The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  “I can’t imagine what Vikram promised Markham and the regent. He could not have done this without their knowledge or support.” She paused, tears gathering in her eyes. “Money, I suppose. And power.”

  “Markham had to have been desperate.”

  She blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I made it my business to ruin him. He was skimming money for years and profiteering off of unspeakable practices. I destroyed his dealings and revealed his behavior. From my last report, he’d been demoted.”

  Sarani let out a breath. Come to think of it, the vice admiral had been looking a lot worse for wear in the last year, but she had just thought it’d been because of local unrest. Despite the loss of the sepoys two years ago, the fallout had been significant.

  “Desperate men are dangerous,” she said.

  Sarani lifted an anxious gaze to the duke. He was watching her steadily with no sign of distrust or skepticism, and the only emotion she could see was the flexing muscle in his jaw and his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the desk. Was he angry? Did he believe her? Would he turn around and tell her she deserved what she’d sown? Sarani could never tell with this new version of the boy she’d known, but she needed his help, more than ever.

  His next words made her jump. “You think your cousin is behind it?”

  “I don’t know. Papa’s”—a small sob escaped her lips—“throat was cut. It had to be someone who had access to the palace. Who knew the guards. With all the growing instability in the region, my father was careful about who he trusted and who he allowed into the family apartments. And yet someone still got to him. The fact that that ship has been on our tail for weeks can’t be a coincidence. I’d rather be wrong than willfully ignorant.”

  “Where were you planning to go in England?” he asked. “To the Earl of Beckforth?”

  Sarani shrugged. “That was the plan.”

  “And if that didn’t work, what then?”

  His cool tone irritated her. She was well aware that going there was a long shot. Her mother had been quite publicly cut off and the scandal had been the talk of the town for years, and given what Sarani had learned about Englishmen and their bigotry, it wasn’t likely that she would be welcomed back into the family fold with open arms. But she’d been low on options—low being the understatement of the century—and she didn’t even know which of her distant male relations was the current earl. Perhaps, whoever he was, he would be more open-minded.

  One could only hope.

  “I have money,” she replied with some defiance. “I’ll find somewhere to stay. Go to my mother’s holdings in Scotland.”

  “And when your store of money runs out?”

  Lifting an eyebrow, Rhystan folded his arms across his broad chest. Sarani had the sudden indescribable urge to be cradled against him and wrapped in his strong arms. Ever since the death of her mother, she’d been largely self-reliant—the maharaja being occupied with affairs of state—but the idea of leaning on someone else for a change had appeal. Not that Rhystan was offering. He was simply playing devil’s advocate.

  Though that didn’t mean she had to like him poking holes in her plans.

  She would be fine!

  “I don’t know,” she snapped. “I can get work, I suppose. I can now add shoveling horse manure, being a maid, fetching food, heaping coal, and braiding rope to the list of things to recommend me.” In a fit of frustration, she slammed her hand down upon the desk and shrieked in pain, cradling her injured fist to her breast. He was beside her in an instant.

  “What have you done?” he demanded. “Show me.”

  “It’s nothing,” she replied, but the agonizing throb in her palm nearly made her see stars.

  Despite her protests, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, drawing her hands carefully to him. Slowly, she opened them, displaying their red raw, blistered surfaces and wincing. Half scabbed over, several of the plum-colored, oozing streaks looked angry and irritated, and they stung fiercely.

  Rhystan swore. “Damn it, Sarani, what in hell happened?”

  “The wooden shovels in the animal pens have splinters, and using my kukri earlier must have torn some of the scabs. When I fell, I caught myself with my hands. It made some of the older wounds reopen.”

  “They’re bloody festering, you daft woman. You should have come to me.”

  She shot him a sour stare. “To whine?”

  “Yes. No! This is not whining, you fool-headed imp.” Rhystan leaned over to blow on the tender, aching skin, and something else crept into the edges of her pain. “Be sure to add bullheaded, stubborn, and contrary to your job-qualifications list.” Propping her against the desk, he released her hands gently to get a clean strip of linen from a nearby chest and poured some of the whisky on it. “We have to clean it properly. I won’t lie… This will hurt like the devil.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  One thick eyebrow arched. “You’ve proven that time and time again. Ready?”

  Sarani nodded and bit back a scream when he dabbed the alcohol-soaked cloth to her skin. Sending her an apologetic look, he blew a warm stream of air on her hands again and repeated the process. The second time hurt less, but not by much.

  The next few times his breath gusted on her skin, however, she felt the tingle of it in her chest. The sight of his head bent over her was doing strange things to her equilibrium. His distinctive masculine scent wafted to her, and all she wanted to do was breathe him in. Lean into him. Obviously, it was a moment of weakness because she was in pain.

  Memory leached into the present with scattered images of a different Rhystan, a younger Rhystan, head bent over her hands that had been decorated with mehndi in the Mughal tradition by one of her handmaidens. He’d kissed each of her red-stained fingers and the dotted sphere at the center of each palm when she’d explained that the stain had been made from the ground leaves of a plant.

  “What is it for?” he had whispered.

  “Blessings for luck, joy, and beauty.”

  His easy smile had been full of wicked promise. “I believe a man makes his own luck, and you already have the last one, so it shall be my earnest pledge to bring you as much joy as possible, Princess.”

  One of her handmaidens had piped up. “Also for marriage and fertility, sahib.”

  Sarani’s blush had nearly matched the color of the dye on her hands, but Rhystan had only smiled a secret smile and continued kissing her fingertips. Until he’d approached her in her chambers that fateful night, she’d been hopeful of his intentions and a future between them. Marriage. Maybe even children someday.

  But then duty had intervened and destiny had conspired to throw them apart. Only to hurl them back together. The symbolism of the current moment was not lost on her. Not that he was flirting or kissing her fingers. Even now, the memory of his lips on her skin was so fresh that a rash of gooseflesh broke out on her arms.

  Huffing a shallow breath, she almost snatched her hand away.

  “Does that hurt?” he asked, glancing up.

  Sarani forced herself not to give away her roiling emotions or the lie that left her lips. “Some.”

  Reaching for more clean linen strips, he added some salve from a jar and expertly bandaged her palms. “There. Better?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she whispered.

  Rhystan stood upright but made no move to step away, instead caging her with his arms on either side of her hips on the desk. Her newly bound and dressed palms sat cradled in her lap, a puny barrier to the tension that was unspooling between them. Had he been thinking about the last time he’d held her hands as well? Nothing showed in his expression—no softening in those hard, inscrutable eyes.

  But still he stared.

  Their breaths loud in the silence, the duke studied her face in wordless fascination while she did the same. Relearning him. Remapping his features
. Taking in the maturity of his stern bristled jaw and the dissolute curve of his mouth. Oh, that mouth… It had known hers intimately. Tasted her skin, sipped at her hands, her neck, the slope of her cleavage.

  With a blush, Sarani wrenched her eyes away to trace his strong, bold nose, the arch of his cheekbones, and those darkened, storm-hued irises. Silky blond-brown hair streaked gold by the sun framed his cheeks and curled into his brow, and her injured hands ached to sweep it away.

  Her tongue darted out to lick dry lips, and his stare returned there. Within a heartbeat, the tension humming between them spiked and ignited, spreading like wildfire over spilled oil. Rhystan’s sharpened gaze turned hot and desirous, scorching her, making her breasts tighten and lust settle between her thighs. Heavens, she wanted to be consumed. She wanted to burn.

  Sarani didn’t know if it was out of gratitude or desire or madness. She didn’t care. She was hurt, scared, and she wanted comfort. She wanted him.

  Shoving to the points of her toes, she collided her lips with his.

  Nine

  The scent of jasmine burned like incense through Rhystan’s senses.

  Her lips. Her soft, lush, wet mouth. The subject of a thousand erotic fantasies. Breaking him apart like a hammer to glass. Sweetness and sin. Darkness and desire. Virtue and vice wound indecently together, addling his brain and hardening his body in equal measure. The divergent combination had always been his undoing—the wellspring of his strength and the secret to his ruin. It had always been her.

  He’d made himself forget.

  But the moment Sarani’s lips touched his, five years of buried memory descended upon him like a hurricane. Five years of wanting. Of raw, unmitigated need.

  Rhystan’s hands wrapped around her, one at her nape and the other at her waist. They were greedy, too…desperate to remember the feel of her, the flare of her hip, the softness of her throat, the silken skeins of her inky hair. His fingers clutched and caressed, holding her close and desperate to take what she offered.

  One kiss wouldn’t hurt.

  And yet one kiss could wreck him unconscionably.

  Because he didn’t want to just kiss her mouth, he wanted to kiss her everywhere. From the bend of her elbow, to the curve of her breast, to her stomach, her thighs, all of her.

  Her teeth grazed his lower lip and sensation blasted through him, a groan rumbling in his chest. She tasted of heated spice, whisky, and pure lust. A part of him knew he should pull away, save himself from the destruction that would surely follow in the wake of this, but he couldn’t. When that sweet, bold tongue crept past his lips to touch his, Rhystan stopped fighting and gave in. For this kiss, he’d take his chances with ruin.

  With certain devastation.

  Angling her head, he opened his mouth on hers, eager to reconquer lost territory and take charge. Thrusting into her, sucking, nipping, and then soothing. Letting her know that all wasn’t forgiven. Reminding her that all wasn’t quite lost to memory. Not one to stand by idly, Sarani put her injured hands awkwardly around him, a ragged moan escaping her parted lips. He took; she gave. He came undone; she brought him back together.

  Their kiss wasn’t gentle, but she submitted to his rough claim with equal hunger, willingly, receiving him as though he’d never left. Kissing him as though he’d never become a stranger. As if he weren’t the hated enemy. As though she were still his.

  Moments, or an eternity, passed, and they stayed joined at the lips, sharing heartbeats and breath, reluctant to relinquish the connection. The kiss was less frantic now, light nudges and licks over bruised, swollen lips. Violence had given way to something tender, infinitely sweeter.

  And exceedingly more dangerous.

  Anger, Rhystan was familiar with. He’d honed it, held it close for years, let it pummel him and shape him into who he’d become. But this…this feeling of intimacy, of fragile undone yearning, shook him to the core. Threatened the hardened armor of who he was. And that he could not allow. Fuck. Fuck.

  Struggling for control, he tore himself from her clasp.

  “Rhys—” Her voice was thick, clogged with sated passion.

  He clenched his jaw. “Don’t.”

  He needed to bloody think! And he couldn’t with the heady scent of her in his nostrils and the sweet taste of her on his tongue. Every battered sense was reeling. All he wanted was to throw himself back into her embrace and lose himself in her. Drag those luscious hips to the edge of his desk, part her thighs, and drive into her body until they were both lost to pleasure.

  He spared a glance to the wild-eyed, red-lipped woman standing inches away. Emotions chased across her face, and she pinned the inside of her cheek between her teeth. Sarani looked as staggered as he felt—stunned that the inferno between them had somehow managed to stay alive after all this time.

  How had it? Because despite everything—betrayal, rejection, bitterness, and a half decade of hate—the attraction, the passion, was still there. Rhystan wanted her with a ferocious desire that had not abated in five years.

  And she wanted him.

  But regardless of the random flare of lust, they were over. Sarani Rao was in his past. She was female and he was simply a man with needs that had not been met in some time, as evidenced by the unrelenting pressure in his groin.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, raking a frustrated hand through his hair.

  Dark lashes dropped over her eyes, hiding her thoughts from view, one bandaged palm rising to quell the shaky rise of her breast. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should go.”

  Rhystan scrubbed his face with one hand and took another step back, giving her a wide berth as she swept past him to his cabin door in case he did something infinitely stupid like try to stop her. She had to leave, and he needed to clear his head and stop thinking with other disorderly parts of his body.

  With a shaking hand, he reached for the tumbler of whisky she’d left behind on the desk and drained it. The thought that her lips had been on this glass, too, made his bruised lips burn. Rhystan swiped at his mouth with the back of his knuckles, sucking in a breath at the residual tenderness. Recalling the sight of her red, swollen lips, he knew she’d given as good as she’d gotten.

  But then, Sarani always had. In Joor, she’d lived and fought with passion, never giving ground, never conceding. Their first kiss had been a battle for position, for dominance. Surrender had never crossed her mind, and he’d loved it. He relished her fight, that fierce intensity that had always called to its likeness in him. Even with the illusion of submission, this kiss had mirrored its predecessors, and Rhystan wasn’t sure who had emerged the victor.

  He smiled reluctantly. She’d make love like a warrior. The image of a gloriously nude Sarani Rao riding him into the bedsheets filled his addled brain, and his knees nearly failed him.

  Christ, he needed to have some bloody sense beaten into him. He was full of sap and spoiling for a fight. And he knew just the man for the job. Without a second thought, Rhystan made his way to the upper deck to find his quartermaster.

  Gideon threw one look at him and raised his eyebrows. “Now?”

  “Now,” Rhystan growled.

  Gideon grinned, the sight of which usually made grown men piss themselves, but Rhystan only stared back as the enormous man shed his belt, boots, and weapons without another word. He did the same, yanking off his boots and shirt.

  Nothing like a bracing round of bare-knuckle boxing to get one’s head sorted out. It didn’t take long for a crowd of his older crew to gather, some pulled from their beds because no one liked to miss the captain and the quartermaster beating each other bloody—or miss out on the wagers. Bets and money were already changing hands as the men formed a loose circle.

  “Rules?” Gideon asked, rolling his massive shoulders.

  Rhystan scowled. “None. First to call it.”

  Gideon shot him a sardonic lo
ok. “That bad?”

  Snarling, he answered with a nasty jab to the man’s jaw, and the fight was on. It took every bit of his focus—thank God—to avoid Gideon’s punches. The man was the size of a mountain and built of pure muscle, so getting hit by him was tantamount to getting hit by a train. Despite his bulk, he was also fleet of foot and moved like he was executing the most delicate of waltzes, with swift, beautiful, lethal precision.

  But then again, so was Rhystan.

  He dodged a thick fist swinging at his head and ducked to pummel Gideon’s torso. Crowing, the man barely flinched at the attack and kicked out, catching Rhystan in the thigh. He swore he could feel his bone shudder from the blow, but managed to limp out of the way and jab his knuckles into the softer tissue of Gideon’s throat.

  They traded more savage blows, getting some in and missing others, and after a good while, Rhystan finally felt weariness start to creep in. For all his skill and size, Gideon was also looking a bit the worse for wear. Blood trickled from a cut at his eye and one on his lip. Rhystan was sure he looked much the same, feeling a stinging on his cheek and tasting the metallic tang of blood in his own mouth. He swiped a lock of damp hair out of his face and eyed his adversary.

  They wouldn’t stop until one of them was unconscious or called the fight.

  Those were the rules.

  “Had enough yet, Captain?” the bigger man drawled.

  “I’ve got all night.”

  “Do you? Doesn’t seem like you have the stamina. Or is it the ballocks? Then again, could be the stem, too.” His quartermaster laughed, showing a row of bloodstained teeth. “Stem or berries, Captain?”

  Rhystan’s gaze narrowed. “Shut the hell up.”

  “Been a while since you had a woman, no? Can’t figure out which end is up? Let me help you out there—it’s the pointy end.”

  The men around them roared with laughter and hollered lewd insults. The rub to his masculinity was salt in an open wound, and Rhystan couldn’t help feeling rage that he’d been reduced to a dithering greenhorn who’d fled from his own private quarters with his tail between his legs. After one blasted kiss.