Saxon stood looking down at her with one eyebrow lifted. “Bearfruit?”
She frowned. “Tamarsin?”
He lost all hope of continuing.
“Mangobay?”
He tossed the pen over his shoulder. “You are either tired of this or the most singularly disastrous student I have ever met.”
Her air of feigned seriousness dissolved in a fit of giggles. “I am a singlestew!”
“A disastrous singlestew.” He chuckled.
She was laughing so hard that she hiccupped—which only made her laugh harder.
He sat on the bed beside her, laughing more deeply than he had in a very long time.
She fell back on the pillows, hiccupping again, covering her mouth with her hands, laughing until she couldn’t catch her breath. The sheet had bunched around her waist. When she reached up to dab at her eyes, the unbuttoned front of her shirt fell open, exposing one rose-tipped breast.
She didn’t seem to notice. Saxon went still.
After a moment of his silence, she stopped laughing, her face still flushed, her eyes shining.
He reached out and stroked her cheek, not knowing why, not knowing anything but that he needed to touch her, needed…her.
She seemed to realize only then that she was naked to his gaze, but she didn’t try to conceal herself from him. Her hand came up to cover his. Her smile wavered, then held, filled with a warmth that radiated into him.
She turned her face into his touch and kissed his palm, her lashes lowering to dust her cheeks. Suddenly the cabin seemed very quiet, the air too hot to breathe.
An instant later, her shirt had been tossed to the floor and their mouths came together in a heated, passionate kiss. He pressed her down into the sheets, one hand cupping her breast, kneading and caressing. Her nipple beaded against his palm.
His other hand sought her feminine heat—and found her already wet for him. Groaning, he penetrated her with one finger. A husky cry of wanting tore from her throat. Her hips arched off the bed.
After that single touch, he rolled her onto her stomach. Her moan dissolved into a questioning murmur, muffled by the pillows—but it just as quickly became a gasp when he drew her to her knees. Primitive need burned through him, filling him with the urgency to possess, to mate.
There was no time to take off his clothes, no time for anything but their mutual hunger. Quickly unfastening his breeches, he sank into her feminine depths from behind, sheathing his hard length within her, driving home, sliding out, plunging again. Again, oh God, again.
His thrusts brought wordless cries from her lips, rich with pleasure, with wonder and welcome. The position allowed him full access to the swollen bud hidden in the nest of her dark, damp curls. Balancing his weight on one arm, he rubbed the hard pearl while his hips ground against hers, burying him to the hilt inside her.
His wet fingers whisked and tormented until her head thrashed on the pillows and her hands gripped fistfuls of the bedding. Her tight, throbbing heat grasped and held him within. Their low groans tangled around one another.
His mouth found the nape of her neck, his tongue tracing the delicate dusting of hair, his teeth nipping her skin. As their bodies moved together in that primal dance, he existed with her in a place beyond reason, beyond control, a paradise where he died and was remade of need and passion and utterly unknown, new emotions. He shifted his arm to her waist, held her tighter against him, took her fast and hard. Pressure, pleasure, ecstasy built within.
Too quickly, it exploded. Her body arched up into his and she threw her head back, crying out as she climaxed. Her inner muscles tightened around his length, the feeling intense and exquisite. Release seared through him in a rush, like hot sunlight on churning seas. “Ashiana.”
Their bodies shuddering with pleasure, they rode the last waves together, groaning, breathing raggedly.
When they were both spent, they sank down into the sheets. Rolling onto his side, he gathered her to him, caressing her perspiration-sheened back. She pressed hot kisses to his throat, his jaw.
He whispered her name again. “Ashiana…”
But this time more words tumbled out after it. “I’m not going to put you off my ship when we reach the Andaman Islands. The Ajmir might hurt you, meree mahila veer, and I can’t let that happen.” His arms tightened around her. “You’ll have to stay with me, for your own protection.”
The afternoon sun beat down on the quarterdeck. The entire day had almost slipped past before Saxon managed to tear himself away from his cabin and finally make an appearance on deck. Only after many more hours with Ashiana. Hours of long, silent, gentle lovemaking to make up for that rushed, needy joining this morning.
Each time, she responded to him with complete trust and passion. Never had a woman given herself to him, to her own sensuality, so fully.
He absently touched the knotted cravat he wore. It wasn’t something he usually bothered with at sea, but he needed it to cover the passionate little bite-marks on his neck and chest. It was only fair, he supposed. He had left her with whisker burns on her inner thighs.
He subdued a wicked grin. Before he’d left the cabin, he had helped Ashiana get dressed in her English clothes again—because if he had to think about her wearing nothing but his shirt all day, he wouldn’t get anything accomplished.
It occurred to him that her belongings from the emperor’s palace were still down in the hold, including her bundle of clothing. He decided to bring it to her later as a surprise. Wearing her bright Hindu silks instead of the English corset and gown would make her so happy.
And it would give him an excuse to undress her again.
Smiling, he forced his thoughts back to the present. The wind had strengthened, driving the Valor at top speed over the white-cresting waves. He stood at his usual post beside the helmsman, went about his normal routine, tried to keep his mind on his work.
But he kept puzzling over why he’d blurted that impulsive announcement in bed this morning. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if what he’d said to Ashiana had been an order or an offer. But he did know—had known as soon as the words were out—that he meant it: he was not going to put her ashore on the Andaman Islands and send her off to fend for herself among the Ajmir. He couldn’t take the chance that they might hurt her. He would not allow that to happen.
She had only clung to him after he’d said it, trembling in his arms, not making any reply. She must have felt inexpressible relief. He had felt her heart pounding against her chest, so hard he’d thought it would give out.
So it was decided, he thought firmly. They would stay together. Just for a few more weeks. Until they returned to Daman…or perhaps a bit longer.
The emperor had given her to him, he reasoned with a slow, unrepentant grin, and he was not yet ready to give up such a precious gift. Ashiana was entirely too irresistible. He had never known a woman so sensual and daring and funny. Somehow, more than any of his previous mistresses, she was…
Special to him.
“Cap’n, begging your pardon, sir?”
Saxon turned to find the young Scotsman approaching him, hat in hand. “What is it, MacNeil?”
“’Tis the beastie again, sir—”
“I thought I put you in charge of taking care of whatever the animal needed.”
“Aye, sir, that you did. But ’tis something I saw. In the tiger’s bedding, I most definitely saw a—”
“Ahoy! Ship ahoy on the port beam!”
The startling cry came from the crow’s nest far overhead. Every man on deck looked upward. Suspense crackled through the air as they waited for word on whether it was friend or foe.
“What flag does she fly?” Saxon called through cupped hands.
“English, sir.” There was a pause. “Royal Navy.”
“Your problem will have to wait, MacNeil.” Saxon vaulted down the steps that led from the quarterdeck to the main deck and ran toward the bow. The forward watchman already had a spyglass trained on the approach
ing vessel.
“She’s coming full out, sir, straight toward us,” he said with trepidation.
Saxon took the glass. Royal Navy ships often gained crewmen by taking sailors off merchant vessels in a ruthless but legal act known as “press-ganging.” That, however, wasn’t the most urgent thought on his mind at the moment.
He trained the glass on the intruder’s bow, searching for the ship’s name. Fury exploded through him when he found it. He spat a vicious curse.
“Greyslake.”
Saxon gripped the spyglass so hard his fingers nearly left dents in the brass. Under normal conditions, his light, fast Indiaman might outrun Greyslake’s man-of-war, but Saxon didn’t dare order his crew to make full sail. The damaged keelson would never stand up to the pounding it would take at top speed. If it gave way, they would founder.
Bloody hell. It wasn’t like Greyslake to come out in the open like this. Treachery and subterfuge were more his style. Trying to tamp down his fury, Saxon raised the glass again. H.M.S. Phoenix. There was no mistaking it.
Whatever the reason for this sudden appearance, Greyslake was neatly robbing him of the chance to take vengeance for Mandara’s murder. He could hardly kill a Royal Navy captain in full view of a ship full of Royal Navy officers. Saxon’s personal grudge would have to wait.
He turned to the men who had gathered around him and began shouting orders.
“Man the battle stations. Muster all hands. Find Wyatt and tell him the Navy is paying us a call. And Beckford and Mullins. Tell them to stay out of the cargo bays. That’s the first place they’ll look.”
“Aye, sir.” The men ran to carry out their orders.
Saxon glanced up to the quarterdeck, where MacNeil was among those scrambling to ready the ship’s defenses. “And tell MacNeil to get the hell out of here too.”
The young Scotsman, Wyatt, and the other crewmen Saxon had named had all served in His Majesty’s Navy—and left without permission. Deserters could be hanged without trial. He couldn’t take the chance that Greyslake’s officers might have seen one of them before.
The boatswain’s whistle repeated the signal for all hands on deck. Within minutes, the men had assembled and manned their stations. The Phoenix was overhauling them rapidly. They could now make out her two gun decks, bristling with cannon.
Like the experienced fighters they were, the Valor’s crew faced the oncoming man-of-war without flinching—despite the fact that they were outgunned, and outmanned ten to one. Weapons were brought up from below and passed around. Saxon tied a belt around his waist and hung his shamshir sword from it, leaving the blade unsheathed. He shoved a pistol into his waistband.
His Majesty’s Navy and the East India Company were supposedly on the same side, but in reality their rivalry was old and deep and often erupted into unpleasantness. Saxon didn’t know what Greyslake’s game was, but he wasn’t going to give up ship, men, or cargo without a fight.
Sweeping toward them at top speed, His Majesty’s sloop Phoenix sliced through the waves, fast and deadly as a harpoon. The Phoenix was a massive third-rate ship of the line—swift and powerful enough to battle a much larger French or Spanish warship and emerge victorious. As she drew near, they could see her crewmen thronging the rigging, ready to sweep over the gunwales at their captain’s command. Saxon forbade his men to make any moves that might be seen as hostile.
It was more difficult to keep the peace when the warship came alongside. Her crew used grappling hooks and ropes to bind the two vessels together. Only a few feet separated them now.
“Steady, men,” Saxon warned. He wasn’t going to take the chance of anyone being shot on a trumped-up charge of treason against His Majesty’s officers. Standing amidships, he allowed the Valor’s entry port to be opened to allow for the gangway that the Navy men sent across.
The cold, familiar weight of the shamshir felt good against Saxon’s palm. He felt an odd eagerness to see his old nemesis again, along with a fierce urge to bury the blade in Greyslake’s gut on sight.
Saxon scanned the gathering company of Phoenix officers in their blue-and-white uniforms with their freshly polished buttons and ruffles and gold braid and flashing steel sabers. They waited on their side of the gangway.
And then he saw Greyslake.
Had it really been eight years? Eight? Greyslake moved among his milling crewmen like a shark, cold and deadly, not a medal out of place on his uniform, not a waver in the smile he always wore, not a speck of dirt on the perfectly tailored white gloves that he rarely removed in public.
He stepped up onto the gangway, towering above the assembled ships’ companies, surveying all with a critical, superior air.
A wave of rage burned through Saxon—and with it, years of memories. The two of them were the same age. Both came from seafaring families. Both were second sons. Both had gotten their first taste of the sea’s beauty and cruelty on the same East India Company ship at age twelve. They had been best friends once.
Until one tragic incident made them enemies forever.
Greyslake lowered his gaze until his brown eyes settled on Saxon.
All thoughts of the past, all long-ago wishes for peace and forgiveness fled Saxon’s mind. Looking at that face, he saw only images of Mandara. Her body going limp in his arms. The poison-tipped gold arrow engraved with a G. The screams she struggled to hold back as she died in agony. Hatred and fury seared away all else.
One shot could kill him at this range.
One clean shot and it would all be over.
Greyslake’s smile widened imperceptibly, as if he had read Saxon’s thoughts. Without fear, he crossed the slim plank that linked the pitching vessels. Not requesting permission to come aboard, he leaped down onto the Valor’s deck. A score of his officers followed.
Deliberately ignoring protocol, Saxon stood where he was and made them come to him. The blue-and-white flotilla stalked over.
Greyslake came to a halt with only inches of deck between them. “D’Avenant,” he said in a brisk tone, all the more chilling for its lack of threat.
“Greyslake.” Saxon hid neither his hatred nor his contempt.
“What purpose finds you in these waters?”
“The usual.” They both knew he wasn’t referring to trade.
“And what cargo do you carry?”
He sounded for all the world like a customs official making an inspection. “Silk, muslin, tea, indigo. Let’s get to the point.”
“Still haven’t acquired any patience, I see.” Greyslake obliged and ended the small talk. “I require a few of your men.”
Saxon smiled without humor. He had anticipated that particular demand. “Afraid I can’t spare any.”
“It’s not a request,” one of the Naval officers said belligerently.
Greyslake cut the man off with a flick of his white-gloved hand. “I will be taking twenty-five, D’Avenant.”
Saxon’s smile disappeared. “That’s a quarter of my crew.”
Greyslake nodded. “Yes. It is.”
The violence crackling in the scant air between them suddenly intensified. Losing a quarter of his crew would leave the Valor dangerously short-handed—and make it impossible for Saxon to reach the Andamans first. It would virtually guarantee Greyslake the best chance at the sapphires.
“I can’t offer you more than a half-dozen,” Saxon said.
“The Phoenix requires twenty-five able-bodied men,” Greyslake stated emphatically. “And my officers are ready to enforce the King’s law. Are you ready to comply?”
“Perhaps you weren’t aware that Indiamen are exempt from press-ganging, Greyslake. The Admiralty signed an agreement with the East India Company directors. You won’t be taking a single man off my ship.”
The Naval officers chuckled.
“Perhaps you weren’t aware,” Greyslake countered, “that the agreement you refer to does not apply in time of war.”
“England is not at war.”
“You’ve been sadly o
ut of touch, Captain. Some new little quarrel with France has broken out. My ship may be recalled to England to fight at any time, and I need more men. Matters of state come before commerce, D’Avenant.”
Saxon could hear his crew turning restless. Not one of them relished the idea of serving on one of His Majesty’s overcrowded warships, where rations and pay ran poor to none and disease and brutality were common. Worse, men gathered by press-gangs were never allowed to set foot on shore again, but passed from ship to ship to ensure they did not desert. Freedom came only with death or desertion.
Saxon knew that Greyslake didn’t need or want the men. What he wanted was the sapphires—to keep Saxon from getting them. To leave the D’Avenant family forever cursed.
Because he held Saxon responsible for the loss of his own family.
“Why waste your time on this?” Saxon said in a low tone for Greyslake’s ears only. “You might slow me down but nothing you can do will stop me. Nothing.”
They stared at one another, eyes sharp with the intensity of their mutual hatred. Saxon heard the unmistakable soft scrape of a blade being slipped from its scabbard. Hands drifted toward triggers and sword hilts.
“If there is trouble,” Greyslake warned in the same low tone, “I’ll see every one of these outlaws you call a crew hanged from the Phoenix yardarms before nightfall.”
Saxon’s hand hovered near his pistol. “If you’re still alive to give the order.”
Greyslake’s face took on a strange, detached expression. “I can’t be killed. You know that better than anyone.”
“You’re as mortal as the next man. I could prove it. Right now.”
“You already proved that I’m not. Ten years ago.”
“It was an accident, damn it.”
“It was deliberate, you murdering son of a bitch.” The veneer of civility slipped. Greyslake’s white-gloved hands shook violently.
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 18