The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  “Hell, Sarani, these trousers,” he whispered, nuzzling into her fragrant neck. “They’re criminal on your legs. On this arse.”

  “You like them?” she panted, arms going around his neck as she rubbed her body against his. It gratified him to see that the near-painful state of arousal was mutual.

  “I like you in them.”

  With a moan, she kissed him, shoving up to her tiptoes and dragging her open mouth across his. He felt the swipe of her tongue and then the wicked nip of her teeth on his lower lip. He groaned at the bite of pain, pleasure following in its wake. And then it was a mass of lips, teeth, and tongues as they devoured each other, uncaring of the tiny room or the fact that they could be discovered at any moment.

  “What are you doing to me?” he growled, one hand tugging her shirt out and slipping up inside to her warm skin.

  Her breasts were bound with linen, but he still rubbed over her hardened nipples, pinching them lightly. He swallowed her moans with his mouth, his hand going to her falls. Blast these buttons! He tore them from their moorings, shoving them down to cup her sex with his palm.

  “Bloody hell, you’re soaked.” His cock was hard enough to hammer steel. “I want you so badly.”

  “Yes,” she gasped, her tongue sucking his, her own fingers tugging at his hair. “Now, please.”

  Rhystan didn’t hesitate. He unbuttoned his own fly—not falls, thank his ingenious tailor—pulled his weeping cock out, lifted her up, and drove himself to the hilt. She was so wet that he glided in snugly, though she gasped at the intrusion and he groaned at the tightness.

  “Rhystan,” she said breathlessly.

  He kissed her harder. “I love hearing my name on your lips.”

  She clenched her muscles, hooking her knees over his hips, hardly able to do more, impaled as she was on him. “Enough prevaricating, Your Grace. Hurry up and take me before someone barges in here.”

  God, this woman.

  Rhystan did just that, grabbing handfuls of those perfect hips and driving into her. Sarani held on for dear life, arms winding around his neck. The position of her split legs wrapped around him made her gasp every time their bodies ground together, and soon, she was panting, her desire spiraling to the precipice.

  “Rhystan!” she cried.

  She bit his shoulder hard as her body convulsed around him, the undulation setting off his own release as he groaned and yanked himself from her. Supporting her limp body with one arm, he finished in his fist, barely able to keep them both upright.

  “That was…” He couldn’t even speak.

  “Outstanding.”

  He couldn’t have agreed more. There weren’t many ladies who would have been up for an impromptu tiff in a cobwebbed public nook in a tavern, but she had been as amorous as he. Smiling foolishly, they put themselves to rights, cleaning up with a handkerchief, tucking in shirttails, and buttoning up trousers. In all the passion, her braid had unraveled and unpinned from its moorings, so he helped her secure the silky mass.

  “I’ve never felt hair like yours,” he said, lifting a fragrant handful to his nose and inhaling deeply. The scent of jasmine invaded his senses.

  “It’s just hair,” she replied self-consciously.

  “Not yours. It’s like liquid silk through my fingers.” He deftly rebraided the sleek skeins into a thick braid, catching her astonished look. “I have a younger sister who forced me to comb her hair when we were little.”

  “Forced you?” Sarani asked grinning.

  “Have you met Ravenna?” He sighed and expertly pinned her hair to her scalp, taking care not to scrape her skin before fixing the cap back in place. “The little hellion had me learn all the fashionable girls’ styles one summer in the country when her maid quit because of newts in her bedclothes. Mother said that she would have to do without a maid since she chased Hettie away with her infernal pranks.”

  Sarani laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Ravenna is my kind of girl.”

  “She likes you, too.”

  He pulled her back by the arm, wiping away the remnants of her smudged mustache with his thumb. Her lips were swollen, plump, and dusky red. He couldn’t resist kissing her one last time before they made their way back out to the main hall of the tavern.

  Gideon, who was waiting, took one look at them and his brows shot upward. Sarani’s cheeks flamed, but Rhystan couldn’t help puffing his chest slightly. “Not a word,” he told his friend.

  “Wasn’t going to say anything,” the quartermaster drawled. “Good to see you looking so hale, Princess.”

  Her blush intensified. “And you, Gideon.”

  They resumed their seats, and Rhystan ordered a new round of drinks before looking expectantly to his quartermaster. “Find anything?”

  “Yes. Finn Driscoll lost a fortune with him when Markham claimed the ships containing his cargo were sunk at sea. But rumor is Markham stripped the ships himself.”

  Rhystan had heard of Finn Driscoll. The Irish captain was as ruthless as he was cruel. “Good. Arrange a meeting. The quicker we muzzle Markham, the safer Sarani and my family will be.”

  He felt Sarani glance at him, and he felt a swift rush of guilt. He didn’t make the rules of the beau monde, but the scandal if the truth got out would also hurt them, simply by association.

  Like his mother, he would do what was necessary to protect his family name.

  * * *

  The hour was late. Sarani had excused herself from the musicale that evening, citing a megrim and retiring to her room, but she’d really just needed to think. Something Rhystan had said earlier in the tavern kept niggling at her—that he had to keep his family safe as well. While helping her had been part of their bargain, she hadn’t really thought of the other consequences.

  Like what being linked to her would do to Ravenna. Or even the duchess.

  These aristocrats did not like their social laws bent, unless they were doing the bending. And she, by virtue of her mixed blood, was not one of them. There was only one thing for it: she had to leave for their sakes. Sarani’s heart constricted. Tej would have to stay behind. She would not rob him of such a bright future. To Asha, she would give the choice.

  A crashing noise from downstairs made her fly up from the armchair in her bedchamber. That had sounded like breaking glass. Flashes of the glass she’d seen on the terrace of her own palace in Joor filled her mind. No, no, it was simply a servant dropping a goblet or a wineglass. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Snatching a shawl, she threw it over her shoulders and peeked outside. Her kukri were both strapped to her thighs in their usual sheaths—she hadn’t yet disrobed for bed.

  It was late, so only a single lamp burned in the corridor. As far as she knew, the dowager duchess and Ravenna had yet to return from the musicale. The hairs on her nape lifted as she crept down the dimly lit staircase. Her nerves coiled, tension filling her veins when hushed voices reached her ears. It had to be the servants, but she would check to make sure, just for peace of mind.

  On soundless feet, she rounded the corner to the kitchen, which was also deserted. The dowager must have returned then—no servant would withdraw before she had. Peering into each of the rooms she passed and noting each one empty with no visible sign of broken glass, Sarani halted when low voices trailed from the vicinity of the drawing room.

  She frowned and then picked up the pace as Her Grace’s imperious voice cut through the silence. “What do you want?” she asked.

  Sarani whirled, but the dowager duchess wasn’t addressing her. Flanked by two footmen, she stood outlined by the glow of the light coming from the drawing room, still dressed for the evening. Someone replied, but Sarani could not make out the words.

  “I’ve sent for the police,” she said calmly. “If you don’t want any trouble, then why have you broken in?”

  Sarani inched forwar
d, her blood chilling as the reply came. “I want only the princess.”

  “The who?” the dowager duchess asked.

  “Princess Sarani Rao. Her cousin would like to have a word with her.”

  Everything in Sarani’s body froze. Vikram had found her, and she had no doubt that the only words he meant to have would be at the point of a pistol or edge of a blade. But she could not allow the dowager or, heaven forbid, Ravenna to get caught in the crosshairs of her cousin’s quarrel with her. Sarani had only to hold off the uninvited guests until the police arrived.

  “What’s all the hubbub?” Ravenna asked, approaching from the opposite end of the foyer and peering into the room. “Who are you?”

  Fear flicked across the older woman’s face as she gestured for one of the footmen to safeguard her daughter. Sarani sucked in a deep breath, ready to announce her presence, when the dowager angled her head to look directly at her. Sarani could feel the panicked blast from those irises where she stood. Closing the distance between them, she opened her mouth to tell both of them that everything would be well, when an odd expression crossed the duchess’s face. Shame? Dread? Both?

  “She’s here,” the dowager duchess said.

  “Mama,” Ravenna cried as understanding flashed in her copper eyes. “What are you doing?”

  The duchess firmed her lips. “Protecting this family.”

  “Sara is family,” Ravenna said, yanking on the footman’s grip. “Let me go, you lout!”

  “She has brought this trouble to our doorstep.”

  “You can’t just hand her over,” Ravenna protested. “He’ll hurt her.”

  “I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

  “Mother!” Ravenna screamed. “Stop this!”

  Shaking her head, the duchess let out a ragged gasp. “I’ve already lost a husband and two sons. I will not lose you as well. I will protect you at any cost, even if it means you hate me for it.”

  “Please, Mama.” Ravenna resorted to begging. “Rhystan will hate you for this, too.”

  “I will have to take that chance,” the dowager replied.

  Deep down, Sarani understood the protective instinct that was driving the dowager, but the justification didn’t help much. Gritting her teeth, Sarani slid her hands into the false pockets sewn into her gown, reassuring herself that her blades were there and ready. A short, wiry man came into view then, one whom Sarani did not recognize. Though why would she? If he was Vikram’s assassin, she wouldn’t know him.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I want only to talk,” the man said.

  She huffed a breath. “Is that why you’ve been following me? Did you murder my father?”

  The gasps from the other end of the foyer were loud.

  “No,” he said, but Sarani was sure he was lying. He’d been paid to assassinate both of them, and he was here to finish the job. She had to think! This man would kill without blinking.

  Suddenly, Ravenna broke free of the footman’s hold and rushed forward, hurtling into the unsuspecting man. “Run, Sara!”

  The duchess’s scream was the only warning before the man spun and grabbed Ravenna by the hair, putting her under a deadly looking blade. Sarani’s heart slammed into her throat as Ravenna’s fearful eyes met hers.

  “No one move,” the assassin snarled to the duchess. “Tell them to stay back, or I’ll slit her throat.”

  The dowager duchess let out a keening cry and lifted a hand, waving back the footmen and stalling the other servants who had been drawn to the noise. “Please…don’t harm her.”

  Sarani growled. “She is the daughter of a duke and the sister of one, you fool. Spill one drop of her blood, and the entire might of the British Crown will be on your employer’s head,” she said, walking forward with slow, measured steps. “Trust me, Vikram does not want that kind of attention or retaliation.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. Sarani considered her options. She couldn’t run, not without leaving Ravenna exposed. And who knew where the police were or if the duchess had had the wisdom to summon her son at the same time.

  “I’ll go with you,” she said. “Just let her go.”

  “Sara, no!” Ravenna cried.

  She nodded, hands wide, easing forward. “Yes. I couldn’t forgive myself if anything happened to you because of me. Your mother is right. I brought this to your doorstep. It’s my problem.” Her gaze met the man’s, and she reached out a hand. “Me for her. I’m the one you’re here for. Do we have an agreement?”

  Without hesitating, he shoved Ravenna to the side, and she scrambled away. Exhaling unhurriedly, Sarani braced herself and let her energy flow from her center as her weapons master had taught her. She would have seconds, if that, to extricate herself. From the look in his eyes, he intended to finish the business right here. Unlike Ravenna, she did not have a powerful duke on her side, and she doubted that any of these footmen would come to her aid.

  The moment his fingers closed around her wrist, she moved, twisting one arm down and reaching into the slit in her gown with the other. One would think that her fingers would get tangled, but she’d practiced for hours until the act of getting the hilt in hand was second nature. She sliced her blade across his chest, leaving red in its wake, and leaped back at the same time.

  “Get Her Grace and Lady Ravenna out of here!” she shouted to the gaping footmen.

  As if they’d been in a trance watching her, they jolted into action. She didn’t take her eyes off the assassin who had brought up a second razor-edged blade to his bleeding chest. She retrieved her second kukri from its sheath. They circled each other like predators in the water.

  “That was devious,” he said.

  She scowled. “You expect me to offer you my neck meekly?”

  “Your cousin wants to talk.”

  “And I’m the queen of England.”

  Snarling, he lunged forward, one blade coming precariously close to her shoulder as she shifted her weight onto her heels and brought up her left arm to block the blow. Within seconds, their blades spun and crashed, the noise echoing in the now-empty foyer. The man was skilled. Then again, if he was the man who had murdered her father, he would have to be.

  She didn’t have time to breathe before he came at her again, his knives whirring so quickly she had to work to keep track of them. Sarani danced around him a few times, observing his footwork and the way he held his weapons, searching for anything that she could use against him while keeping him off-balance with a basic attack strategy. It was a technique she’d learned fighting Rhystan.

  As if she’d conjured him, she felt the duke’s presence even before she laid eyes on him.

  “Sarani!” The growl was male and guttural and tore through her like a tempest, but Sarani didn’t dare take her stare off her foe. One mistake, and it would be over; she knew that much.

  “Stay back, please,” she told him.

  She cleared her mind of everything but the man in front of her, lunging and parrying. Learning. The assassin was good, but there were flaws in his skill, like the roll to his back heel every time he struck left and then right in a certain sequence. It threw him off-balance the tiniest bit. Waiting for the right moment, Sarani propelled all her weight forward as they both fell, her kukri flashing in midair in a vicious six-strike series.

  An incredulous look was punctuated by a gurgling scream, red blooming through his linen shirt on his abdomen and the cuff of his sleeve. The six weren’t fatal cuts, but the one slashing through his wrist meant he would never wield a blade with such finesse again, and the one severing his Achilles tendon would ensure he couldn’t walk. Or run.

  Hitting the ground hard, Sarani rolled and vaulted to her feet, putting distance between them, feeling a solid wall of male enclosing her from behind. Rhystan’s crisp masculine scent of salt and sea surrounded her.

  Th
e assassin wheezed from his crumpled position on the floor. “Finish it.”

  “I’m no murderer,” she said. “I have no power in Joor, but you will be tried for your crimes on English soil. Feel free to write to my lily-livered cousin from prison that if he sends any more of you, I will come for him.”

  Sarani glanced up at the man holding her in his arms, blue-gray eyes scanning her body for injury. Movement flickered behind him as the police swarmed the foyer. She wiped her faithful blades on her skirts and returned them to their sheaths.

  “Get me out of here, Rhystan.”

  Twenty-Three

  With shaking fingers, Rhystan poured himself a glass of whisky, but he could not even lift it to swallow. His nerves were shot to hell. When he’d been located at his club earlier that evening by the head of police himself, he had feared the worst, but nothing had prepared him for the sight of Sarani facing off against a man who even the untrained eye could see was a killer. He’d wanted to roar his rage, to tear the assassin apart with his bare hands, and only Sarani’s voice had restrained him.

  Stay back, please.

  He’d heard the soft command, the utter steel in her tone, and obeyed. And then, he’d waited, heart in his throat, watching her. The seconds had turned into lifetimes, but the moment she’d felled the man, he’d shot forward to gather her into his arms and make sure she was unharmed. Of course she wasn’t harmed—she was a warrior goddess, Durga incarnate.

  After he’d taken her back to his house with strict instructions to Harlowe to see to her every need, he returned to Huntley House to take care of matters there with the police. The assassin had been taken into custody, the foyer scrubbed of blood, and servants sworn to secrecy. Ravenna was distraught, refusing to speak to their mother, who was her usual unemotional self, though strain was evident in her eyes. Both women had taken to their chambers.

  He’d only just returned home and gone straight to his study to calm himself before checking on Sarani. Rhystan stared at the tumbler in his hand. He’d come so close to losing everything he held dear—his remaining family and the only woman he’d ever let himself care for. Maybe cared for still. Hell. With a frustrated growl, he flung the glass into the hearth.