what it was like to be on the receiving end of it.

Nice try, she thought, and jabbed out with her knuckles.

Bradley yelped as the princess performed a series of hits that left him with throbbing joints and a limp left arm.

Millie set her hands on her hips and lifted her chin with a satisfied smile. “You’ll find I’m not so easily manhandled anymore. Sir Roger has been teaching me chi blocking techniques that target the pressure points—something you’d know if you looked up from your books every once in a while.”

“I do look up,” he growled down at her, massaging his shoulder. “It’s because I look up that I see what you do not. You don’t know what some men are like, Tula. They’re not the pretty peacocks with genteel manners who parade about your throne room.”

Clearly Bradley had never hidden behind the hydrangeas and eavesdropped on these peacocks when they thought a princess could not hear them.

“Is this about Beau?” She waved a dismissive hand. “If I can’t endure his teasing, then I won’t survive long on my own ship, will I? Unless you know of many female sailors?” Millie side-stepped to get around him and continue up the stairs, but he blocked her.

“Enduring is one thing. Encouraging is another.”

When he blocked her again, she tapped her foot. “You’re in the way of my breakfast. Speak plainly, sir, or lose feeling in your other arm.”

“You need to do more to remind them who’s in charge. Beau is testing those limits every day now. Yesterday it was about why they only have one set of spare clothes. Today it’s about cardio.” He spat out the word. “No doubt tomorrow he’ll complain about the food.” Bradley affected a nasal falsetto: “I’ll die if I have to eat another bowl of rice, beans, and salted fish!”

He jabbed a finger at her. “I’ve had that same breakfast for the last one hundred seventeen days. If he can’t suffer the monotony of the food that fills his belly, then he’s, he’s⁠—”

“He’s what?”

“A little bitch!”

Millie’s rolled her lips inward and clamped down to prevent a smile. The Bradley Donmarin of old never would have dreamed of expressing himself so crudely.

Bradley rarely touched her outside of their training, but he did so again now. His hand landed on her shoulder, gripped to impress the intensity of his warning. “They’re not ready to riot, yet, but the day is coming. And that timeline shortens every time you encourage his flirtations⁠—”

“I beg your pardon! I do not encourage him.” Heat bloomed upon her cheeks like dormant embers freshly stoked, and she protected her pride with a mask of superiority. She batted his arm away. “I’m merely fostering camaraderie, which ensures a pleasant experience for all of us. Something you could learn to benefit from employing yourself.”

“I don’t need to befriend them to get them do what I want. And the more you do, the more they think they’ll get a chance at your skirts.”

“What are you doing thinking about my skirts?” she demanded.

Bradley recoiled a step, caught himself from pitching himself into the abyss behind him. “I-I’m not!”

“Oh that’s right. You’re thinking of what’s under my skirts. Eager to reclaim your boxer briefs, are you?”

Bradley’s face heated. “Only to burn them!”

“So you are eager.”

He threw up his hands. “This isn’t about me. It’s how Beau looks at you. Jax, too.”

“And what? You’re jealous?”

“No!”

“Then what are you worried about?” Millie swept across the landing and resumed her climb. No longer trapped against the door, the fresh air felt liberating but empty at the same time. “Men only fight other men if they pose a threat to the object of their desire. And you’re obviously not a threat.”

It was true, wasn’t it? Then why did it sound so emasculating? Bradley chased after her, catching her wrist and turning her to face him. Why did she have to be so infuriatingly obtuse? “I don’t have to desire you to care about what happens to you,” he snapped.

The irritated creases in her brow smoothed with her surprise. The princess was always so composed, so poised, unless it was to show righteous indignation or impish mischief, that this unguarded expression caught him off guard. Now her brown eyes were large and doe-like behind thick lashes, her pink mouth parted with her soft gasp.

Bradley suddenly saw her for the young woman she was, not the princess, not the pirate. Brave but vulnerable, like a rose who hadn’t grown her thorns yet. And how he felt compelled to protect her until they did.

Under his hand, the princess’s pulse danced a lively Scotch reel. On instinct, he swept his thumb across her inner wrist once, twice to soothe its rapid beat. “Dirk would never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”