The answer was never. Gideon already couldn’t stanch his snickers about the ruthless captain being tested and bested by a kitten. Little did his faithless quartermaster know that this kitten possessed the heart and claws of a tiger.
As vexed as he was with his additional duties, Gideon had kept an eye on the two women. He’d started escorting the lady and her maid up to the deck for twice-daily walks, which they loved, and the men had gathered from the quartermaster’s hostile scowl that the ladies were not to be harassed.
Asha had taken to playing a type of bamboo wind instrument, called a shehnai, in the evenings. The crew flocked to her like children waiting for sweets, and Rhystan didn’t deny them the musical entertainment. The discordant notes of the shehnai were mournful and beautiful in equal measure, and the maid’s skill with the instrument was remarkable.
It reminded him of his time in Joor.
He suspected the same was true for Lady Lockhart, who usually watched from the side with an undecipherable expression on her face. Sadness? Nostalgia? If he recalled correctly, she played as well, though her talents also extended to the pianoforte and the harp.
Once more, the thought of her made him scowl.
The crafty little imp defied him at every turn. If he gave an errand or a job, she went out of her way to botch it, and when he confronted her about it, she was all doe-eyed innocence. Rhystan knew she was pulling one over him. No one could be that naive or clumsy or unintelligent. And he knew for a fact she wasn’t.
He tasked her to mend his clothes, and she somehow managed to sew the sleeves shut. He ordered her to dust his cabin, and she managed to find a rag that the cook had used to wipe his hands while gutting fish. His quarters had stunk of fish entrails for days on end. He’d had half a mind to make them switch rooms and have her sleep in the stench she’d created, but he couldn’t bring himself to give up the bed that had been built to accommodate his large frame. He’d borne the reek in grim silence until it had faded.
His precious collection of books had been rearranged by binding color and then size—nautical and scientific texts mixed in willy-nilly with volumes of Shakespeare and poetry. It’d taken him hours to find one with charts he’d been working on, lodged neatly between Thoreau and Brontë. If she hadn’t boasted once upon a time that her own collection of books in Joor was meticulously arranged by subject and author, he would have thought it a blunder.
No, it had been intentional.
Rhystan supposed they were small acts of rebellion, considering how crudely he’d treated her that first day of discovery. But he hadn’t escaped punishment either. Despite the tomfoolery, desire was a double-edged sword that cared little for its wounded.
Her constant presence wore at him, getting under his skin and driving him mad. Her jasmine scent lingered everywhere. Not a day went by that he didn’t wake with an erection or go to bed without one, and his dreams were chock-full of erotic fantasies, all of which included her.
Not that he would ever admit that.
Once belowdecks, he summoned her to his cabin, intent on making his displeasure known and putting his foot down once and for all. He was the bloody captain, damn it!
“You rang, your lordship,” she said with a jaunty bow.
Rhystan gaped at her appearance. Somewhere in the last day, she’d purloined a pair of loose trousers and a shirt, a patched coat, and a pair of scuffed boots. The overall look was better suited to a cutpurse on the streets of St. Giles than a lady. It was also disturbingly provocative. The woolen fabric of her shortened pants outlined the shapely lines of her legs to indecency, and the coat buttons strained in their moorings over the distracting swell of her bosom. None of her clothing did anything to hide those feminine curves.
“What the bloody hell are you wearing?”
“Clothes?”
The corners of his mouth drew down. “Not suited to a lady.”
“If I have to run around your ship, this is better for mobility than a dress, trust me.” She arched a dark eyebrow with a cheeky look that made him want to bend her over his knee. “Unless of course you plan to throw a ball anytime soon. Then, by all means, I shall rush to be garbed in all my best finery.”
“You are a lady,” he growled, ignoring her sass.
“But as you’ve commanded, I’m your cabin boy.” She crossed her arms over her chest, the motion propping her bosom upward, and adopted a studious expression. Warning bells began going off in Rhystan’s brain. “I’ve been talking to some of the boatswains, you see, and apparently I am expected to perform other duties as well. As cabin boy, that is.”
Rhystan dragged his eyes from her breasts and focused on her eyes.
Mistake. They sparkled with mischief.
“Other duties?” he mumbled, the base of his neck tingling as it always did when he suspected trouble.
“Of the carnal variety. They used a specific word that I’m not familiar with. Bug—”
He choked and nearly fell out of his chair, the urge to commit murder flashing through his mind as he cut her off. “Who exactly have you been talking to?”
She waved an arm. “No one in particular. And I’m certain I couldn’t remember their names.”
Of course she couldn’t. The little scamp was protecting their identities. And for good reason—he’d thrash the lot of them.
“This is not that kind of ship,” he said tightly. “And my carnal needs are well in hand, thank you very much.” Twin flags of color leaped into her cheeks, and Rhystan reminded himself that two could play at this game, despite the heavy, clamoring ache in his groin. “Unless, of course, you were volunteering your services, which is an entirely different proposition.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. “Hardly.”
“Then button those smart lips of yours and do your job.”
“Yes, sir, yes!”
The added tongue-in-cheek salute made his jaw clench. “On that note, I think I will require a bath tomorrow evening. Tell Gideon to have the men use some of the rainwater we collected from the last squall.” The expression on her face was so full of longing that Rhystan nearly cackled. “If you behave, you may have a bath as well.”
She scrunched up her nose as if the thought of sharing his bathwater was beneath her but then shrugged as though her next thought was that beggars couldn’t be choosers. The frown reappeared when she narrowed her eyes at him in sudden suspicion. “What’s the catch?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you being so…generous?”
His smile was slow. “I consider it quite selfish actually. A beautiful woman bathing in my cabin? What’s not to want?”
“You won’t be anywhere in the cabin with me,” she said tartly. “I’ll forego the bath if I have to.”
He grinned, feeling the odds finally beginning to tip in his favor. “Care to make a wager on that? Because trust me, Princess, you’ll be begging for it.”
Six
Sarani itched everywhere. She had grime on her neck, in her armpits, behind her knees, in every imaginable bodily crease. And the more she thought of the proffered bath, the worse the itching became. It wasn’t as though she was dirty. She cleansed herself from top to bottom with a cloth and water from the wash basin every evening, but the thought of actually submerging her body into clean water, even if it was only a hip bath, made her delirious with need.
Damn Rhystan for putting it into her head! Bloody man.
You’ll be begging for it.
The five words became a taunting drumbeat to her pulse. By the time she’d consumed her simple meal of boiled beef, bread, and peas with Asha, she was a mess of want and anger and frustration. All over a sodding bath. One of the simple pleasures she’d taken for granted was now on her top list of coveted things. Not only was her temper holding on by a thread, but her vocabulary had taken on a distinctly unladylike slant. She had the
boatswains to thank for that.
At first, they’d tried to curb their language, but when she didn’t gasp in ladylike horror, they’d fallen back to old habits. Now she had a very colorful collection of oaths, some she’d employed more than once in the past day. Under her breath, of course. And usually always directed to one rotten soul in particular.
If that man thought she was going to beg, he was mistaken. Sorely. Completely.
She scratched at her ribs beneath the rough clothing and sighed.
Who are you fooling?
No one, really. She wanted the bath. Badly. Blast it. She would eat humble pie. She would devour it and beg for more. She didn’t even care if Rhystan bathed first. He took meticulous care of his personal hygiene. She would know—she had to empty the used basin water from the small chamber in his quarters and refill it twice daily after his ablutions. Though he was a foul-tempered arse, he didn’t make her empty his chamber pot, thank goodness. He had Tej do that.
A small mercy for which she was grateful.
Back in her cabin, where Asha was tidying the cramped space after patching a small mountain of men’s clothing, Sarani had the thought that Asha and Tej did not look worse for wear. For the most part, her servants had been treated well, which gave her hope. Tej had been tasked with helping the ship’s cook. He stirred oats and broth two times a day. And when he wasn’t helping in the kitchen, he was mending sails, braiding ropes, and shoveling coal with the other deckhands, or emptying ducal chamber pots overboard.
She hadn’t spoken to either of them about what had happened in the palace since they’d left, keeping her lingering fears buried. And her worry that her cousin Vikram had to have allies who’d been opposed to her father. Deposing him would not have been easy if her cousin didn’t have support. Getting an assassin inside wasn’t the issue, it was making sure that he would be championed by the British regent as the new maharaja. Sarani grimaced. Talbot undoubtedly would have been salivating at the thought of more control. Pockets would have been liberally lined…enough to commit regicide and enough to ensure Vikram’s new station.
That craven, heartless bastard.
Though she mourned her father deeply, fretting about the past wouldn’t help her now. Even though they were well on their way from India, Sarani couldn’t be sure that trouble wouldn’t follow them, especially since she’d involved the harbormaster in Bombay to help her secure passage. And to be truly safe, Sarani had needed to vanish. Without any trace.
The harbormaster was a trace. A loose end and someone who had seen her. And that worried her.
She hadn’t been exactly silent in the past five years…sticking to her vow to fight where she could. She funneled every cent of her pin money to the local militia and kept her ears open for information. What she’d been doing was easily treason, but her people deserved a chance to fight for the freedoms that had been stolen from them. Even if they didn’t trust her completely, they accepted the little she could do. Sarani had the sneaking suspicion that her father suspected her illicit rebellion, but he’d never done anything to stop her. He might have bent a knee to Britain’s mercy to protect the people of Joor, but a man like Vikram, however, would be nothing but a self-serving lackey.
And he would want her dead.
Putting her worries aside, she washed up at the basin, grumbling to herself about dirt, and shrugged into her night rail and robe that Asha had set out. Though the maid’s duties had changed, she still insisted on serving Sarani as she had in the palace. While Asha drew a brush through her heavy, lank hair, Sarani sighed and absently scratched at her torso. Even her favorite jasmine oil did little to mask the grime. Were there vermin in her clothing? Goodness, for the life of her, she could not stop dreaming of having a bath. If only to remind herself that she was human and to feel clean from her skull to her soles.
“What I wouldn’t give for a bath,” she groaned.
Asha’s hand stilled. “Haven’t you had one?”
“No, why would I?” Sarani’s eyes popped, looking past Asha’s wrinkled nightclothes to her freshly scrubbed skin that shone like polished umber and her clean, shiny hair. How had she not noticed that Asha was cleaner than she was? Because she’d been too busy scratching and being miserable, that’s how. She blinked. “Have you had one?”
Asha blushed, her eyes downcast and full of guilt. “Yes, yesterday. I’m so sorry, my lady. I thought you would have as well, but His Grace mentioned that you were focused on your ship tasks and would have one later.”
Snarling under her breath, Sarani shook her head and clenched her fingers. She could easily have had a bath as well. Rhystan had offered her lady’s maid a bath before extending the same courtesy to her. Not that she begrudged Asha the bath. After all, she was more family than servant. But that devious, underhanded bastard had known exactly what he was doing!
This was just one more move on the chessboard between them. He wanted to torment her. To gain the upper hand. To make her beg. Several of those choice oaths she’d learned rose to her lips as she thought of his last words to her about begging and saw red.
She shoved open the door and crashed into Rhystan’s chamber, intending to blister the hide off the man. And froze.
Good gracious.
It was the most seductive thing she’d ever seen in all her life.
For the love of all things holy, it was unseemly how light-headed she became at the sight of the long, narrow copper tub, shaped like a hollowed-out boat and full of steaming, scented water. A jar of soap and a washcloth sat on a nearby stool along with a pile of toweling.
Sarani glanced around the empty cabin. She stared at the mesmerizing scene and actually moaned. Glancing around, she didn’t hear a sound. Perhaps Rhystan had been called above decks for some urgent matter. Would it hurt if she dipped in and out quickly?
She could be lightning fast.
Oh heavens, she couldn’t!
Rhystan would know, though it would serve him right if she took the bath obviously drawn for him. Sarani scowled. That dratted man didn’t deserve this glorious slice of heaven. The soft slosh of water nearly made her swoon as the ship rolled slightly. And that was all it took for her scruples to disappear like smoke on the wind.
Sod it!
Bolting the cabin door, Sarani stripped off her robe and night rail and climbed in, uncaring that the pernicious rotter of a duke could return at any minute. The minute her feet touched the warm water, she was past the point of reason or caring.
It was divine.
The water soaked in her salt-weathered, moisture-starved skin, and without a second thought, Sarani shimmied down and dunked her entire head beneath the surface. Bliss didn’t even begin to describe what she felt. She’d died and gone to heaven.
As much as she wanted to luxuriate, she also didn’t want to be caught sans clothing in the captain’s bath, so she availed herself of the soap and scrubbed her hair and skin as fast as she dared. She threw a look toward the door, but it was still locked with the bolt thrown. It wouldn’t keep an irate man from kicking it in, but she was hoping that Rhystan would still be a gentleman. Even if she’d broken in and stolen his bath.
Though given the strain between them, it was unlikely.
She hadn’t exactly been the most obedient or accommodating boatswain. In fact, she’d gone out of her way to be contrary, plucking his temper like a master of strings. At first, it’d been to get back at him, but then it became a matter of mulishness. He was determined to break her with menial work, and she was determined to show him he couldn’t.
Using the pitcher at the side of the tub, she rinsed her hair and washed the rest of the suds from her body. Throwing another quick glance back to the door, Sarani hummed her delight and rested her arms along the sides of the tub. Goodness, she could stay there forever.
Sighing with pleasure at the sudsy warmth, her gaze wandered the room. She had ti
died it earlier, though she’d meant to fill his whisky bottles with water. She’d do that tomorrow. Her eyes touched on the polished brass bucket that stood upon the desk and then stilled. They swiveled back in shock at the strange shape that was reflected in its shiny surface.
Why did that resemble a person?
And why did its arms just move?
Squinting at the reflection, she flung a look over her shoulder and nearly screamed at the silent man who lounged just inside the doorway to the privy, his thick arms across his chest, one ankle propped over the other. The duke wasn’t breaking down the sodding cabin door because he was already in the blasted cabin.
“Don’t let me stop you,” he drawled as their gazes collided, his eyes heavy-lidded and hers stunned senseless.
Sarani found her voice…and her modesty, clapping her arms over her exposed bosom and hunching down, despite knowing that he’d already seen all there was to see and then some. It hadn’t been more than a handful of minutes before she’d dropped her drawers faster than a doxy on the wharves for a florin. A heated blush roared its way up her neck and onto her cheeks.
She bit her lip. “What are you doing in here?”
“This is my cabin,” he pointed out. “And that’s my bath.”
“Why didn’t you announce yourself, then?” she snapped.
He smirked. “And miss all the fun?”
Shoving off the frame, he prowled into the room. Sarani’s gaze chose that inopportune moment to snag on his superbly bare chest and the rest of his body clad only in loose trousers. Her breath hitched, skin going hotter. She was equal parts panicked and aroused, her eyes gorging on that broad expanse of tanned skin and the fabric that stretched over bunched thighs with every step. Had he always been this enormous?
“Don’t come any closer,” she warned.
Horribly aware of her own nudity and the fact that the only things separating him from her were those thin linen pants that hid nothing—not even that thick bulge at a very grievous eye level—Sarani reminded herself to breathe. If she swooned, she’d never forgive herself. And if she kept ogling his groin, she’d have to kick her own arse.
The Princess Stakes Page 6
