He trailed his fingers through her long, silky hair, following one strand that curled around her breast. He cupped the tender curve against his palm, making her shiver. His thumb found her nipple through the sheer cloth of her bodice and teased it to fullness. With a startled cry, she arched into his touch, as if seeking more of the new sensation, her hands digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
He tore his mouth from hers, nuzzled her cheek, her jaw, then trailed quick, hungry kisses along the sensitive curve of her throat.
“Krupiya, please.” Her breathing was ragged, her voice husky and confused, as if she didn’t even understand what it was she was demanding.
Fortunately for her, he thought with a wicked grin, he knew exactly what she wanted. He slid his hand down over her ribs, her bare waist…lower.
Seeking and finding the tender center of her femininity, he stroked her through the silky layers of her skirts and salwar. He groaned at discovering she was already wet for him.
She gasped at his intimate touch, her lashes opening wide. Pulling free of his hold, she danced out of reach with agile grace, shaking her head in protest. “I am supposed to be pleasing you,” she reminded him. “Where would you like me to pleasure you first, sahib?”
Breathing hard, Saxon fought to hold himself in check. If he wasn’t careful, her sensual response to him was going to make him forget all his honorable intentions. Despite her harem training, she had never been with a man. He needed to slow down. Beyond words, captivated by the promises in her eyes, he nodded toward the pool.
She smiled at his suggestion, took his hand, and led him over to the water’s edge.
Then she stepped away from him a few paces…and started to disrobe.
He struggled for sanity. Heat and hunger collided inside him as he watched her remove her skirts…one after another…each sliding each downward until a shimmering lake of lavender silk lapped around her bare ankles. His mouth went dry.
He had been celibate too damned long.
She slipped her sheer peshwaz cloak from her shoulders, letting it drop slowly to the floor. Wearing only her choli bodice and salwar now, she walked back to him, her hips swaying in a motion that locked his eyes and his thoughts on her lower body. She came to his side, knelt at his feet, head bowed, and took off her bracelets, one at a time, then her rings. She placed them all on one of the silver platters heaped with fruits and qandi that lined the pool’s edge.
Her hands and arms bare, she raised her eyes to his, her face at the level of his thigh, her air submissive, her lips swollen from his kisses.
He stared down at her, burning. His hand strayed through her hair. The intensity of the desire he felt for Ashiana was stronger than any he had known in his life. It was almost as if he were experiencing her excitement blended with his own. As if this was his first time as well as hers. The sensation startled him.
She smiled up at him, whispering, “And now you may get into the pool, sahib.”
He tried to focus on her eyes—instead of her mouth and the almost palpable warmth of her breath fanning over his groin. She was so small and delicate in comparison to him.
Unstrapping his shamshir, he laid it close at hand on the pool’s edge, then stripped off his uniform coat and the rest of his clothes: boots, waistcoat, shirt…then his breeches. She turned her head, cheeks aflame, averting her eyes.
Naked except for the leather pouch around his neck, he stepped down into the water.
The pool was about six feet square and four deep, with a broad, smooth ledge on all four sides that served as a seat. He settled himself on that, but the cool water swirling around his ribs had no effect on his arousal. The surface was so crystalline-clear that he knew Ashiana could see every inch of him. She kept her gaze on his face.
He leaned back, resting his arms along the pool’s edge. She picked up one of a dozen flasks clustered on a nearby tray—a small bottle made of blue glass—and pulled out the stopper. A warm, fruity fragrance spiced the air.
Watching her, he arched one eyebrow. She tilted the bottle and poured a line of thick white liquid along his left arm and shoulder, then rubbed it in. It felt cool and wet at first but warmed with the contact of her skin against his.
When she moved on to his right arm, he leaned his head back and looked up at her. “I have been massaged in ways far more arousing than that,” he complained lightly. “I thought you were going to show me—”
She leaned forward and blew on his arm, her breath turning the warm ointment into sizzling heat. His entire body jerked, splashing a wave over the edge of the pool.
“What kind of fakir’s trick is that? It feels like liquid fire.”
“It is not a trick, but the emperor’s own secret,” she explained. “This unguent was created by one of the palace physicians. I do not know how it is made.”
Saxon fell silent, the potion’s heat glittering through him. He cared less about its contents than the tantalizing possibilities of how they might use it.
“Continue,” he said with a slow grin.
Trying to look pleased instead of terrified, Ashiana reclined by the side of the pool, bringing her face closer to his. She desperately tried to ignore the frantic beating of her heart. Just the sight of him naked made her lightheaded. She had never seen any man unclothed—let alone a man like him, so powerfully built that his tanned skin seemed to stretch taut everywhere, from the swaths of muscle over his shoulders and chest to the iron-hard sinews girding his ribs.
She also noticed his many scars, including long, angry marks that striped his arms. They were a vivid reminder of why she was here and who Saxon D’Avenant was: a man who was comfortable with violence and danger. A thief who had killed in his pursuit of the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir. An Englishman. His people were arrogant invaders who cared only about conquering and riches and power, like the pirates who had destroyed the Adiante and murdered her papa fifteen years ago.
She must not let Saxon’s handsome smiles or a few gallant remarks make her forget her duty. I am an Ajmir princess.
And he is my enemy.
Yet with every touch, every kiss, every time their eyes met, some unknown, unnamed, unwanted feeling stirred to life within her. It was shameful. Unthinkable.
Undeniable.
Placing one fingertip under his rough, stubbled chin, she urged him to tip his head back. He did so, half-closing his eyes to keep watching her.
She poured more of the ointment, then rubbed her moistened fingers along his throat, feeling the throbbing of his pulse, and the deeper vibration of his voice when he made a low sound of pleasure.
She was careful to avoid the leather pouch around his neck. She hadn’t even asked him about it. As if it were of no interest to her at all.
Sliding her hand across the broad, wet planes of his chest, she spread the liquid everywhere before she bent her head to torment him with her breath.
He groaned and captured her hand when she would have pulled away, sitting up suddenly, sloshing water over the side of the pool. He tugged her to a seated position at the edge, her feet dangling in the water. Taking the blue bottle from her, he wet his own finger with the liquid, then slid it over her lips.
Ashiana inhaled sharply at the cool, wet sensation. He circled the nape of her neck with one hand, pulled her close, and blew softly, igniting sparks that sizzled along her mouth. Drawing her closer still, he kissed her and the sparks flared into a blaze.
He reached for the waist of her salwar. Ashiana couldn’t catch her breath.
He muttered what sounded like a curse at encountering the elaborate knots.
“Merely one more of the steps on our way to the pinnacle of bliss,” she explained in a husky murmur. She had better put her plan into action—quickly. She reached for one of the silver platters of qandi that she had placed at strategic points around the room before he arrived.
Picking up one of the small, sugared treats, she adopted a teasing tone. “While you unfasten the knots, let us see who wins the
prize.” She slowly, purposefully extended her tongue and placed the sweet on the tip.
Then she lifted her mouth to his, lips parted for his kiss.
He took the bait so eagerly that he might have knocked her over if he hadn’t been holding on to her. While he plundered her mouth in a ravishing kiss, he worked at the knots—with the speed and skill of an experienced sailor.
Her heart beating wildly, Ashiana reached behind her and found the platter again. She flicked open her onyx ring, spilling out a qandi that looked as ordinary as all the others.
Saxon already had half of the knots undone. The distraction of the kissing game wasn’t slowing him down at all!
With a quick, cheating nip, she won the first round. She pulled free of his mouth, bit down on the sweet to release its liquid center and licked her lips as she swallowed it.
“A second try?” She held up the new piece of qandi teasingly before popping it in her mouth. She intended to let him win this round—and he would not find this treat so sweet.
But she was so focused on what she had to do that she was completely unprepared for what he did.
He sat back in the pool, pulling her with him.
She hit the water with a gasp and would have choked on the candy but, incredibly, he saved her. His tongue found it and stole it from her with a deep kiss that robbed her of her breath. He bit down on it and swallowed—just as he unfastened the last of the knots that bound her salwar. The silk slid down over her hips.
He pulled her close. She could feel his hard arousal against her thigh.
She gasped in shock. “Krupiya, please—”
The rest of the plea was lost when his mouth found the peak of her breast and suckled it through the soaked fabric of her bodice. She cried out at the intense sensation, arching in his embrace.
But then, as suddenly as a candle being extinguished, his hold on her changed.
His arms started to shake. Letting her go, he raised his hands and stared at them in confusion.
Ashiana pushed away from him, splashing to the far edge of the pool. Saxon had only time to flash her one accusing, furious look before the drug took him completely.
He slumped backward, falling like a towering sal tree cut from its roots. His head hit the edge of the pool. Blood stained the water crimson.
Ashiana leaped forward to grab him before he could sink beneath the surface completely. With his weight buoyed, she managed to lift him upward so that he was sitting securely on the wide seat.
A second later she let go and leaped back as if he had burned her hands. She didn’t know why she had just done that. She was not supposed to save his life!
She scrambled up out of the pool, trembling. Her clothes were soaked, the bottom half of her hair wet. She re-knotted her salwar and backed away from the Englishman, her eyes on the blood in his blond hair.
She was supposed to kill him. It was part of her duty. She had been sent here as an assassin.
But now, despite her orders, she found she could not bring herself to take Saxon D’Avenant’s life.
Ashiana turned away, torn by guilt and confusion. Rao would not have hesitated! Nor would the Englishman have hesitated to take her life, had he realized she was an Ajmir spy sent to take back the sapphire and—
The sapphire!
Ashiana forced her shaking legs to move. She ran to the corner and grabbed the little knife she had placed on a platter of fruit earlier. Then, cautiously, she edged back toward the Englishman. Reaching down, she cut the pouch from around his neck, half-afraid he would come awake and grab her.
She dashed back across the chamber and tore open the strings. There was only one thing inside. Holding her breath, she clutched the hard, oval object in her fist and took it out.
She opened her hand. The ninth sapphire of Kashmir sparkled in her palm.
Lamplight struck the stone and sent rays of silver-blue spiraling over her hand, across the floor, reflecting from the pavilion’s mirrored walls. Perfectly faceted by ancient, expert hands, the egg-sized gem felt warm against her skin, its color a deep, fathomless blue unmatched by ocean depths, midnight sky, or poet’s dream. Closing her eyes, Ashiana clasped the sapphire against her pounding heart.
Elation swept through her. No warrior had been able to do this, but she—a woman, Princess Ashiana of the Ajmir—had outwitted the English thief and reclaimed the sacred stone!
She looked down at Saxon again. With his head resting on the edge of the pool, he was completely vulnerable. She could kill him with a single stroke of his own sword.
But she couldn’t.
Ashiana didn’t debate with herself a moment longer. The sapphires were what was important, she reasoned. She put the jewel back in the leather pouch and concealed it in one of the deep pockets of her salwar. Grabbing a towel, she rubbed herself and her clothes dry as best she could…while trying to ignore the way her body still tingled with heat from Saxon’s astonishing kisses and caresses.
She shook her head, telling herself that she must forget the intimacies the two of them had shared. Telling herself that everything that had happened here tonight had merely been part of her duty.
Forget.
Quickly, she donned her skirts and peshwaz and snatched up her jewelry.
Not daring to linger a second longer, she hurried toward the door and peeked out into the corridor. There was no one around. She darted one last look back at the English scoun-drel.
He would be furious when he awoke, but she and the sapphires would be safe by then, far away.
“I grant you your life, Saxon D’Avenant,” she said quietly, feeling magnanimous now that she had won victory over him. “Use your remaining years to change your thieving ways.”
With that, she slipped into the darkened corridor.
Quick, quiet steps carried Ashiana to the harem, through the shadowed chamber where many of the women were asleep, toward the private apartments occupied by the emperor’s wives and favorites. She had her hand on the door to the connecting corridor when a voice stopped her.
“Ashiana-ji,” a maidservant called in a friendly whisper, “some gifts arrived for you this evening. One of the eunuchs put them in your chamber.”
Ashiana tensed with surprise and worry. “Gifts?”
“We thought they were from the emperor,” the girl explained. “You are yet new, and already he has given you a private apartment—we thought him most taken with you.” Her voice turned sad. “You must have offended him greatly for him to give you away.”
“Han, I fear it is so,” Ashiana said, affecting a disconsolate air. “My new English master has sent me to gather my things before he takes me away with him on his ship. I must hurry. My thanks for the news.” She touched her head and heart in farewell, and stepped through the door, her pulse hammering.
She hurried down the corridor as fast as her bare feet would carry her. She was not expecting any “gifts.” Who had been in her room? Reaching her quarters, she slipped inside, not even pausing to light the oil lamps.
Moonlight filtered in through the woven screens. Ashiana breathed a sigh of relief: her other peshwaz cloak—the twin of the one she had on—lay where she had left it atop her satin mattress.
She ran over and picked it up, reverently fingering the rounded, lapis-inlaid ornaments that decorated the hem. They looked for all the world like the normal decorations one would find on any dancer’s peshwaz—but nine of them had been carefully hollowed out by the maharaja’s most skilled craftsman. Touching one, Ashiana tripped the almost-invisible hinge. One of the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir fell into her palm.
Releasing a shaky breath, she put it back in place and hurriedly checked the rest of the lapis “shells.” All eight jewels were there.
She withdrew the leather pouch from the pocket of her salwar, took out the ninth sapphire and gently placed it inside the ninth container. Snapping it shut, she felt overcome with joy and relief.
She discarded the peshwaz she had on and donned the one that con
tained all nine sapphires, her heart soaring. Letting herself indulge her happiness for just a moment, she swirled and stopped in a dancing pose, thrilling to the feel of the weighted hem wrapping around her legs.
“Thanks be to all the gods,” she said aloud.
A sound from beside the door made Ashiana freeze, then turn. In her concern for the sacred stones, she had almost forgotten the gifts the maidservant had mentioned. To the right of the door sat a large, ornate box, beside a basket heaped with fabric-wrapped parcels. Ashiana ran over, her peshwaz swishing around her ankles, and knelt before the lumpy assortment. She lit one of the oil lamps that flanked the entrance.
“By Hanuman’s tail, what is all of this?”
A low caterwaul emanated from the box.
Ashiana gasped. “Oh, no. Nico!”
Her tiger’s familiar puh-puh-puh sound came in reply.
Ashiana didn’t dare let him out. She didn’t have time! She rifled through the other parcels, seeking some explanation of how Nicobar had come to be here. To her surprise, she found her belongings from home: her clothes, her jewelry, the Christian cross she had worn as a child. One box held food for Nicobar. At the bottom of another was a note, tied with ribbon.
She knew who had sent all this even before she read it. “Padmini! Oh, my friend, what have you done?” Ashiana skimmed the letter: Padmini had cajoled one of her many male admirers into bringing Ashiana’s things to her new home, to give her comfort.
Ashiana closed her eyes. It was kind of Padmini to go to such trouble, but completely unnecessary. As soon as her mission was finished in a few days, Ashiana would be returning home to the Andamans with the maharaja.
But what was she supposed to do with her skittish tiger until then? She could not take him along while she hid the jewels. Nor could she leave him here. The lightly woven screens over the windows would never hold him. And if she left him in his box, he would be yowling the palace down before long. He couldn’t help but attract attention she didn’t need.
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 7