The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  She cleared her parched throat. “Turn around. I wish to get out.”

  To her horror, his hands dropped to the crotch of his trousers, unbuttoning the first button of his falls as he did so. “By all means, you can, but I intend to have my bath. With or without a saucy, mouthy urchin in it.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she spluttered.

  “Stay or leave, the choice is yours.”

  He grinned at her and winked, his fingers popping another button. She gulped. The man’s arrogance knew no bounds. But as he swaggered closer, she couldn’t look away if she tried. She’d seen snake charmers in the village market, the cobras hypnotized, and she felt much the same—helpless to do anything but watch as his fingers flicked open another breath-stealing button. Sarani licked dry lips, a thoroughly shameless part of her wishing to see him in all his nude glory.

  And judging from the snug-fitting fabric, it would be glorious.

  Her breath refused to come, every nerve in her body screaming with tension as a lighter swath of pale skin was exposed where the sun hadn’t bronzed him. When the last button unsnapped, the waistband loosened and rustled over his narrow hips, snagging on the deliciously flexing muscles that formed the shape of an arrowhead.

  Pointing right to…

  Sarani’s breath fizzled.

  “Like what you see?” he asked, his voice feathering across her overheated senses and jolting her into horrified action.

  Mortified beyond belief—she was so going to kick her own arse later—Sarani reached over and grabbed a length of toweling, hurling herself over the far edge of the tub and averting her eyes just as he shucked those diabolical trousers to the floor. Lava-cheeked, she covered herself with the thin drying cloth and didn’t look, not even when she heard the sounds of water being disturbed. That didn’t stop the mental images from assaulting her.

  She didn’t know which was worse—seeing the reality or fantasizing about it. Her brain, as it turned out, was deviously creative. Not that those thin trousers had afforded any dratted modesty. His sex had been large and thick and long.

  Holy heavens, why was she fixating on his sex?

  There should be no thoughts of sex, parts or the act thereof.

  No sex, not his sex, never any sex, she chanted in her head.

  Desperate to make a hasty exit without further humiliating herself, Sarani snatched up her discarded clothing and dragged her night rail over her damp body, nearly strangling herself with the ties. She made the mistake of turning around and immediately wished she hadn’t. Whereas the copper tub had almost hidden her from view, his bulk dwarfed it.

  She tried not to look, truly she did. But holding on to any willpower was a lost cause, not when the duke sat like a pasha, in all magnificent indolence, his arms lazily draped over the edges and that powerful chest of his on mouthwatering display. Droplets clung to the hair there, dampening it to dark gold. One foot lay propped on the edge of the tub, the other beneath the water, exposing a thickly muscled calf.

  Dear goddess of eternal fertility, why did he have to be so masculine? Five years ago, he’d been boyishly handsome, but now he was simply devastating…exuding leashed power and a raw virility that left her body in flames and her usually sensible mind in ashes.

  As a sailor, couldn’t he have had scurvy? Loose teeth and bulging eyes? Maybe a harelip or a peg leg? Was that too much to ask?

  But no—his lips were perfect, his legs were in fine muscular form, and his storm-colored eyes…well, she’d never stood any lick of defense against them. Not five years ago, and not now, when he was hip-deep in a bath and bare as he was born, staring at her with a sensual smirk on his lips.

  Those mercurial eyes of his glittered when her gaze finally returned to his. “Changed your mind on staying?” he asked. “I won’t hold it against you if you did. Or I might, if you insist.”

  Sarani couldn’t handle the playful lilt of his voice, much less make sense of his words, not while he was so…so dratted naked.

  “Hold what against me?” she mumbled, her brain fighting to keep up.

  “What you’ve been devouring with your eyes.”

  Her face scorched. “You are…insufferable.”

  “So I’ve been told by my very sassy cabin boy.” He lifted a golden eyebrow, a smirk playing over his lips. “Speaking of cabin boys, did your gossiping cronies inform you that a traditional duty is assistance during a bath?”

  Sarani’s knees nearly buckled at the idea of touching him. Of putting her hands on those acres upon acres of glistening skin. She wanted her hands on him, her lips on him, her tongue… Gracious, her mouth actually watered at the thought. She wondered whether all those muscles were as hard as they looked. If it was a cabin boy’s job, then it was her duty to do it, wasn’t it? For the sake of devoted cabin boys everywhere. She’d turned and almost taken a half step back toward him before she came to her rioting senses.

  Oh, get it together, you bean-brained hussy.

  She should stand her ground. Cut him dead like the royal she was. Flay him alive with the whip of her tongue. But her stupid, shameless tongue had apparently decided to mutiny. It had other ideas instead of sensible speech…ideas that involved licking and sucking and a variety of lewd things that defied decency or morality.

  Her mouth went dry at her wicked thoughts of tasting him there.

  Squaring her shoulders, she met his stare. “I wasn’t aware that you required washing like a helpless babe.”

  “Are you offering?”

  “No.”

  A glittering gaze swept her. “You know you want to, or at least your body does.”

  “And what would you know of what my body wants, Your Grace?”

  His hot stare fastened on her breasts. To her undying shame, her nipples were proclaiming their steadfast adoration, straining against the thin, dampened lawn of her nightclothes that had now become transparent. Sarani slapped her arms across her front, her cheeks on fire.

  “So I’m cold… What of it?”

  His smile was wicked. “Are you certain that’s the reason?”

  “For a duke, you’re no gentleman.”

  “I never said I was.” His smile grew teeth. “And you should know that I’m done playing games, so you had better get used to it, my little apsara.”

  The lyrical sound of the Hindustani nickname he used to call her—water nymph—rolling over his tongue did unconscionable things to her needy heart and already shaky willpower. She was weak when it came to this man. And here he was, throwing down the gauntlet.

  He hates you and wants to punish you.

  He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  Don’t trust him.

  Gathering the shreds of her dignity, she tossed her chin high. “Play your games or don’t. But I guarantee you, Captain, that the only thing you will do is lose.”

  Seven

  “There’s a ship on our tail.”

  Rhystan passed the spyglass to Gideon and shaded his eyes with one palm to squint at the horizon. It was no more than a black speck in the distance, but the vessel had been following in their wake for some time. Possibly since the storm they’d outrun in the Arabian Sea, though Rhystan couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t been preoccupied with it because he’d been more focused on what lay ahead than what was behind them.

  Gideon shrugged and lowered the glass. “This is a common enough trading route. We see other ships all the time.”

  “Yes, but they either pass or disappear after a few days. That one has maintained the same gap. That’s what worries me.”

  “You expecting trouble, Captain?”

  Rhystan shook his head at his quartermaster. “Not that I know of, but keep an eye on it,” he told him. “Best be prepared if it is.”

  Gideon actually looked elated at the prospect. Then again, after being stuck on a ship for weeks on end, a man te
nded to get restless. And a man like Gideon needed an outlet more than most. Normally, he and Rhystan sparred on deck once a day, but they’d both been busy.

  In the Baltic Sea when they’d first sailed together, they’d dealt with many unsavory types on the ocean, including cutthroat pirates, whom Gideon had been merciless in hunting down. Given his lethal array of skills, he’d enjoyed putting his deadly scimitars to use. He’d been in the business of privateering for the carnage and the coin, but lately, actual physical combat had been sparse.

  In that first year after leaving Joor, Rhystan had made it their business to disrupt the East India Company whenever they could. They sank ships in the dead of night, disrupted known opium trade routes, and repossessed valuable cargo, only to redistribute it to the locals it had been stolen from. He had taken great pleasure in compromising their shoddy practices and emptying their coffers.

  The past four years, however, he’d spent more time in the West Indies, investing in infrastructure, trading goods, and doing what he could to better the lives of the people there. Handing over ownership of the former duke’s plantations to the locals was the first thing he’d done as duke. It wasn’t nearly enough to account for the crimes of the past, but it was a beginning—and a sign of how he intended to proceed.

  Ironically, those choices had been because of Sarani.

  Not that he would ever tell her that.

  In Joor, she’d always been suspicious of the crown’s motives. “They didn’t come to settle or to integrate,” she had grumbled once when they were at the river. “They came to pillage. Tell me that isn’t true.”

  Rhystan remembered thinking of Markham’s plans to subjugate the princely states under his rule. “I wish I could. In their eyes, more advanced civilizations have always explored lesser ones.”

  “Lesser?” Sparks had flown from her. “What makes their country more advanced than mine? Our art, our wealth, our cultural history cannot even be measured. One people’s standards of civilization cannot be held to another’s!”

  She’d been right, of course, and in truth, he’d never looked at the expansion of the British empire in the same way. She’d made him open his eyes to the injustices being committed in full view.

  Rhystan frowned at the thought of their now intersecting paths. Five years had passed in a blink and yet felt like an eternity. It was a miracle he’d even been in Bombay at all, but he’d received word of an enormous shipment of opium, arranged by none other than his old friend, Markham.

  Had fate had a hand in his return?

  In this unwelcome reunion?

  With one hand on the wheel, Rhystan let his gaze rove the deck, over the handful of men swabbing the wood clear of seaweed and crusted salt, until it fell on one small figure. Sarani sat with Tej and Red, a man he trusted, braiding ropes. A cap was pulled low over her head, and the nondescript clothing she wore made her blend in with the others, but she could be clothed in a burlap sack and he’d still be able to find her.

  He wasn’t an enthusiast of her male attire, but Gideon had pointed out that she didn’t draw as much notice from the men. Rhystan begged to differ. He’d prefer to see those slender legs obscured by yards of voluminous fabric, not encased in formfitting trousers. Then again, heaving manure from the livestock pen off the side of the ship while wearing a dress wasn’t ideal. He scowled. The damned quartermaster had had a go at him for that, too.

  “Mucking out the stalls, Captain? She’s a lady.”

  “There are no bloody ladies on this ship, and it’s a job. Her job for the man she replaced.”

  “Get the boy to do it,” Gideon had said. “Put her in the galley instead.”

  The galley was a better place for her, true. A kinder place. Rhystan knew he was being harsh, but he couldn’t be weak. Not after what she’d done. “Shoveling shit is what she deserves.”

  To his everlasting surprise, however, she’d borne the foul task without complaint. Grinning even, when she returned to see to his duties reeking to high heaven of filth and dung and tracking God-knew-what into his cabin. His scowl deepened. If it were up to him, she’d be sequestered in his quarters from sunup to sundown. Or off the sodding ship altogether. Between his marauding cock and his unraveling temper, his patience was at a new low.

  Her presence rubbed him raw, mostly because it reminded him of things he needed to keep buried. Like speculating on whether the honeyed taste of her would still be the same. Or wondering if she was still ticklish on the sides of her ribs. That night in his cabin, it had taken every ounce of discipline not to drag her into the bath with him, and all the time he’d watched her, he’d felt like an interloping voyeur.

  At first, when he’d come out of the privy, he’d observed her internal debate with amusement, waiting for the perfect moment to announce himself and offer her the bath, but then in seconds, she’d stripped. The power of speech left him, followed quickly by the power of coherent thought. He—a seasoned man of the world—had been knocked senseless by a mere slip of a girl.

  Their handful of stolen kisses and furtive explorations in their youth had not prepared him for the sight of her unclothed—all that glorious, honey-hued skin and a pair of perfect dusky-tipped breasts, not to mention the mouthwatering swells of her buttocks and those never-ending slender legs that he instantly wanted wrapped around him.

  He’d been hypnotized.

  And hard as forged Damascus steel.

  As the minutes went by, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to move, not when every delicious feminine curve had been on display. He’d stood there in silence, jaw agape, guilt and desire warring inside him, and had wolfed down the sight of her. In his stupor, he’d realized two things. One, Princess Sarani was no longer a girl. And two, his body’s reaction to her was much the same as it’d been five years ago.

  Even now, as she sat on the foredeck, her ratty clothing did little to diffuse the memory of the damp, dewy skin hidden beneath it, and his body swelled. Rhystan adjusted the crowded crotch of his trousers discreetly, ignoring Gideon’s smirk as he followed Rhystan’s line of sight to where Sarani sat. The man’s thick black eyebrows rose, but Rhystan pretended not to notice. Hell if he’d acknowledge acting like an oversexed greenhorn to his bloody quartermaster.

  Sarani leaned in to hear something Red was saying and burst out laughing. The unaffected sound made his heart leap and his groin tighten further. Rhystan scrubbed a hand through his hair, yanking at the roots, and blew a frustrated breath through his teeth. He didn’t have to look at the blasted man beside him to see that he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Why don’t you just put yourself out of your misery?” Gideon asked. “If you want her that badly.”

  Rhystan shot him a glare. “I don’t.”

  “Lie to yourself all you please, but the sexual tension between the two of you could propel this ship to the Americas and back again. Admit it, you want her.”

  “Why would I want a lying, conniving, silver-tongued, devious—” He broke off at the warning look in Gideon’s eyes, but not before the object of his diatribe had joined them on the quarterdeck, carrying a tray with his midmorning pot of tea.

  “Princess,” Gideon murmured, though Rhystan had the sneaking suspicion he used the deliberate royal address to grind him instead of being proper. The quartermaster didn’t give a lick about courtly etiquette or anyone’s noble rank. It chafed at Rhystan’s rapidly souring mood.

  “Please, it’s just Sara,” she said, flushing and setting the tray down on the ledge next to the wheel. She masked the flicker of injury in her eyes with bluster when her stare met Rhystan’s. “Don’t you get tired of talking about yourself, Captain? Honestly, anyone would think you hate yourself, the way you carry on.”

  “I wasn’t talking about me.”

  Her chin jutted up. “I’d hate to hear who was your unfortunate target. Though if that was directed at me, having Red
spitting in your tea all these weeks will have been worth it.”

  Gideon guffawed, and Rhystan blinked. Was the chit jesting? Then again, he wouldn’t put it past her. He had been awful lately. He frowned at the tea on the tray as though the trace of the boatswain’s saliva would make itself known, and she smirked. “You should see your face.”

  “Don’t you have ropes to mend?”

  “Finished. I was heading to the fo’cs’le.”

  Rhystan’s lips twitched. She even sounded like the rest of the crew now. She sauntered off the way she’d come, but not before his gaze snagged on the threadbare stretch of fabric hugging her taut behind as she climbed down the steps.

  In a flash, he was hurled back in time into a memory of a much younger girl draped in a tunic and a near-transparent sari—a length of deftly draped and pleated cotton—climbing up the banks of the river one sweltering afternoon to collapse beside him on the grassy slope. The wet fabric had clung to her legs after her lengthy swim, hiding nothing.

  As a gentleman, he’d averted his gaze from the slim outline of her legs and the gentle flare of her hips, though his lower body had already been at excruciating attention. He’d practically thrown his discarded coat over his lap to hide his raging erection.

  When she’d entreated him to read a paragraph from his book to her, he had, though his arousal had not waned in the least as she gripped his sweaty palm in hers. Hand in hand, they’d stared at the clouds, him reciting the words and her listening in thoughtful silence, interrupting only when she had an opinion on the author’s narrative.

  Which was often with those particular volumes.

  “Thackeray is a condescending cynic.” She’d huffed in outrage, quoting him, “‘To be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman’? He doesn’t seem to hold females in much esteem, does he?”

  Rhystan had laughed. “His narrative is tongue in cheek. And he does have some worthier gems, like ‘Revenge may be wicked, but it’s natural.’”