Azaleen supposed her diplomatic secretary would do anything to escape the chaos. She shook her head. “We’ll be talking strategy. It’s a military mind—Captain Moreau—I need at my side. Why don’t you jot down the name and address of our hotel and make sure our luggage arrives? Reserve dinner tables as well. Everyone will want to wash up and eat before dark. What was done with the prisoners?”
“I’m not sure about that. I know there were a lot of them. Maybe a stadium or gymnasium?” An apologetic expression wrinkled her brow as her lips pulled back in a grimace.
“I’ll ask the fleetmaster. He should know.” Seeing Camille’s unease, Azaleen smiled and patted her arm. “You’re doing a fine job. We’ll be back in Nelanta in no time, where we can set everything right. None of us expected this. You’re a strong woman, Camille Navarro. I see Skye comes by it honestly.”
Camille stood a little straighter, shoulders squared, chin up, and beamed. “Thank you, my queen. I opposed Skye’s career choice—thought it was beneath her and too dangerous. Now I understand why she joined the military and am proud of her.” She pulled a notepad from the personal bag over her shoulder, scrawled down the details, and handed it to Azaleen. “I’ll go see to our arrangements. And, though you don’t need me to tell you, whenever I think about a strong woman, your face comes to mind.” Pivoting on her heel, Camille hurried out.
“She’s right, you know,” affirmed Luke, who’d been silently shadowing Azaleen.
It was reaffirming to hear it said every once in a while. Still, Azaleen laughed off the compliment. “Let’s go find Dawnriver.”
Azaleen maneuvered along the clangy metal gangplank with Luke behind her, passing sailors and Marines heading off the ship. The destroyer was evenmore massive up close than from a distance, with the blue and white wolf flag flapping overhead. Smoke mingled with salt in the humid air, the sun now on its downward slide.A few hours of daylight left, she surmised.
She stepped onto the deck amid a bustle of activity. Luke hailed a sailor. “Can you tell us where to find Fleetmaster Dawnriver?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Queen Frost and her aide, Captain Moreau,” he answered with authority, gesturing toward his rank with his chin.
“Oh.” The seaman snapped to attention, his face flushed with embarrassment. His voice had a Québécois accent to Azaleen’s ear. “The fleetmaster’s in the CIC—uh, the ops room—two decks down, under the bridge.” The young man snapped a salute to Luke, then raked his hand to his waist for a bow before the queen. “Your High … Queenliness,” he stammered.
Azaleen bit her lip to hold in an inappropriate laugh. “Thank you,” she replied. “Madam Queen will suffice. We appreciate your skill in your post.” She turned toward the bridge, positioned forward of the mainmast. “Captain, do you think you can find the stairs?”
He offered his arm; she took it. “I shall do my best.”
Deep in the bowels of the steel sea-beast, Luke had to duck to keep from hitting his head when passing through watertight doors. Azaleen felt as if she’d been swallowed walking the lower deck, dark walls pressing into the narrow corridors, and not a sliver of natural light. Although she had been in buildings with electric lights, these unfiltered bulbs hurt her eyes. The setting was so unnerving she wondered how the seamen and Marines had grown used to it.Give me a cutter or trawler any day.
A woman in uniform and a tight bun pointed them toward a closed door with “CIC” stenciled on it in blaring white letters. Composing herself, she nodded at Luke to knock. A fellow with a bristling beard and short red hair under a captain’s cap opened it.
“Queen Frost,” he acknowledged, removing his hat. With a sweep of his arm, he stepped aside to allow them entry. “Fleetmaster Dawnriver was going to come to you when our meeting adjourned, but we’re wrapping up now.”
The five other men and one woman seated around the table all rose as etiquette required. “Welcome, Madam Queen,” said the distinguished man in the middle as he inclined his head. “Captains, see to the needs of your ships. We’ll meet again in the morning, 0900. By then, we should have an accurate report and, I presume, our new assignments. Dismissed.”
The captains shuffled around the room, offering Azaleen polite greetings, and filed out, the last one closing the door. “Please have a seat. May I offer you refreshments?” Dawnriver extended a hand toward two chairs opposite him.
“No, thank you, Fleetmaster Dawnriver,” Azaleen replied. “We will be dining soon enough, and we’ve much to discuss. May I introduce Captain Luke Moreau, leader of my elite reconnaissance team. They traveled with me to Aurora.”
“Yes, yes,” he said with a pleasant nod. “I recall their valiant efforts to save you from assassins. But please. In my people’s tradition, allies address one another by name. Call me Niska.”
Chapter three
The Last Quiet Night
Lark settled for a seat between Skye and Diego, across the table from Azaleen and Secretary Navarro. It was better this way. Sitting beside the queen—with electric sensations cascading through her at their nearness, anticipating a night spent with her in private? Hiding her feelings might have proven impossible. This was much safer.
The hotel restaurant had seated the queen’s party in a private dining room with cream walls displaying fine artwork, elegant furniture, and white linen napkins. Sparkling crystal glasses held their ice water and tea, with honey and lemon set out on silver trays. It was all so royal, Lark almost feared to touch a thing.Azaleen is probably accustomed to being served this way,she thought. Images of her outdoor kitchen and old picnic table under a leaky canopy in Saltmarsh Reach flashed through her mind. They couldn’t have come from more different worlds.
“You weren’t hoisting beams and tossing about concrete blocks today, were you?” Azaleen’s words snapped Lark back to the present. A blush rose in her cheeks at the queen’s attention.
“No, we restrained her, the sneaky minx,” Wes answered with a wink. “Skye laid down the law, and Diego and Harlan did all the heavy lifting.”
“What did you do,” Camille inquired, “besides crack jokes?” She lifted a delicate brow with a teasing smirk.
“Wes used this gadget to see under rubble,” Lark answered, “so we’d know where to find folks who needed help.”
“She means my infrared sensor,” he answered. Wes’s woolly hair stuck up and out like a black halo around his earthy face. It had been close-cropped when Lark first met him; she figured he was due for the barber. At least he smelled of aftershave instead of cigarette smoke tonight.
Lark appreciated her own freshness as well, having indulged in her first proper shower since being shot back in Aurora. Hot water pounding her aching muscles, dirt, sweat, and smoke scrubbed off, her hair shampooed, had felt divine. The hotel didn’t have electricity, only candles and oil lamps, but the propane water heaters worked just fine. A grateful shop owner had gifted her a new blouse and slacks so she wouldn’t have to wear a dirty uniform to dinner. As she glanced around the table—Harlan, Luke, Skye, Diego, Wes, Azaleen, Camille, and Skipper Pike—all wore new, clean attire.