Him.
Wearing only a pair of breeches, he sat at his writing desk, leaning to the side, his head resting on one fist. His attention was on a large, leather-bound ship’s log book, a plumed pen in his hand.
Not making a sound, Ashiana studied him through her lashes. She wondered when he had returned to the cabin, and if he had gotten any sleep. Had he worked through the night?
She knew she should not feel worried about him…just as she should not have felt such glorious joy hours ago, on the deck under the stars, when he introduced her to the pleasures of lovemaking with such tenderness and passion.
She closed her eyes, her cheeks burning. In the harem, the older women had taught her that her virginity was a special gift she could give only once—a gift strictly reserved for her future husband. She should be wracked by remorse and guilt this morning.
Instead, she felt as if she were glowing, like the dawn light breaking through the windows. Making love with Saxon had felt so…right. More than right, perfect. Her body still felt warm and sensitive all over. She felt so…so…
Vibrant. Wonderful. Oh, goddesses help her! How had she become such a shameless wanton?
She opened her eyes, watching him again. He was writing now, his plume bobbing and scratching across the page.
Captain Saxon D’Avenant—Englishman, smuggler, thief. The man who was her people’s worst enemy.
And the man who filled her heart with soaring emotions beyond any she had ever known.
The morning light warmed his face and shone on his tangled hair. The tracery of fine scars up and down his arms stood out in sharp relief on his tanned skin, except where the bandage on his right forearm hid Nicobar’s recent contribution. The sunlight accented the square shape of his jaw, the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the hard muscles that gave him such power and strength.
As she watched him, as she vividly remembered his body melding with hers last night, she felt a swift response: tingling heat along her limbs, a tightening in her belly, soft warmth between her thighs.
Merely looking at him made her heart beat faster and heated her entire body with desire. Not a maiden’s shy longings, but a woman’s desire for a man.
By Lakshmi’s mercy, she did not know herself anymore! Not only did she feel no remorse for what they had done last night…she wanted to do it again.
“Good morning,” he said quietly.
Startled, Ashiana gasped and shut her eyes, then realized she could no longer feign sleep. Chagrined, she lifted her lashes, certain her cheeks must be scarlet.
He had not stopped writing or even looked her way, but a grin quirked at his mouth. She wondered how long he had known she was watching him—and if he had guessed the direction of her thoughts.
“I-I did not wish to disturb you while you are working,” she lied.
“You didn’t.” He slanted her an amused glance. “Except for one rather noisy sigh.”
“I…it…that was a yawn,” she insisted.
Both of them were speaking in whispers, as if reluctant to break the sweet, quiet peace in the cabin.
He laid down his plume and turned toward her, studying her the same way she had studied him. She saw her own desire reflected tenfold. Then he smiled, with such warmth it made Ashiana feel as if she were melting. His smile softened his features, made him look so very handsome.
He leaned back in his chair, his voice gentle. “Are you all right?”
She knew what he was asking. She was still tender where he had joined his body to hers, but she did not tell him that. “No, I am not all right.” She shook her head, returning his smile in full measure. “I am wonderful.”
That made him look pleased, in a thoroughly male way. “No regrets?”
She should feel regret. Guilt. Shame. But she did not. “No,” she said softly, telling him her heart’s truth. “No regrets.”
Holding her gaze a moment longer, he nodded toward a wooden tray at the foot of the bed. “I brought breakfast, if you’re hungry.”
She turned and noticed the food for the first time. The tray held dishes of fruits: mangoes, tamarinds, grapes. There was even a platter of fried plantains.
“Fruit is usually a luxury on a ship,” he explained as he returned to his work, “but we’re only a few days out of port.”
Ashiana knew that the delicacies heaped on the tray would be a luxury to his crew at any time. He was being kind again, giving her so much. He simply would not admit it.
His thoughtfulness touched her. Yet it also made her sad…because this tender truce between them could not last.
No matter what she felt for Saxon, it did not change her duty. She had been entrusted with a sacred mission and she must complete it. For the first time, she felt an uncomfortable rush of guilt.
What would Rao—her betrothed—say if he knew what was happening between her and the English smuggler who intended to steal the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir?
She realized, to her shame, that she had scarcely thought of Rao at all since boarding Saxon’s ship. Instead of keeping her mind on the regal, dignified prince who was to be her husband, she had been swept away by her feelings for a seafaring scoundrel with a wicked grin and sensual kisses.
Feelings that felt so new and wonderful…and yet so awfully wrong.
Unable to grapple with questions of virtue and sin so early in the morning, Ashiana focused on a more immediate problem that was easily remedied: her growling stomach. Sitting up, she realized she was still wearing only Saxon’s shirt—and it was open in the front. She managed to fasten a few of the little buttons before she gave up and simply wrapped the bedsheet around her for a bit more modesty. She reached for the tray of fruits and balanced it on her lap.
“Thank you,” she told Saxon in English, biting into a slice of tamarind. The sweet, tart juice made her eyes water as it tingled on her tongue. She ate in silence, watching him work.
It wasn’t until she had nearly finished that she realized he hadn’t eaten anything. She held out a plate toward him. “Will you not have any?”
He shook his head, still writing. “Not hungry.”
Ashiana left some for him anyway, in case he changed his mind. She set the tray aside, then drew her legs up, wrapping her arms around them, resting her head on her knees. She kept watching Saxon, his quill pen fluttering across the page.
“Have you slept?” she asked impulsively, unable to keep the concern from her voice.
He glanced toward her. “Beside you,” he replied, his tone as soft as hers, “For several hours.”
As their gazes held, she realized that he had been the source of her contentment last night, that feeling of being secure and protected. She did not remember him sleeping beside her, yet she knew. The knowledge made her feel warm all over and filled her with pleasure.
Oh, gods forgive her, she had truly become a chura—a thief—stealing every moment of happiness that she could. Wanting to hold it close and cherish it before it vanished forever.
I have many enemies, Saxon had told her last night, but you’re not one of them.
If only that were true!
As he returned to his writing, she thought it unspeakably cruel of the gods to bring the two of them together when they must part forever, so soon.
In that moment, she made a vow to herself: when the Valor reached the Andaman Islands, she would speak with the maharaja, make him understand that Saxon was not like other Englishmen. That he was honorable and kind. Her people could never allow him to take the sapphires, of course, but she would make sure that no one harmed him, not in any way.
She would protect him, she thought fiercely, the same way he always protected her.
The candle had burned low and suddenly flickered out in a puff of smoke, leaving the cabin swathed only in fog-colored light from the windows. Saxon opened his desk drawer to look for a fresh candle. Her gaze tracing over his silhouette, Ashiana almost wished he would leave them in darkness. The shadows of night made the cabin and everyth
ing in it seem unreal, dreamlike, suspended in time.
Light made everything too sharp and real, glaring with questions she could not face or answer.
When he found a new candle, she almost asked him not to light it, but some part of her held back, unable to voice her unspoken wishes…unable to admit out loud just how much her feelings toward him had changed.
The flame flared in the dark and he set the wooden sconce back beside his log book, picking up his pen.
“How did you come to have those scars on your arms?” she asked curiously, adding in a lighter tone, “Surely you have not encountered Nicobar somewhere before?”
“No, I’m fortunate to have made the personal acquaintance of only one tiger in my lifetime.”
“Then what sort of animal was it that wounded you so badly?”
He did not speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was low. “It wasn’t an animal at all.” He looked down at his unbandaged arm. “Though I suppose that depends on your opinion of Ajmir warriors. I had the misfortune to be caught by one of their raiding bands, in the north.” He glanced toward her. “The Ajmir are no more fond of me than they were of you, or any other English.”
Ashiana was speechless. His story wasn’t what she had expected at all.
He continued, his tone casual. “Three of them dragged me a few miles into the Thar Desert and almost made ribbons of me, with very small and very deadly knives. They were quite good at it—keeping me alive while inflicting the greatest amount of damage possible.”
She inhaled sharply, shocked at the thought that her own people…that they were capable of…that they would carry out such awful torture! Nahin, it was not possible!
“I’m afraid they underestimated me, however,” he said with an undertone of satisfaction. “I had a small explosive device that I used to carry with me, an ingenious little invention I picked up in Canton. When I managed to get my hands on my coat, I tripped it. Killed them all and almost did myself in in the process.”
Ashiana could not say a word. She felt light-headed. She had always believed in Ajmir warriors as paragons of courage and virtue! Her people were good and merciful—even to their enemies. Never had she heard of a member of her clan doing something so brutal and vicious.
But Saxon had no reason to lie to her: he thought she hated the Ajmir as much as he did.
Swallowing on a dry throat, she choked out one word. “But…b-but…”
What she wanted to ask was why. Why hadn’t they simply taken the sapphire and killed him? Why had they been so cruel as to linger to torture him to death?
She forced down those questions and asked the obvious one instead. “But…how did you survive such wounds?”
He set his jaw. “I almost didn’t. I was half-dead, alone in the desert. It was only sheer luck that I made it to a village.” He paused. “No one had ever survived the Thar before. The villagers thought it was a miracle. Thought I was some kind of god.” A shadow of agony passed over his face. “They had a talented healer among them. She…” He paused again, swallowing hard. “She saved my life,” he finished simply, clenching his jaw, clearly determined to say no more.
Silence hung between the two of them, heavy with all that had been said, and all that had not.
Ashiana lowered her forehead to her knees. She felt sick, dazed, as if she had just been told that the sky was not blue, that the sun did not rise in the east and set in the west.
What he had told her about the Ajmir was unimaginable—yet she did not doubt that it had happened. If his scars were not evidence enough, there was the raw pain on his face as he recounted the story, so overpowering he was not able to hide it.
The Ajmir warriors had tortured him…treated him as cruelly as the English pirates had treated her father.
Every fiber of Ashiana’s being screamed in denial. It felt like she was being torn in two.
Before she could gather her senses enough to form any more questions, Saxon rose from his desk and left the cabin. She raised her head just in time to see the door shut behind him.
She noticed that he did not lock it this time. He truly no longer considered her his prisoner. He trusted her now, believed that she posed no threat to him…that she was not his enemy.
Because he did not know that she was an Ajmir princess—a member of the same clan that had tortured him.
She had fallen asleep with tears on her cheeks.
Sitting beside her on the bed, Saxon could see the damp lines clearly on her fair skin. Morning light poured through the windows, warming the cabin and casting shadows over her slender form.
Certain that she was genuinely asleep and not feigning it this time, he indulged himself in the impulse to stay there, beside her.
Her tears made him feel something akin to wonder. Had she experienced his pain so vividly that she would cry for him?
And what in Hades had possessed him to spill out the truth in the first place, giving her every detail about what had happened to him in the Thar desert?
He stood and moved away from the bed, raking a hand through his hair. He picked up his ship’s log from the desk and put it back in the small trunk underneath. Walking to the washstand in the far corner, he performed his morning ablutions, then took fresh clothes from his sea chest and began to get dressed. But he found no reassurance in the familiar routine.
His gaze kept straying back to Ashiana’s sleeping form.
He had revealed more to her than he had to Julian, for God’s sake. What lunacy drove him to expose something so painful?
And what drew him back to her side now?
He had allowed Ashiana to become far too important to him. He knew that. It was why he had stalked out of the cabin two hours ago.
But here he was again.
As he watched her sleep, desire and reason warred within him…and other emotions raked through him, soft words he would never be able to say aloud. He had told her in the emperor’s preet chatra that he wouldn’t take her innocence and then abandon her—and that was still true. She was his mistress now. He hoped she would choose to stay with him for as long as she wished.
But that was all she could ever be to him: his mistress.
He shut his eyes, reminding himself of the vow he had made to Mandara. His wife. Gentle, innocent Mandara had brought him back from the edge of death, only to die because of him. He could never forgive himself for failing to protect her. But he could honor her by honoring the promise he had made—to never allow another woman to take her place.
Opening his eyes, he looked down at Ashiana. There was no reason to feel guilty, he reassured himself. As long as he guarded his heart, he was not betraying Mandara’s memory.
Fully dressed now, Saxon sat on the bed again, satisfied that he finally had everything sorted out. He ran his fingers through Ashiana’s silken hair, untangling the strands. He and his lovely dancing girl were enjoying each other’s company for a time. That was all. That was enough. It would last only a short while longer. When they reached the Andamans…
Ashiana stirred and stretched, yawning.
Opening her eyes, she stilled in mid-stretch, looking amazed to see him there.
Saxon withdrew his hand from her hair. “It’s morning.”
He stood and stepped away, feeling foolish for stating the obvious. He settled back in the chair at his desk.
“Han,” she replied at last, squinting into the bright sunlight that streamed in over her head. “It is morning.”
“As long as we’re both awake, and you’ve already had your breakfast, this might be a good opportunity to work on your English.”
She blinked a few times, looking confused, but for once, she did not argue with him. Perhaps because he had not phrased it as an order.
Or perhaps she welcomed the distraction as much as he did. She seemed no more eager than he to reopen their previous conversation.
Better, he thought, to keep everything between them mundane. Impersonal.
Safe.
“I am hopeless at languages,” she reminded him. “When I was six and I came to live in the harem, it took me almost a year to learn Hindi. But…I suppose I could try,” she agreed at last, adding in soft English, “my lord.”
“Excellent,” he said, all business. “Let’s begin with a few simple words. This—” He picked up the quill from his desk. “— is a pen.”
“Pen,” Ashiana repeated dutifully.
More than an hour slipped by as he taught her the words for the furniture and other items in the cabin, along with a few simple verbs. She could only seem to remember half of what he taught her and kept mis-pronouncing words.
He was beginning to suspect she was doing it on purpose.
“Let’s go back to the beginning.” Saxon picked up the plume and held it next to the window. “Where is the pen?”
Chin resting on her knees, Ashiana responded with a sigh. “The pen is on the wallow.”
He raised an eyebrow. “The what?”
“The wallow,” she repeated, yawning.
He looked from her to the pen and back, comprehension dawning. “No, this is a wall.” He thumped the wood with one hand. “This is a window.” He tapped the glass.
“And together they are a wallow.”
“No, a window and a wall do not make a wallow.” He kept his tone brisk. “Now where is the pen?” He walked to the door.
“The pen is beside the walldoor.”
He looked her way, frowning.
A smile crept across her features before she quelled it. She looked adorably sleepy and mischievous, sitting in his bed, wrapped in the rumpled sheet and his shirt, trying to feign seriousness.
“Hmm.” Saxon tried to look reproachful. Instead, he found himself fighting a grin. It was obvious she had lost interest in learning for the day. He walked back toward her and held the pen beneath his desk. “And what about now?”
Her smile reappeared. “The pen is under the tabledesk.”
“Try again,” he advised dryly.
She did. Ashiana tried every word he had taught her—more or less. She “forgot” all she had learned in the span of a few minutes. Chair and bureau became chaireau, water and fish twisted into wafishter, and the bay sound in basin somehow lost its “sin” and got mangled up with the tamarind she had eaten earlier to create bearfruit.
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 17