A darkening gaze met hers. “Would that be so bad, Sarani? Being in my bed?”
Would it?
Parts of her body went instantly molten as her eyes slid to the very bed he was propped upon, visions of those fine sheets crumpled around a pair of naked, intertwined, writhing bodies. His. Hers. No end to where each of them began. Much like the carvings and sculptures she’d discovered during a trip with her father to a princely state where the temples of Khajuraho depicted maithuna—the coupling between a husband and wife.
Her maid, Asha, as wide-eyed as she, had been a veritable fountain of information. Hot-cheeked, Sarani had been riveted, gobbling up the wickedly erotic depictions of the Hindu god Shiva, the masculine aspect of divine creativity, and the Goddess Shakti, the feminine aspect of the power of creation. Her people saw the concept of physical desire as something sacred, and that sexuality was a symbol of unity and oneness. She bit her lip. What would such oneness be like with Rhystan?
No, no, no!
Hastily, Sarani blinked the provocative and categorically unwelcome imaginings away. Heavens, what was wrong with her? She was surely out of her mind. There was no future, sexual or otherwise, with this man. She must have inhaled rope fibers and they were clogging her brain, because she couldn’t possibly be thinking that climbing into the Duke of Embry’s bed wasn’t remotely the worst conceivable idea in the history of existence.
Her body hummed its denial.
Not exactly the worst.
“Yes. No.” She gave her head a rough shake. “Of course it would be. And my name is Sara. I’m not that girl anymore.”
“No, you’re not,” he said quietly. He paused with a shadow of a smirk. “As diverting as it is to see you at such a stunning loss for words, that’s not the offer I had in mind.”
A breath rushed out. In relief? Disappointment? Sarani hissed to herself—definitely the former. “Oh. It’s not?”
“No.”
“Then what?” she asked.
“An offer of marriage.” Before the word or its implication could properly sink in, he arched a bronzed brow. “To me.”
Sarani blinked. “Why on earth would you—” She gaped, her jaw falling open in indecorous horror. “Marry you? You have to be joking.”
“Au contraire, I’m deadly serious. I’d like us to become engaged.”
“One of your quartermaster’s blows must have addled your mind, Your Grace,” she said with a frown. “Might I remind you that you are a duke. An engagement to…me will never be countenanced by your mother, remember?”
“Talbot was a peer and you were engaged to him.”
Disgust rolled through her. “Talbot was a swine, the bottom of the barrel, ousted from London. Marriage to me was a windfall for a man like him.”
Sarani couldn’t disguise the ripple of pain that threaded through her words.
Even Lord Talbot had reminded her on more than one occasion that he was doing her a grand service by offering her marriage. Oh, he’d desired her badly. Sarani had known it from the way he’d slavered over her body, his eyes wild with lust, but he had lorded his privileged male superiority over her like a cudgel. His close friend Markham had made no attempt to mask his contempt, and others had followed suit.
Especially the ladies; they’d been worse than the men.
It made her think of Thackeray’s words that it was a great compliment to any woman to be despised by her sex. She still wasn’t able to find it in her heart to agree. Women should lift each other up, given the barriers they faced on account of their sex alone and not having the same power as men. It had been what her mother had taught her and what her father had bolstered by allowing her to be raised as a son would be. Perhaps even to be esteemed as one would.
Until he’d traded her off like a goat, that was.
Marriage—the sole thing any highborn woman was good for. At least she and other Englishwomen had that in common. And here she was…crumbling like a house of straw at the duke’s offer, because it had to be a joke. The memory of her broken heart was her undoing, the prospect of wedlock to him twisting her into painful knots. Marriage to Talbot would have been intolerable. Marriage to Rhystan would be the end of her.
“This is the answer for both of us,” Rhystan said.
With the barest flinch, Sarani closed her eyes. “No. Not for me. I’d sooner go back to Joor.”
Rhystan narrowed his eyes, tracking her like a hound scenting a fox. “You’re telling me that you’d rather face your father’s murderer than become engaged to me?”
In a heartbeat.
Nodding fervently, Sarani retreated several more steps until the cabin door pressed into the backs of her shoulders, halting her flight. It was by far the lesser of two evils. By a long shot. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her throat closing as buried memories surfaced, reminding her of what came with wanting too much. And the price that accompanied such arrogance. She had learned that lesson the hard way.
It had been drilled into her by men like Markham and Talbot: Someone like her did not belong with men like him. Sons of dukes, brothers of dukes, or dukes themselves.
She let out an agonized breath.
“Sarani.” Her given name was a caress upon his lips, but his next words were a ruthless arrow to her heart. “Hear me out. You owe me that much.”
Reaching behind her for the door latch, she fought the lance of guilt. “Even if I did, my answer will still be no. When we dock tomorrow, it’s best for me to take my leave in St. Helena as planned.”
Eleven
Marriage.
Sarani had endured a restless sleep from the moment she’d left the duke’s cabin after his preposterous proposition, and she’d tossed and turned all night, tortured by visions of her wedded to the man who’d stolen the heart of a starry-eyed girl all those years ago. Those dreams had been intertwined with more salacious fantasies of what came after the wedding…as in the bedding. And that had left her in a wicked, restless state that made further sleep practically impossible.
She stared up at the ceiling, fisting her fingers in the twisted bedsheets, her eyes flicking to her exhausted maid who had taken refuge in the armchair halfway through the night to avoid her mistress’s constant thrashing. Poor Asha. Sarani had explained in a few short words what Embry had proposed and Asha’s eyes had gone wide, though she had uncharacteristically, if wisely, not offered any counsel.
Sarani throttled a grunt of frustration.
Marriage.
The utter nerve of him. It was unconscionable. Absurd. Unthinkable.
But after several hours of indignation, her innately practical mind had slowed enough to consider both the advantages and the disadvantages. Despite their tumultuous history and the decisions that had pushed them apart, something had brought them back together. And if she put emotion aside, the duke could be the answer to her prayers.
A duchess would be unassailable.
The ton would accept her without question because she wouldn’t just be Lady Sara Lockhart, returning mysterious heiress from India, she would be Lady Sara Lockhart, fiancée to the exalted Duke of Embry. By default, an uncontestable extension of him.
She would be safe from harmful gossip, but her identity would be swaddled up in that of yet another man. One whose motives weren’t entirely clear.
Why would he offer to wed her?
What reason could he possibly have? With his fortune, looks, and title, he would have his pick of brides in England. Unless he wanted her specifically. He couldn’t be that vengeful, could he? Wanting to exact retribution for her betrayal all those years ago? Her chest tightened. If anything, the past few weeks had taught her that the man Rhystan had become was capable of that and more. He was ruthless in the extreme.
Cold. Powerful. Exacting.
Sarani thought of the tender way he’d soothed and bound her hands, and then
she remembered that he’d set her to work shoveling manure in the first place. She, a princess shoveling cow and horse shit, and one he’d proposed to nonetheless. It was beyond the pale.
A small giggle escaped her lips. When did Rhystan ever care about what was proper? And now he was a duke who could do as he pleased without fear of recrimination or punishment. As duke, no Vice Admiral Markham would have him tossed on a convoy. No man below his rank would dare put his hands on the duke or question his authority.
Sarani stilled.
Perhaps he was right. Or perhaps she was so weary she wasn’t thinking straight.
It didn’t matter. She was set on her course: she, Asha, and Tej would disembark and make their own way. With a determined breath, she rolled to the side of the bunk, performed her ablutions, and got dressed in her boy’s clothing without waking Asha. Perhaps a round of exercise on deck would help calm her roiling thoughts. Palming her kukri blades and slipping them into their leather harness that crisscrossed her shoulders and hugged her hips, she immediately felt better.
She exited the cabin and climbed the stairs to the main deck.
The pale golden rays of the morning sun washed across the worn wooden planks of the ship, splitting through the rigging and the foremast and mizzenmast and glittering across the uncommonly glass-like surface of the sea. It wasn’t like the usual chop of the open ocean.
A few men working the sails tipped their caps to her as she walked by.
As she climbed to the quarterdeck where the huge figure of Gideon stood, Sarani noticed other things through the sunrise haze. Like the tips of other masts glinting in the distance and what looked like the curve of land. Were they in a bay? Gracious, had they arrived at St. Helena already? She frowned when she reached Gideon, putting a hand to her brow to get a better view through the glare.
“Have we reached port already?” she asked.
His answer was a grunt that sounded like aye.
Something that felt like regret settled low in her stomach. It would be moments, not hours, that she would have to say her goodbyes. Gather her belongings. Formulate another plan of action. She huffed a breath, wondering idly where Rhystan was and feeling her sense of regret deepen. An ache began to build in her throat.
“I suppose I should thank you,” she said to the quartermaster. “For all your help these past weeks.” He gave another noncommittal grunt. “For what it’s worth, you have my gratitude. I better get back belowdecks, wake Asha, and retrieve our things.”
She retraced her footsteps, dimly registering that the ship’s nose pointed out to open water. Within seconds, sails were billowing and they began to gather speed. The shapes of other ships became smaller and smaller, and she could no longer see the outline of land. Sarani halted, blinking her confusion. Shouldn’t they be slowing?
“Gideon, do we not need more coal?” she asked, stalking back to the quartermaster.
Cold if marginally sheepish eyes met hers. “Already done.”
Because they weren’t putting into port…they were leaving port.
“Done?” The word emerged as a shriek. “But I’m to disembark.”
“Too late.”
Her mouth fell open. What did that mean? Had they somehow already refueled? Confusion was followed by awareness of the fact that they were leaving the shipping port—her only avenue for escape. “Turn this ship around! I demand it.”
“Can’t. Captain’s orders.”
Hissing a foul curse through her lips, Sarani grabbed the wheel, but the damned thing wouldn’t budge beneath Gideon’s hold. Not that she expected she could turn the blasted ship with a flick of the wrist, but she wasn’t just going to stand there and be told she couldn’t leave. She was a grown woman and she’d made up her mind, damn it to purgatory.
Damn him to purgatory. Captain’s orders, her foot.
“Where is that insufferable horse’s arse?”
In a fit of rage, she whirled and nearly collided with the broad, hard chest attached to the insufferable arse in question. Her gaze slid up to the smirk on his full mouth, and she very nearly punched it. “I wish to get off.”
His smirk widened at her unfortunate choice of words. Blast it, was everything an insinuation with him? Rhystan planted his hands on his narrow hips.
“No.”
“No?” she repeated, fury sparking. “You cannot keep me a prisoner on this ship. I demand to leave immediately.” Rhystan’s gaze slid to Gideon, and the man left after their silent exchange until she and Rhystan stood alone on the quarterdeck. Sarani’s hands hovered over her blades, the meaning clear enough. “Explain.”
His brow lifted infinitesimally at the threat, looking more amused than afraid as he took the wheel, and she scowled. But then he let out a measured exhale, steel-gray eyes capturing hers. “It’s not safe, Sarani. I used the rest of the coal stores to get here under cover of night so that we could resupply and leave quickly. You should know that there are reports of a man looking for someone of your description and willing to pay heavily for information on your whereabouts.”
Her anger instantly deflated. Oh, no. How had the murderer caught up to them? The winds had been favorable, but they would have been for his ship, too, and the route they’d taken would have led straight to St. Helena. She swallowed, her legs threatening to collapse.
“England is the safest choice for you,” Rhystan said quietly. “I can turn this ship around if that is your wish, but I urge you to reconsider my proposal for both our sakes—an engagement for the sake of mutual convenience, no strings attached.”
Her eyes fastened on him. “What do you mean?”
“If you won’t marry me, then pretend to be my fiancée, Sarani. That’s all I ask.”
* * *
Rhystan held his breath, watching the myriad of emotions play over her expressive face. He gave no quarter to the small but necessary lie he’d told. He had given the order to shorten the remaining distance to the port and to restock in the dark, which had cost him more than a pretty penny and a few favors, but they had been for his own plans.
He needed her.
The slight fabrication was simply a means to an end. The more his own strategy to avoid wedlock and the caprices of his mother solidified in his head, the more he needed Sarani to cooperate. Forcing her hand would not lose him any sleep. The lie he’d invented about reports of a man searching for her would be the clincher.
Sarani was clever and sensible; it was only a matter of time before she saw the benefits of such an arrangement. Once she got past the emotion, that was. He knew where her concern stretched from… He hadn’t exactly won her friendship or loyalty. Or treated her with a modicum of respect or fairness. He had given her no reason to trust him, not with his recent behavior.
And she didn’t. Rhystan could see it in her eyes.
But he didn’t need her to trust him; he only needed to convince her to agree to what was on the surface a logical solution. Though he had to admit that a dark part of him was deeply elated at the idea of having her in his grasp under the guise of an engagement. To anyone who mattered in the ton, she would be his. And when it was all said and done and he’d gotten what he wanted, he would walk away…just as she had.
Two birds, one stone.
A pair of suspicious hazel eyes narrowed on his as though she’d sensed his train of thought. “What do you get out of a sham engagement?”
He debated telling her the truth and then shrugged. She would see through anything else. “My mother has grand plans to thrust me into ballroom upon ballroom of debutantes on my return. I’d rather avoid such torture if possible.” He exhaled. “That’s where you come in. If I arrive with a fiancée, it hinders her plots.”
“You don’t wish to marry?”
“I belong to a demanding mistress.” Rhystan saw the stark confusion on her face before he waved an arm at the surrounding sea. �
�The ocean owns me, body and soul.”
“But you’re a duke,” she said, a frown pleating her brow. “You have…duties.”
“I have stewards to see to those duties, including my mother the duchess and her army of servants, who do a much better job than I could.” He sucked in a breath. “I return to see for myself that the lady’s health is hale, to check on my sister, and to offer gifts to my sister-in-law and my nieces. Then I intend to leave.”
She blinked. “You have a sister?”
“Her name is Ravenna,” he said. “The unfortunate youngest of four with three older brothers.”
“Brothers?”
His heart squeezed with forgotten sorrow and guilt arced through him that he hadn’t spoken of them to her…or to anyone. “Dead, along with my father.”
“I am sorry.”
Rhystan shoved the sentiment back where it belonged, down deep, and hardened his expression. “Your answer, my lady. Which is it? Do you wish to return to St. Helena? Or do you agree to my proposal?”
She bit her lip, her eyes glancing over her shoulder to the departing shores, her indecision clear. He still couldn’t fathom that she would choose to face a killer over betrothal to him. She’d always been headstrong, but her intelligence had always been a dependable foil to her more impulsive ideas. He felt a stroke of admiration for her unshakable courage, as misguided as it was.
“Will it be in name only?” she asked. “This temporary engagement.”
Rhystan fought back amusement. “Meaning?”
“No…er…kissing,” she said, a blush rising up her neck. “Or inappropriate touching. Or any other things.”
“No.”
A shocked stare collided with his, hot color saturating those elegant cheekbones. Her lips parted on a gasp. “What do you mean, no?”
“Just what it sounds like,” he said. “My mother will see through the subterfuge if it’s not believable. You must allow me to touch you, and you must be willing to touch me. Though based on recent evidence, that will not be a hardship for either of us.”
The Princess Stakes Page 12