The Duke & the Pirate Queen

by Victoria Janssen

  Odell said, “I received an urgent note, Your Majesty. Lady Diamanta summoned me here.”

  “I did not,” she said.

  Sylvie waited, breathless, for more, but Diamanta was silent and proud. She could easily begin to admire Diamanta, as well as her bosom.

  Julien said, “Odell, this must stop. Diamanta, you must stop him. It’s beneath my dignity to curate my courtiers’ affairs. You will settle this now.”

  “Very well,” Diamanta said. Turning to Odell, she said briefly, “You’re a toad. Never speak to me again.”

  While Odell goggled and Sylvie held in a delighted whoop, Diamanta turned to Julien and said, “Is that sufficient, cousin?”

  “Your Majesty—”

  “No more, Odell. Attend to your duties. No more trips to the coast, no more unsavory visitors to my palace late at night. I’ve had enough of your romantic intrigues.”

  Blanched white as a peeled almond, Odell bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said in a choked voice.

  “Leave us.”

  “Your Majesty.”

  When Odell had gone, Julien said, “Diamanta?”

  “He was persistent,” she said with a cold dignity that reminded Sylvie, suddenly and forcefully, of Duchess Camille.

  “I have never known you to hesitate in expressing your preferences.”

  “I did not hesitate. He was persistent.”

  Julien waited. When she said nothing further, he nodded. “Very well. We will meet in my office in three hours by the clock. We have much to discuss.”

  Diamanta dipped her head in acknowledgment of the command. “Your Majesty.”

  Sylvie was not pleased. She had never planned to eavesdrop in the private office of the king. There were no handy nearby rooms or corridors where one might loiter unobserved; footmen lined the approach and guards were posted at the doors. There were no windows. Not even servants were permitted into the room when the king was present.

  Therefore, she would not try to eavesdrop on that meeting. She would simply request an appointment beforehand.

  From what she’d overheard, she suspected the king did not know the full extent of Odell’s machinations. He might have been concealing all he knew, but she could not count on that. She needed to speak with him; it would be the quickest and most effective way to ensure Duke Maxime’s safety, and beyond that, Duchess Camille’s, as she might be blamed for Sylvie’s actions should anything go wrong. And aside from that, Sylvie now feared for Lady Diamanta’s safety. She did not think Odell would admire Diamanta’s public rejection in the way Sylvie had done. And that…had been brought about by Sylvie herself. It had needed to be done, but she wished…she was not sure what she wished. For the world to be different, perhaps, but she knew that was foolishness.

  She found Alys in their chambers, exuberant from the success of the note she’d delivered. Raoul was also there, lounging in a padded armchair with his booted feet on a stool. He slid catlike to his feet when she strode into the room, all in one motion. “What shall we do next?” he said.

  Sylvie caught Alys’s arm and held her still. “Tidy yourself and go to the king’s secretary. Request an urgent meeting with Duchess Camille’s envoy.” She reached into her bosom and produced a small silken bag that contained one of the duchess’s seals. She placed it in Alys’s hand.

  Eyes shining, Alys bounced a curtsy. “Yes, Sylvie!”

  When the girl had gone, Sylvie turned to Raoul. “I will need your help to get out of this dress.”

  He smiled. “I am, of course, willing to oblige you.”

  “Quickly,” she amended. “I need to appear with the utmost dignity and probity.”

  Wisely, Raoul did not comment on this. He helped Sylvie out of her garden-party garb and into a sober gown of blue wool. In the process, she divested herself of a knife in a thigh harness, a knife concealed in her busk and a miniature pistol that normally resided in a snug pocket at her hip.

  Raoul said, “If I’d known you were armed so heavily, I might never have approached you.”

  “You were not meant to know,” she replied tartly.

  “The king’s guards, however, will not hesitate to search me with great thoroughness.”

  While kneeling at her feet to lace up her boots, he asked, “What will you do if he refuses to speak with you?”

  “He will not.”

  Raoul caressed her calf. “And once you’ve met with the king? What then?”

  Sylvie shrugged. “I will likely travel to the coastal duchy, to relate what I’ve done here.”

  He patted her leg and sat back on his heels. “Would you be distressed if I accompanied you? I’d like to visit there, and perhaps find a new commission.”

  Sylvie studied his lithely handsome form. “I would not be averse. For a time.”

  Sylvie was relieved when Alys brought word that the king would see her. While dressing, she’d mentally placed all her discoveries in logical order, all the while aware that when she presented them to the king, he might listen or he might throw her into a cell.

  As she’d expected, a female guard, one of the few in the royal palace, searched her thoroughly before her appointment. Then a discreet servant tidied Sylvie’s hair, a service which she found ludicrous but also reassuring; she would not go before the king without dignity.

  She was escorted into the royal presence by two guards, both of whom remained in the room with their backs to the two doors. King Julien did not sit behind the massive polished desk that filled a third of his private office. Instead, he’d chosen a corner of a small sofa, one arm flung along its back, one booted foot curled beneath him. Sylvie was sure he knew how disturbing his informal pose was to her. She did not believe for a moment she would be allowed so much as a slouch. Not when his eyes, behind their spectacles, were so intense. She curtsied deeply, her head dipping and her full skirts pooling on the polished hardwood floor. He indicated with a wave of his hand that she should sit on the sofa with him.

  Julien dug into his trouser’s pocket and produced Duchess Camille’s gold seal. He held it out to Sylvie without speaking, so she took it. It was warm, which should not have disconcerted her but did. He said, “I remember you. You’re Camille’s chief maid.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And her bodyguard, and her spy. I imagine she relied on you to help her get rid of her husband. That might have ended badly for her and for you. You were lucky I didn’t have your head lopped off for treason.” It was a statement. He quirked a questioning brow.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” She curled her fingers more tightly around the gold seal. If he meant to destroy her composure, he was fast succeeding.

  “Through her, you owe loyalty to me, as well.”

  “I am your subject,” Sylvie said cautiously. For the first time in her life, she was confident that flattery and promises of sexual favors would get her nowhere. She was not entirely sure what the king expected of her. But she had to do this. Her mistress relied upon her. She opened her mouth, then closed it. Julien had not given her leave.

  He sat silently staring at her. She didn’t know how, but his spectacles made it worse. Sylvie fought the desire to close her eyes. She could hear breathing, and the ticking of the immense ormolu clock on the mantel. One of the guards shifted his weight, and she tensed.

  At last, Julien said, “Tell me what you’re doing here. Did Maxime ask Camille for your help?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  He quirked a brow. “It is because of His Grace Maxime that I am here, however,” she said. “There was a plot to assassinate him…” She began at the beginning, giving credit to Captain Leung for ensuring Maxime’s safety. Julien did not stop her at any point. When she paused to breathe, he again lifted a brow, encouraging her to go on.

  She left out most of the mundane details of her investigation. If any were of concern to him, no doubt his own spies would have reported her activities, and those of Alys. But she did include the report she’d had from Karl Fouet. The ki
ng would know of Karl, as he’d also assisted in bringing Duchess Camille to power. Whether the king trusted Karl or not was another thing entirely.

  When she’d finished speaking, Julien said, “Ah.”

  Sylvie waited for an additional question. Instead, he said, “Marco.”

  One of the guards said, “Your Majesty.”

  “Send two of your men to fetch Lord Odell. No explanations. Put him in a cell.”

  Marco nodded and stepped outside the door. Within moments, he returned, resuming his stance as if nothing had happened.

  Julien said to Sylvie, “You will accompany me to Maxime’s duchy. Marco.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Inform Lady Diamanta that I wish to speak with her. And have her maid pack for her. She will accompany us also.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “I AM SO HAPPY TO BE BACK AT SEA,” IMENA SAID. She was leaning on the rail at Seaflower’s bow, a fine salty mist blowing against her face and beading on the long woolen coat she’d buttoned on against the evening’s chill. “Let’s hope we’re finished with pirates and storms for now.”

  Maxime stood at her shoulder, his arms bared to the breeze. She might easily have leaned over and licked salty droplets from his shoulder, but refrained, given that they’d spent most of the night, their last on land, making the tide with silent urgency. They’d barely had a chance for a quick dip in the sea before it had been time to tow Seaflower past the reef.

  The rest of the day, for her, had been satisfyingly full of hard work. All the rigging had needed to be tested and adjusted to peak efficiency, and every inch of the ship inspected to make sure the stresses of sailing had not revealed any weakness in their repairs. She’d been on her feet all day, except when she hung by her knees.

  She realized she’d covered Maxime’s hand on the railing with her own, was rubbing his skin with her thumb. “Let’s go below,” she said.

  “More inspections?” he asked. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, making it clear he wasn’t referring to her work.

  “Of a sort,” she said, returning an arch look. “Roxanne is on duty now. I don’t need to be on deck.”

  “It’s lovely up here, if you want to stay,” Maxime said.

  “I would stay with you.”

  “You’d rather that than go below with me?”

  “Only if it’s what you would prefer,” he said. “You don’t have to cater to my wants, Imena.”

  She grinned. “Oh, I have wants, as well. Surely last night taught you that, if you didn’t know it already.”

  Maxime shrugged. “For you, I am always willing,” he said.

  She looked at him closely, to see if he was joking. He appeared solemn, too solemn. She wondered if he was still upset that she’d doubted him about Annja and Suzela.

  She turned back to the sea, though she could sense him watching her. Without looking at him, she reached out her hand. He took it in his, and she twined their fingers together.

  Music swirled up from the stern, pipes and single-string and drumming, soon joined by voices raised in song and the syncopated thump of feet on the deck. “Or we could dance,” she said. “For a while.”

  He grinned and gripped her waist, momentarily lifting her off her feet. “One dance, and then another,” he said. “That’s what this evening has been missing. Shall we head sternward?”

  “Here,” she said. “We can hear the music perfectly well.” And she wanted him all to herself. If they joined the celebrating crew, he would feel obliged to talk and dance with anyone who asked, and she could not be an anonymous reveler, either.

  Without further discussion, Maxime swept her into a swirling couples pattern that she recognized from the duchies. The bounds of the deck weren’t calibrated for dances that traveled, but they made do, adding breath-stealing twirls and the occasional impromptu hop over a bollard. For a few steps, Maxime even lifted her, swinging her feet on empty air until she couldn’t stop laughing.

  The music slowed and stopped. Gasping, she leaned on Maxime, her arms looped around his waist. He kissed her somewhere near her ear and lifted her off the ground once more, squeezing her tightly before he set her down again.

  From the stern, she heard the clink of mugs as the frolicking crew refreshed themselves. “Let’s go below,” she said. “We can have a drink in our cabin.”

  “Our cabin, is it?” he asked as they went below.

  She hadn’t realized she’d said it until he repeated her words. “You’d prefer me to say your cabin?” she asked.

  Maxime chortled, and held the door open for her. “What do you have to drink?”

  Imena took off her coat before she went to the relevant trunk, removed its covering and flipped up the lid. A third of the space was taken up by a wooden rack that supported an assortment of bottles, some made from glass, some from ceramic. Maxime peered around her shoulder. “Is that the stuff made from cactus?” he asked incredulously, pointing out a round ceramic jar wrapped in rope. It was shoved in atop some extra blankets.

  “I think so,” she said. “Yes. I remember. It tastes like green fire, and the morning after…ugh. Do you want any?”

  “Definitely not,” he said, “if, that is, you expect me to do any more dancing.”

  She pulled out a clear, golden honey wine and a murkier, somewhat stronger wine made from rice. “One of these?”

  “The honey wine,” he said. “I haven’t had that in years.”

  They sat cross-legged on her bunk to sip the wine from tiny blue glasses. Imena looked up to find Maxime watching her. He didn’t say anything immediately, only held her gaze for several breaths, her heartbeat quickening with each breath. She reached over and placed the glass into its niche, then leaned forward and laid her palms against his cheeks.

  Maxime lifted his glass and pressed it to her lips. The rim was warm from his mouth. He tipped the glass and she drank, then kissed him, pushing a little of the wine into his mouth. He sipped from his glass and did the same, and they continued until both glasses were empty and her head swam with timeless desire.

  Maxime’s hands loosely encompassed her forearms, sliding from wrist to elbow and back again in a gesture that was both soothing and inflaming. “Shall we have another night like the last?” he asked. “We don’t have to talk.”

  He sounded…wistful. “I thought you liked what we did,” she said. To her, it had been reassuring to be private, to know no one was watching them, and to have the freedom to go completely within herself for long minutes at a time without worrying that some disaster might befall them, outside of her attention.

  “I always like sex with you,” Maxime said. He tugged her toward him and kissed the end of her nose. “I also like to talk with you.”

  Imena pulled out of his grip. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “What are you trying to tell me? Stop being diplomatic and just tell me.”

  For a moment, Maxime looked as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him. “You don’t love me, do you?”

  Imena couldn’t catch her breath. When she didn’t immediately reply, he looked away from her, lashes lowered to protect his eyes, arms curling to protect his upper body. From her.

  He said, his voice low, “I love you, Imena.” She tensed, waiting for more, but for the first time in her experience, he stopped speaking and simply looked at her.

  She slid off the bunk and paced to the porthole. “You did say it, back on the island, didn’t you?” she said. “I wasn’t sure. And then I thought I’d imagined it.”

  He gave a short, harsh laugh. “The first time in my life I tell a person I love them, and they’re not listening.”

  She whirled on him. “The situation was considerably distracting.”

  His mouth twisted. “You had my prodigious cock to distract you.” He caught his breath. “Ah, Imena. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just a little upset. I had planned that this would be slow, romantic, tender, elegant. Me on my knees before you. You smiling down at me. I’ve
been dreaming, haven’t I? Making stories in my head.”

  Her throat tightened, as if he’d yanked on a knot. “You can’t love me,” she said. “You just can’t.”

  “I can do what I like,” he said. “You might not want to marry me, but that won’t change my feelings for you.”

  “I can’t marry you,” she said desperately. “I can’t. You’re my employer, and you’re a duke, and you need to marry someone else.” She said the words, already knowing he didn’t want to marry someone else, or he would have said so; that his position and hers meant nothing to him; and that their employment relationship could easily change. Easily. So easily, she could have him, have a partner and a life in the duchies, perhaps even children, and all she had to do was hold out her hands to accept it. Accept him.

  She couldn’t hold out her hands. Couldn’t take that risk.

  He said, “I meant it, you know, when I asked you to marry me. If you married me, and didn’t love me, I would understand. I would do that for you. But I love you. When I told you so back on the island, I had hoped you would tell me yes or no. But you said nothing. And when it comes to you, Imena, I want you so badly I can’t trust my own instincts. So I’m asking if you’ll tell me. If you love me. If you think you might one day. If you would truly and honestly consider marrying me.”

  She fancied she could hear his heart beating in concert with hers, but it was her own heart, pounding doubly hard in her ears as she closed her eyes and tried to say the words she knew must be said.

  Maxime’s hand slid around her waist, then he pulled her against him, all warm flesh against her back, his cheek pressed to the side of her head, his arms holding her upright, warming her, steadying her.

  He was always there for her, just like that: a solid, warm presence guarding her back.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I was wrong the last time,” she said.