The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  “Where is he then?” he asked and wanted to kick himself.

  “Why does it matter?” Sarani—no, Sara—answered. It would be best for him to get used to thinking of her as that. A stranger. One who had conspired to wheedle her way aboard. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. She was a master of artifice. He should know—she’d claimed to love him and then left him in the space of two days.

  “You’re right, it doesn’t.” Rhystan took another draught. “How did you get on my ship?”

  “Tej paid two of your new crew to take their place.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Take their place?”

  “You hired new men. We offered them more.”

  Rhystan couldn’t control the rise of fury. The sheer arrogance of her. Buying off his crew? A logical voice in his head reminded him that they weren’t truly his men, merely deckhand replacements he’d employed in Bombay, but he was too angry to listen. Shoving off the desk with a force that nearly broke it from its moorings on the floor, he strode to the door, grabbing his discarded shirt at the foot of the bed and yanking it over his head.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Princess, but I won’t stand for it. I am turning this damned ship around.”

  “I can pay you.” Her voice shook. “Whatever you want.”

  He halted, his shoulders stilling, and turned to rake her person with a contemptuous gaze. “You have nothing on this earth to offer, Lady Lockhart. Nothing I would ever desire in this entire fucking lifetime.”

  * * *

  Sarani pressed a hand to her throat, feeling her fluttering pulse as the door crashed into its frame. That could have gone worse. She was still in one piece. For now.

  She’d never expected to cross paths with him, not in a thousand years.

  This duke was nothing like the boy she’d known. Apart from the physical likeness, that laughing, earnest boy no longer existed. In his place was a rugged, hardened man who had no soft edges, no compassion whatsoever. And no laughter in sight.

  He’d grown taller, if that were even possible, towering above her, and he’d broadened, too. Significantly. Five years ago, she’d seen him without a shirt and the view had been incredible. The view now was brain-melting. His physique was sculpted to warrior-like perfection by what she guessed would have been years of hard labor on his ships, and his skin had been baked to a mouth-watering hue by the sun. But the biggest change was in his eyes. Those stormy ocean eyes had been unreadable. They’d become hard and unfeeling.

  Unforgiving.

  She was in dangerous territory.

  His awful letter five years ago had been clear in his opinion of her, and Sarani had no doubt in her mind that he reviled her with a fire that still simmered under his skin. The missive had been laced with hurt, which she had understood, but the cruel intent had struck hard. It had delivered the bitter words of a cold, contemptuous stranger.

  The man she saw now.

  Sarani shivered, rubbing her own clammy, chilled flesh. Half expecting to see the captain’s lumbering form lurking outside the cabin, she scooted to the next door and darted in. Asha was no longer asleep but unpacking their sparse belongings.

  Her gaze fell on Sarani’s pinched face. “Are you well, Princess?”

  “Yes.” She huffed a scattered breath. “It’s Lady Lockhart from now on, remember.” The address made her heart clench. Though it had been her mother’s name, it wasn’t surprising by any stretch that Rhystan had assumed it was the title of the earl she’d married. That had been clear from the way he’d spat it out like a mouthful of poison. “Try to get some sleep. It’s still early yet. You can finish that in the morning.”

  Asha rubbed her eyes and nodded. “Will you not sleep?” she asked when Sarani moved back to the door.

  “As if I could,” she muttered and then forced a reassuring smile. “I need to speak to the captain.”

  “The captain?” Asha’s eyes widened with fear.

  She nodded. “He knows we are here.”

  Somehow she would have to convince Rhystan to help and not to turn the ship around. He hated her, that much was clear. But in most cases, love and hate were inexplicably twined emotions. The greater the love, the greater the hate. Perhaps love was stretching it, though Rhystan had had tender feelings for her in the past. Maybe those weren’t all gone.

  Or maybe she had skeins of wool in her brain.

  Who are you fooling? The man loathes the air you breathe.

  Just five years ago, loathing had been the opposite of his feelings. He’d adored her, his eyes alight with so much affection. Sarani forced herself to keep from being caught up in the images of a different, younger, less jaded Rhystan that filled her desperate brain.

  She would do well to remember that that boy no longer existed. And the man in his place was a cold, hard, cynical brute who had an ax to sharpen at the grindstone. Regardless, she had to convince him somehow.

  At any cost, even her morals.

  She made to leave just as the cabin door crashed open and Asha cried out with a shriek, burying her head beneath the thin woolen blanket. Sarani’s heart slammed into her throat at the looming sight of the windblown captain crowding the doorway. Anger and frustration brimmed in his eyes, and a part of her wanted to join her maid in cowering under the covers.

  “Don’t worry, Asha,” Sarani soothed the girl. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” With a glare, she walked to where the silent, seething duke was waiting, his harsh features unreadable. “Was that necessary? You scared her half to death.”

  “My ship, my rules, my doors.”

  “Your poor temper, too, clearly,” she shot back.

  His mouth tightened. Sparing the maid the obvious confrontation, Sarani followed him into the narrow corridor, crowded by his bulk. Another even larger man with a shaved head waited at one end, blocking the way. She blinked. Did Rhystan think she would run? Flee overboard?

  A sudden heave of the ship had her careening toward him, and rough hands reached out to steady her. She felt the leashed strength in his fingers, smelled the sea on his clothes, and forced herself to look up. His lips were flat, those steely eyes guarded. Neither of them spoke, a thousand hours of raw memory ricocheting between them.

  Sarani’s entire body hummed with awareness.

  Gracious, he only had to touch her and she was ready to launch herself into that solid chest. Strip herself bare and throw herself at his mercy, though a hard man like him would have none to spare. He would use her thoroughly. That dissolute thought made her burn hotter.

  The captain shook his head, droplets of water catching her face. One flicked to her lips, and she tasted salt. Swallowing hard, she raised her eyes to his damp hair. “You’re soaked,” she murmured.

  He blew out a breath and released her, a muscle beating in his jaw. “You’ve won.”

  “Won?”

  “There’s a cyclone on our heels,” he gritted out. “If we turn back now, we’ll be blown off course. So you get your wish, Princess. Passage to St. Helena at least.”

  She blinked. “St. Helena? The shipping port?”

  “When we stop at the coaling station there to refuel,” he said, “you’ll find alternate passage, I’m sure.”

  It was more than she’d expected. “Thank you.”

  He scowled. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve cheated me of two of my much-needed men, and you will need to take their place. It’s a long journey, and we need every sailor onboard to pull his weight.”

  Disbelief replaced relief. “I’m not a boatswain—”

  “Clearly,” he said. “But you owe me. An eye for an eye. A man for a man.” Rhystan smirked. “Or woman as the case may be. You’ll have to get those delicate hands of yours dirty.”

  “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  His hand rose toward her, and Sarani held her ground. His thumb swiped across he
r cheek in an unbearably soft stroke, wiping away the stray drops of seawater that had landed there. She wanted to lean into that wide palm, remember the way he used to cradle her jaw, but she kept still, reminding herself that this wasn’t the same man she knew. He hated her, scorned her, thought her a jezebel. He’d written as much.

  She let out a breath. “What do you expect of me?”

  “One of the men was supposed to be my new cabin boy,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll come to a suitable arrangement, Lady Lockhart.”

  The carnal smile that slid across his lips was decidedly predatory. Sarani couldn’t hold back the shiver that chased down her spine, but she straightened it until it felt like the bones might snap. He might be the captain here, but there were still rules of decorum that needed to be followed. She was a lady…and he was a duke. Modesty would have to be maintained, for both their sakes. She might be at his mercy for the moment, but she was not his plaything.

  Or a helpless pawn.

  She made her voice as haughty as possible, stepping out of reach of the palm resting against her face. “I am not a boy. And my body is not for your consumption.” Not that she hadn’t been above offering up said body in her private thoughts a few minutes ago.

  Heat flickered in his gaze, his hand poised in midair between them. “I am well aware. Don’t worry, my lady. I won’t ask you to do anything that breaks with civility. Much.”

  Holding her gaze, he raised his thumb to his lips and sucked the salt water he’d gathered from her cheek. The act was blatantly sexual, and transfixed by the lush lick of his tongue, Sarani felt her mouth go dry. She felt that decadent swipe right at her core and squeezed her legs together beneath her skirts. Though he couldn’t see that reaction, his lip tilted in a smirk as if he knew exactly how flustered she was. Goodness, was it sweltering in here?

  “Then I consent to these terms.” She gulped.

  “Unless, of course, you desire it. Consumption, that is.” His voice was reduced to husky gravel that made her nipples tauten and push through the silk of her gown. Rhystan’s eyes dipped to them, his hot gaze as palpable as if he’d yanked down her bodice and dragged his tongue over them. Sarani bit back the moan that crept into her throat.

  “I will never desire it. You. Anything.” The lies tasted bitter in her mouth.

  He knew it, too. His smile widened.

  “Sweet dreams, Princess,” he said, turning on his heel toward the deck ladder at the far end. “Don’t catch a chill.”

  Sarani frowned. “What?”

  “You’re soaked through, too.”

  His filthy meaning didn’t reach her until he was at the end of the hallway. She took off her slipper and threw it at him. It bounced harmlessly off the wooden walls, missing him by an inch. She snarled in frustration and stamped her foot.

  “Such temper, Lady Lockhart. Not befitting a proper English countess at all.”

  “Go sod yourself, Hunt.”

  “I do, daily. You should try it.”

  Mocking laughter echoed in his wake, and Sarani was left alone, furious, overheated, and ferociously aroused. That bloody insolent bastard was right as she clamped her trembling thighs together—she was drenched.

  Five

  The problem with having the last word in a battle of sexual innuendo was dealing with the provocative images that said words produced. Namely that particular woman doing as he’d recklessly advised—fingers lodged between her soft, sweetly scented thighs—and bringing herself to swift, heated completion.

  Rhystan had seen the arousal in her overbright eyes. If he’d delved under those skirts, she would have been slick with it. Hell, he was at full mast himself. An hour later at the helm, outrunning a persistent bitch of a storm and sodden to the bone from rain and ice-cold sea spray, his erection had not diminished. Nor had thoughts of her touching herself.

  Therein lay the problem.

  “Conquered your frustrations yet?” his quartermaster yelled through the wind.

  “Fuck off, Gideon.”

  “That’s what she said, and what did that get you?”

  Rhystan scowled. “When this storm turns, I’m going to thump that shit-eating grin off your face.”

  “You can try if it will make you feel better,” Gideon remarked, folding thick arms across his chest and propping a boot on the rail as if the wind wasn’t howling like a wild animal between them. “But I suspect it won’t.”

  Rhystan’s fingers tightened on the wheel. If it were a live thing, it would have been strangled to death by that point. Gideon was the only one who knew scant details of what had happened with the woman he’d left behind in Joor.

  The memories he’d been fighting came back in force.

  He’d been hunkered down in a room at the Flying Elephant when the messenger had come from the princess, missive in hand and followed closely by Markham’s mercenaries. Before he could receive the message, they’d overpowered him at gunpoint, thrashed him senseless, and tossed him unconscious and shackled on a convoy bound for Bombay.

  As if being injured and starved wasn’t enough, he had arrived plagued with malaria. Abandoned in the barracks, his fevered brain fought to stay alert. Was Sarani in trouble? Did she need him? The thought of her believing he’d left without her had gutted him. And then, weeks later, when the fever finally broke, Markham had come himself to take great pleasure in giving him the crumpled parchment and informing him of her marriage to the regent.

  She had chosen another.

  Wedded another.

  It was Gideon who found him half drowning in drink and opium and convinced him to join the privateering ship leaving Bombay. Rhystan had kept the small miniature of her that he’d had on his person—inside a locket he’d intended to gift her—but before he left, he’d written a reply to the princess of perfidy herself. His sentiments had been less than kind, but he’d left the note behind with most of his Royal Navy trappings, not caring whether it reached her or not. Obviously, it had. That pompous, bigoted arse of a vice admiral must have delivered it to her.

  Not that Rhystan had cared.

  But now she was here. On his ship. As intoxicating as ever. She’d always held some mystical sway over him, though he was older now. And wiser. She’d had her chance and thrown him over for a marriage to a peer. Lady sodding Lockhart.

  Once he outran the storm, Rhystan intended to get some answers. Namely why she needed passage so bloody quickly to England, why she was traveling only with a maid and a houseboy, and what had happened to her husband. Other burning questions like why she’d chosen to turn her back on him would never escape his lips.

  She’d made her bed, and he’d made his.

  Doesn’t mean you can’t share one now.

  The sly thought made his raging desires flame anew. He thought of her straddling him on the bunk, the feel of her trim ankle in his fingers and the heated rise of her bosom. He’d been a hairsbreadth from yanking her down on top of him when he’d realized who she was. The comprehension had been like a bucket of ice-cold water to his brain. The rest of his sex-starved body, however, continued to march on, despite reason.

  Even now, drenched in salt and frigid spray, he wanted her.

  Perhaps he should have sought out willing female company before they’d left port that last night in Bombay and braved the consequences. Anything would be better than the lust eating away at him. Rhystan shoved a hand through the wet clumps of his hair, ignored the demands of his stiff nether regions, and focused on the matter at hand—steering them out of the path of the oncoming storm.

  “You truly intend to put her to work?” Gideon asked, piercing his thoughts.

  He ignored the man’s tone. “Yes. They took the places of two boatswains. Everyone contributes onboard.”

  “She’s a lady, not a servant.”

  Rhystan scowled. “She’s a goddamned princess. But she came here unde
r false pretenses, and she’ll pull her weight like everyone else.”

  “And the men?”

  He hadn’t thought of them. For the most part, he trusted his crew, but he’d taken on half a dozen new men after a bout of malaria had culled his ranks. Two of them had taken bribes from her over honest work, which didn’t say much for them. And the others were unknowns.

  Rhystan knew he had a ruthless reputation, but even he couldn’t have eyes on a lady and her maid every minute of every day. Two females onboard for several weeks could prove disastrous.

  He speared Gideon with a grin. “Since you pointed that out, you’re on guard duty.”

  The look on the man’s face was almost comical, his large jaw gaping and big fingers clenching on the railing. Rhystan was sure they would leave splintered dents.

  “I’m your quartermaster,” Gideon said. “Not a wet nurse.”

  “You hired those greedy bastards, so you’re equally at fault.”

  “Fuck you, Hunt.”

  Gideon stormed off, and Rhystan fought his laughter. “Get in line, my friend.”

  * * *

  A handful of weeks later, well into the voyage, a tight-faced, patience-stretched-to-the-limit Rhystan wasn’t laughing. He was almost ready to throw his replacement cabin “boy” over the side. In the first week, they’d managed to outstrip the storm by a hair when it veered out to sea, east of the Indian Ocean. And after two more weeks of rain and rough seas, it’d been smooth sailing.

  Smooth on the seas, though not on the ship itself.

  The storm brewing within its casing was one of gargantuan proportions, promising casualties never hitherto recorded. One black-haired, bright-eyed victim in particular. Rhystan let out an aggravated growl as he climbed down from the crow’s nest after checking the rigging and headed toward his cabin.

  Lady Sara Lockhart, also known as the bedeviled royal thorn in his side, would be the death of him. Locking her in her cabin would be far too easy. Giving up and assigning her elsewhere would make him an object of ridicule. The men had started making wagers on when he would concede and admit defeat.