Even covered up in a borrowed blanket and a Navy uniform coat, with her tresses pulled back in a simple braid. she was the most stunning woman he had ever seen.
Swallowing hard, he resisted the idea of offering to sit beside her to keep her warm. From the day they had boarded the Crusader, he’d tried to give her the only thing she seemed to want from him: distance. He had followed her new rules to the letter. Avoided touching her. Avoided kissing her. Avoided being alone with her even once the entire voyage.
In short, he had attempted to demonstrate that he was capable of behaving like a gentleman rather than a barbarian.
He had also been bloody miserable the entire voyage.
Because he had grudgingly come to realize that the woman who had captivated him aboard the Valor—the daring lady who loved the sea and longed for adventure—was not some role she had been playing to ensnare him. She had been exactly the same aboard the Crusader, and everyone from the most imperious officers to the lowest-ranking crewmen to the cabin boys had been utterly charmed.
It was not an act; it was genuinely who she was. Clever, funny, brave. Strong.
Once England had become inevitable, Ashiana had set about preparing herself to face it, learning the language that had been so difficult for her, and pestering the Crusader’s crew for every detail about their homeland.
After only a few days at sea, she had also tired of wearing the scratchy uniform donated to her by a young midshipman. Gathering up all the borrowed cotton garments she could, she had sewn herself a modest choli bodice, skirt and salwar in the Hindu style, accented with bits of gold braid from old uniforms, topping it off with an oversized waistcoat. She had taken it all and pieced it into something unique.
That seemed to be the way she handled whatever life threw in her path.
Mahila veer. Daring lady.
As he watched her, Saxon felt something warm unfurl in the middle of his chest. “The white flakes are called ‘snow,’” he said quietly in Hindi.
“I know,” she replied in English, not looking at him. “Andrew told me.”
Saxon bit back a sour reply. Andrew. She had spent so much time with that popinjay Bennett, she’d even picked up his refined speech patterns. She not only sounded English, she sounded upper-class English. The trace of an accent only gave her an air of alluring mystery.
Frowning, he turned and stared out the window again. A few days into the voyage, he’d had a little talk with Bennett when it became clear the Navy captain might have more in mind than English lessons. Bennett or any man aboard, Saxon had put it succinctly, would find himself the guest of honor in a funeral at sea if they so much as touched the hem of her hand-sewn skirt.
Bennett was no coward—and he had a fully armed warship crew at his command—but he wasn’t a fool. Apparently realizing that Saxon was not making an idle threat, he had backed off.
His flowery farewell at the dock, however, made it clear that Andrew had not given up all hope. It’s been a pleasure to see you blossom these past months, my lady.
Saxon gritted his teeth. Bennett was obviously besotted. Along with most of his officers and half his crew. But how could the poor blighters help falling for a woman with such beauty and intelligence and boldness…and…
Oh, hell. Saxon scrubbed one hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.
Apparently one name belonged above all the others on that list of besotted seafarers.
“Where is it exactly we are going, my lord?”
Saxon peered at Ashiana from between his fingers. My lord. He was bloody tired of that. And of the way she looked at him as if he were a stranger.
A stranger, after all the times she had shuddered with pleasure and shouted his name when she’d found release in his arms, with him deep inside her.
He subdued the heat that rivered through him at the memories, lowering his hand. “Why is it that you insist on calling me ‘my lord’?”
She looked at him as she had for five months: with eyes of sea-blue ice. “Is that not proper? Andrew tried his best to instruct me in etiquette, but he—”
“Andrew is a lord as well. Andrew is the son of a peer. It’s also proper for you to call him ‘my lord.’”
In the shifting night shadows, he could see her tilt her head to one side. “Yes, but he asked me to call him by his first name.”
Saxon fumed silently. He couldn’t argue with that—and he wasn’t going to ask her to call him by name. Let her call him Beelzebub since that was how she felt about him. The only thing Princess Ashiana of the Ajmir wanted was to get far away from him and return to the Ajmir.
The only thing Saxon wanted was to slip that Navy coat off her, close the distance she had created between them, and kiss her until the ice in her eyes melted and she wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered endearments in Hindi…when they managed to stop kissing long enough to take a breath.
He braced one arm on the open window, gripping the wood, trying to banish any such thoughts. Trying to ignore the ache that filled him—the damned hollow ache just from being close to her.
“Where are we going?” she repeated.
“My family’s town house in Grosvenor Square.”
“And how long do you intend to keep me prisoner?”
His gaze met hers again. “I’m not keeping you prisoner, Your Royal Highness. I’m keeping you out of trouble.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. There’s an important matter that requires my attention. While I attend to that, you’ll be staying at the town house. As my family’s guest.”
She folded her arms, not looking terribly pleased with the arrangement, but at least she didn’t argue about it. Cool as ever, she returned her attention to the passing streets.
He sighed. Taking her to his home—where she would be temptingly close, day and night—promised to be absolute torture, but he had no choice. Whenever Greyslake got around to slithering into town, Saxon wanted Ashiana where he could keep her safe.
That was the reason he had taken so long getting the coach. He’d been trying to track down an old friend, a man who had served the D’Avenant family for years, though not as a servant.
Only after an hour’s search, another half hour of catching up on old times, and several celebratory glasses of rum had Saxon been able to get down to business.
The man and his associates would keep an eye out for the Phoenix, which had not yet arrived, and keep Saxon informed of Greyslake’s every move in town. They would also keep watch over the D’Avenant family. And Ashiana.
Vengeance might be sweet, but when one sought vengeance against a cunning, high-ranking officer of His Majesty’s Navy, in London, it also had to be cautious, carefully planned and kept absolutely secret.
“I also have an important matter to attend to while I am here in England,” Ashiana said quietly. “Eight of the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir may be lost forever, but you still have the ninth one. I will need to get it back.”
“If you’re planning to steal it from me, it’s probably not a good idea to tell me.”
“I am not going to steal it.” She turned to look at him and for a moment, regret replaced the frostiness in her tone. “I am not going to use lies and deceptions against you this time, my lord. I am going to rely on reason and honest persuasion. I intend to convince you to give me back the jewel that belongs to my people.”
His gaze flicked to hers. “I wish you luck with that, Princess. You’re going to need it.”
“I admit that it will not be easy. Of all the difficult things I have done, this may be the most difficult. Somehow, I have to convince one rather large, impossibly stubborn, utterly infuriating man to do the right thing. A man who views me as his enemy, does not trust me, and cannot forgive me for being a spy.”
“There are a few other feelings I have for you that you haven’t included on that list.”
She clearly missed his meaning, her mouth curving in a frown. “Yes, in addition to being stubborn and infuriatin
g, you can also be aloof, harsh, and occasionally rude. But in spite of your faults, deep down…” Her gaze and voice softened a bit. “You are a man who values honor. Giving me the sacred stone is the honorable thing to do.”
His eyes burned into hers. “As we both know, Your Royal Highness, I am not always as honorable as I should be.”
Her cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with the cold weather. She crossed her arms again and looked away. “Why is that sapphire so important to you? I cannot believe it is merely a matter of greed.”
“I suppose I should take it as a compliment that you’ve decided greed is not among my many faults.”
She whispered a Hindi prayer for divine patience. “Eventually, my lord,” she said firmly, “you will return the sapphire to me and allow me to return to India. I am confident.”
“You are relentless.”
She glared at him, but he hadn’t meant it as an insult. Her tenacity was the quality he found the most frustrating and most admirable about her. She would never stop fighting for what she believed in…for the people she loved.
He glanced out the window, his attention drawn by the appearance of a familiar street as the coach turned a corner.
“I have no choice but to be relentless,” Ashiana said with quiet determination. “I was entrusted with a sacred mission.”
“You’re not the only one,” he replied absently.
“What?”
Saxon was spared from having to elaborate when the hackney coach lurched to a stop. “We’re here.”
The driver appeared at the door and helped Ashiana down. Saxon stepped out behind her, gave the man a silver coin—borrowed earlier from the ever-helpful Captain Bennett—and sent the coach on its way.
Then he turned toward the door. He stood on the wet pavement, looking up the steps at the lacquered wood and the gold engraved knocker, snow falling all around him. A wave of emotions washed over him.
It had been six years since he had stood on this spot. Six years. He could not even remember what season it had been when he’d last seen his family. The time that had passed—and all that had happened—suddenly weighed down on him like iron.
Forcing aside the feelings of loss and regret, Saxon led Ashiana up the steps, raised the knocker and let it fall. He looked down at her in the light of the oil lamps that flanked the entrance.
“On behalf of the D’Avenant family,” he said softly, “welcome to London.”
She started to reply, but one of the efficient servants was already opening the door. The red-and-blue-liveried footman stuck his head out into the cold and squinted into the lamplight. “Yes? Oh, is this Naval business? The duchess is at supper and I—”
“Come, come, Townshend,” Saxon said lightly. “I haven’t changed all that much, have I?”
The man took a closer look, his eyes widening. “As I live and breathe! Lord Saxon?” He pressed his hand to his forehead. “By the graces! By all the graces!”
Saxon grinned at his reaction. “I hate to interrupt everyone’s supper, but do you suppose we might come in?”
“Yes! Yes, of course! Forgive me, my lord.” He opened the door and ushered them both inside. “By the graces! We received no word that you were coming.”
“It’s rather a long story.” Saxon sighed, feeling weary even as he told that much. “How is everyone? I’ve had no news since I saw Julian last spring.”
“Quite well, sir, quite well.” Townshend was busy trying to help Ashiana remove the blanket tangled around her, his expression pure puzzlement at the coat she was wearing beneath. “I shall fetch your mother posthaste.”
Before Townshend could take even as single step, Saxon heard his name called from the rear of the house, a breathless query that was almost a sob. A second later, Penelope D’Avenant, Duchess of Silverton, all five feet two inches of her, appeared at the far end of the hall, one hand still holding a damask napkin while her other rose, trembling, to her cheek. “Saxon?”
He shook his head in wonder, filled with warmth and love. “Three score years of age and she can still pick out one of her children’s voices from half a house away.”
The napkin slipped from her fingers as she dashed across the marble floor in a flurry of blue silk. Tears and laughter sparkled in her gray eyes. “I’m not a day over fifty-five, you teasing rascal!”
He opened his arms and caught her, hugging her and spinning her around while she laughed and cried all at once. He felt his own throat close.
“Sorry to be away so long,” he said gruffly. “I’ve missed the family so much. I love you, Mother.”
Other servants came running, filling the entry hall with cries of surprise and jubilation.
“Clements,” Townshend instructed one of the under-footmen, “run and fetch Lord Maximilian.”
“No,” Saxon protested, not wanting to disturb his gravely ill younger brother. “Don’t wake him. Let him rest.”
It was too late, because a tall blond figure dressed in breeches and boots, waistcoat and cotton shirt came into the hall from the direction of the library, his attention on the open book he held in his hands. “What the devil is all the fuss about? Is there a fire?” When he raised his head and removed his spectacles, he came to a dead stop, blinking at Saxon.
“Max?” Saxon cried hoarsely, unable to believe that the hale and hearty young man before him was the sickly lad he had last seen six years ago.
“Good God.” Max tucked his spectacles into the pocket of his waistcoat with an absent gesture. He strode forward, his mouth curved into a broad smile. “This couldn’t be the legendary, long-lost Saxon D’Avenant.”
“Max!” Saxon grabbed him in a bear hug, lifting him right off his feet. He felt like his heart would burst. “Max! Thank God you are well!”
“He recovered months ago,” their mother explained happily. “Like a miracle. He’s not been abed a day since.” She wagged a finger at her youngest son. “Though he does need to stop going about with a book in hand at all hours and learn to be on time for supper.”
Saxon felt like shouting with relief and joy and dropping to his knees in thankfulness at the same time. That brief moment aboard his ship, when he’d held all nine sapphires in his hands, must have done it. The curse was lifted.
“I’ve a feeling I have you to thank?” Max asked quietly when Saxon finally released him.
“Yes. Thank God, yes, it’s over.” Saxon could hardly believe the sight of his little brother standing on his own two feet. “It’s finally over.”
As if to prove his strength, Max punched him on the shoulder. “Now what the blazes is this? Have you gone off and joined the Navy?”
Laughing, Saxon started to explain while he shared greetings and handshakes with every servant in the house, with the zest of a man celebrating the happiest day of his life.
It wasn’t until his mother cleared her throat and called for silence—twice—that the uproar quieted.
“Saxon,” she said patiently, “would you like to introduce us to this lovely young lady and perhaps explain why she’s wearing a Navy uniform?”
All present turned as one toward Ashiana, who stood apart from the group, eyes wide, still wearing Bennett’s coat.
A bit of Saxon’s good mood evaporated. “I’ll need to speak with you in private, Mother—”
“Well, you can at least reveal the poor child’s name, for goodness sake!” The duchess was already wrapping a motherly arm around Ashiana’s shoulders and drawing her closer to the group. “We’re so sorry to have ignored you, my dear. I hope you’ll forgive us. This is all quite a surprise!”
Ashiana kept blinking at Saxon as if she’d never seen him before. It appeared her command of English had failed her.
“Her name is Lady Ashiana,” he said. “Not quite sure of the last name. She’s the…uh…the long-lost daughter of an earl.” Saxon decided it would be best to stick to the story he had told Bennett, at least publicly.
“I see.” His mother gave him a c
urious glance, but immediately returned her attention to Ashiana, who was shivering. “Oh, you poor dear. You look exhausted. Eugenie?”
The summoned maidservant wound her way through the crowd. “Your grace?”
“Please prepare a guest room so that Lady Ashiana can rest. And find her something suitable to wear. And fetch her some tea from the kitchens. Would you like that?”
“Y-yes,” Ashiana said, still regarding Saxon with an expression akin to astonishment.
“Mother,” he said. “I’ll need to—”
“You can explain everything later, Saxon,” his mother replied firmly, already escorting Ashiana up the stairs.
Saxon bit back an oath, realizing how difficult it was going to be to explain any of this. How could he explain who and what Ashiana was to him when he wasn’t sure himself?
Ashiana finished the last bite of her breakfast and set the silver tray on the table beside her bed. She hadn’t cared much for the salty little fish, but the hot buttered bread had melted irresistibly in her mouth, and the sticky, clear paste made with sugar and bits of tangy fruit tasted delicious. She couldn’t remember what Eugenie had said it was called. Mar-mal-something-or-other.
It was also a pleasant surprise to discover that the English favored tea, though she did not understand why one should wish to pour milk into it. She tried to let the soothing aroma of the dark brew calm her as she got up from the bed and walked to the hearth, warming her hands on the tiny, fragile cup.
Eugenie had explained that the servants kept a fire burning in every room of the house at all times. Ashiana thought that rather dangerous, although with the freezing English weather, she could easily understand why it was necessary.
She settled herself in a chair as close to the crackling flames as she dared get, drawing her knees up and wrapping her borrowed nightclothes more closely around herself. Last night, after preparing a hot bath for her, Eugenie had presented an array of garments to choose from. Ashiana had selected the warmest ones: a soft, white, cotton gown and a deep-purple velvet robe. The fur at the cuffs tickled her nose as she raised the cup to her lips.
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 27