She should have known Vikram wouldn’t let her go so easily, not when he’d murdered a maharaja without a qualm. Sarani feared for Asha’s family and the rest of her handmaidens—she hoped they were safe—and she worried for her people because Vikram would be looking out for himself, not them. Her father, for all his faults and concessions to the crown, had tried to keep Joor’s interests at heart. Even her loathsome engagement to Talbot would have been a necessary evil.
Though it had only been a few weeks, she felt the loss of her father keenly. While she knew Western traditions of mourning meant she’d be garbed in black for months, her people treated death differently. Their cultural and religious traditions were tied up in rebirth, what they called samsara. She hoped her father would have been cremated—not even Vikram would provoke the gods, despite his certain hand in the maharaja’s death. And initial mourning would have lasted thirteen days, whereupon she would have worn white, not black, to honor him.
Sarani glanced down at her stained clothing. Not that she had a choice now. She didn’t have a garland of flowers or anything on her person, but she offered up a simple chant in her heart for him. Her moments with him had been precious, if few later on. As a child, she had memories of him carrying her on his shoulder, tossing her up into the air while she giggled and gasped for breath, and him pointing out the movement of the stars. Sarani stopped on the lower deck and caught the first glimmers winking in the distance. He’d taught her about the constellations, the positions of the planets, and their meanings from ancient Indian scriptures called the Rigveda.
“It’s called science of light,” he’d explained once.
Perched high on his shoulders, she’d wrinkled her nose. “Why, Papa?”
“The planets are constantly in motion, and on the day of someone’s birth, their destiny is written. We offered water and light for blessings on yours.”
“Papa, did my stars say I would be big and strong like you?”
“You will be a force, little one.”
The memory made her chest ache as Sarani stared up at the darkening, purplish sky above the ship. She wondered if this journey—and his death—had been foreseen. “I miss you, Papa,” she whispered.
With one final look to the brightening stars, Sarani swallowed down the lump in her throat and headed down to the pens where she grabbed her trusty shovel. Her shadow, Red, trailed her at a discreet distance, staying away as if sensing her morose mood. The cheeky boatswain had always accompanied her around the ship, but now he was extra vigilant. Her official guard, she supposed. Normally, Red was a chatterbox, but he hung back, content to keep an eye on her, and didn’t intervene.
Sarani bit back a curse. No doubt, it was a command from Rhystan…that she had to perform her duties alone. It wasn’t Red’s fault. In fact, in his defense, he had offered before, but she’d always refused. She wanted to pull her weight for the sake of the crew.
Not their hard-headed, hard-eyed, hard-bodied captain.
With a groan, Sarani gritted her teeth, swallowing the foul oaths about the man fulminating on her tongue. If a little work was the price to pay for safe passage, she would do it. And she would do it without complaining. She wouldn’t voice her murderous thoughts, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the idea of punishing the captain with slow and gratifying delight.
In fact, as she started to shovel the fresh clumps of manure into a heap, she took great satisfaction in imagining his stupidly handsome face beneath it.
* * *
Rhystan consulted the cartographic charts on his desk and downed the rest of the whisky in his tumbler. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he was studying the maps to see if there was an alternate route, at least to see if the ship behind them would follow. But he needed fuel, and turning back toward Cape Town wasn’t an option. He had sailed enough oceans to know that the other ship’s identical course wasn’t by chance.
And his gut had never failed him.
It wasn’t a ship from the Royal Navy. That, he’d already ascertained. It was a private passenger ship, one that looked like an East India Company steamship, but it was too far away to tell. It wasn’t a trading vessel or he would have taken no small delight in blowing it to pieces. It was also too far away to determine if it meant them harm. In other circumstances, he would slow his pace and allow the ship to catch up. While most of the guns on the Belonging had been removed for the sake of weight and speed after her redesign, there were still a few, and they were kept in good working order.
He wasn’t afraid to use them.
But with Sarani onboard, he couldn’t risk endangering her life.
Slumping back in his chair, he poured another glass of whisky, letting the spicy burn of the liquor numb his brain. With continued luck, they would reach port in less than a week. The winds on the journey had been advantageous, and apart from the ship on their heels and the initial threat of the cyclone and a few smaller squalls in between, the voyage had been uneventful. Well, with the exception of one willful passenger.
Rhystan glanced around the spotless cabin. Everything was in meticulous order—the bed made, bookcase neatly stacked, his clothing laundered, folded, and put away. Even the furniture shone, polished to within an inch of its life. Something was on her mind. Normally, he would find telltale signs of rebellion, like watered-down whisky bottles, salt in his morning coffee, or barnacles in his bedsheets. That last one he was certain had been Red’s idea, considering the boatswain was responsible for scraping them off the hull.
But the last couple of days, Sarani had been on task and quiet. Too preoccupied for pranks.
Stop thinking about her.
Willing himself to focus, Rhystan studied the charts again and gave up after a few minutes. Despite his mental exhaustion, he was restless, agitated. Mostly because of what awaited him in England and the fact that he had been urgently summoned by his mother, the Dowager Duchess of Embry, purportedly because of ailing health.
He had no doubt that it was yet another ploy to get him back to English shores. Marry some insipid, docile debutante. Beget an heir and a spare. Take control of the dukedom. Settle down. Become his blasted father.
Bile climbed into his throat. That was his worst nightmare. His eyes chased longingly over the map around the coast of Africa into the Atlantic Ocean. How easy would it be to replenish supplies and coal in St. Helena and change course? Head to France or Spain or even New York?
You want another family death on your conscience? Your mother’s this time?
His inner demons were right, curse the lot of them.
He had no way to know if his mother was pretending or was actually on her deathbed, but he hadn’t been there when his father and brothers had died. Despite his fractious relationship with his father, guilt over that had eaten away at him, mostly because of his brothers.
Though Roland had been a miniature replica of the duke, Rhystan had idolized Richard when they’d been children. He’d taken their deaths hard. All of them, even the duke’s. At the funeral, the desolation on his mother’s face had been a potent reminder of his failures.
Of the fact that he could never measure up.
On top of that, he hadn’t seen his nieces or his own sister in two years. He had spared them a thought or two, but no more than that. Last he heard, Roland’s widow had recently remarried and moved to Northumberland.
Clearly, Rhystan wasn’t and would never be of ducal caliber. And his father had known that, drummed it into him. Fate had buggered them both, it seemed. Because once he returned to London, his mother, in her dubiously ill state, would probably waste no time putting pressure on him to marry and secure the future of the dukedom. His legacy.
Rhystan had almost written to her and said, “Pick one.” He knew it wouldn’t matter to his mother who the future Duchess of Embry was as long as she was of the right bloodline and could carry the next ducal heir to term. H
is mother would have a list of eligible young ladies waiting for him, and then he’d be expected to do his ducal duty.
Hell.
Duty was an exacting master.
Rhystan loosed a breath, for the first time understanding what had possessed Sarani to marry another for the sake of court and country. It wasn’t enough to forgive her completely, but he wished she could have trusted him. Given him a chance to offer his own suit, to use his eminent family name for their sakes. But she hadn’t…because she hadn’t known. Because he hadn’t been honest with her from the start about who he was. Back then, he’d wanted nothing to do with the Duke of Embry.
Cursing, he slung back another two fingers of whisky, aware of the pleasant fog expanding in his brain. A vision of hair so black it absorbed light and a pair of laughing autumn-colored eyes danced in his mind’s eye.
Her Highness, the Princess of Joor. Now, Lady Sara Lockhart.
His Grace, the Duke of Embry. Now, Captain Rhystan Huntley.
He wasn’t unaware of the similarities between them. Both hiding behind other names and fleeing from their pasts, and now running into each other here on the high seas. He would laugh if it wasn’t so absurdly tragic. A pointless Shakespearean tragedy, in which the real bedevilment was how bitterly ironic it was that the only woman he’d ever wanted to marry had been her.
And then she had let him go without a qualm.
She had never loved him. Not truly.
He rose, stumbling slightly, and made his way next door, only to halt at the hushed sound of arguing. The two women presumably, considering both voices were female. Rhystan didn’t care that he was shamelessly eavesdropping.
“There’s nothing you can do, Princess,” Asha was saying. “If you are right, then we will have to face it when the time comes. Worrying about it now does nothing.”
Sarani made a frustrated sound. “We need to act!”
“We are on a ship in the middle of the ocean,” the maid said, her voice calm though she also sounded frightened. “What would you have us do?”
“I don’t know! How can you be so calm when we’re in danger? That could be Vikram’s doing for all we know, sending his henchmen after us.”
“I’m afraid, too, but the captain won’t let anything happen.”
“Don’t be naive, Asha.” Something that sounded suspiciously like furniture being kicked and a muffled screech and oath followed. “That. Heartless. Man. Does. Not. Care.”
“I beg your pardon, Princess, but I think you’re wrong.” Asha sniffed. “Would he have allowed us to stay on this ship if he didn’t care?”
“Correction, he does not care about me.”
“Then why keep us?”
“He had no choice, Asha. There was a cyclone. And I’m not his guest. Everyone knows how little he thinks of me. Not much has changed.” The words carried a deep undertone of bitterness. “We all have to work like wretched landsmen for our passage. Heaven knows I’m sick of shoveling dung for days on end.”
Guilt flooded Rhystan at that statement, even though he sensed it was uttered in frustration. He didn’t have time to hide as Sarani opened the door and came face-to-face with him standing there. Unabashedly listening.
He leaned against the ship’s wall and folded his arms across his chest, refusing to admit that he was indeed guilty. Nostrils flaring, she tightened her mouth as she watched him, the sheen of tears in her eyes obvious. For once, she made no move to hide her vulnerability.
“Enjoying yourself?” she snapped.
“We need to talk.”
She huffed and then sighed tiredly. “About what?”
“Come with me.”
Without waiting to see if she followed, he made his way back to his own cabin two doors down. Instead of resuming his seat behind the desk, he rolled up the maps and waited, hips perched on the edge of it. He debated pouring another drink but decided he’d had enough, and he needed to be somewhat clearheaded in dealing with Sarani, considering the mood she was in. Though his current state of sobriety was debatable.
“If I have to come out there and get you,” he warned, “you’re not going to like it.”
She entered the cabin a few seconds later, face defiant and hands clasped behind her back. Her sleek jet hair hung loose past her shoulders. Rhystan couldn’t help noticing that she had donned a soft, green muslin dress. It was a simple morning dress, but it suited her. The color set off the green-gold flecks in her eyes and made her honeyed skin turn luminous. While the sight of her in trousers made his blood heat, he couldn’t deny that she was lovely in a gown.
“No trousers?” he asked.
“They needed to be washed,” she said. “I tripped in the paddock.”
He clamped his lips together to keep from grinning. Red had reported that she had indeed fallen on her arse right into a steaming pile of cow shit while cursing up a storm, most of it directed at Rhystan. “You look nice.”
“What can I do for you, Captain?” she asked. “I’m exhausted, and I’m sure you didn’t summon me here to talk about my appearance.”
“You told Asha you were in danger. What did you mean?”
A host of emotions crossed her expressive face. “You were spying.”
“It’s my ship.”
She glared at him. “Yes, I’m well aware that a person can’t be expected to have any privacy in your presence.”
He arched an eyebrow, drumming one finger against the wood of the desk and holding her gaze in a silent battle of wills. Eventually, she sighed and her eyes fell away. They’d been full of wariness and vulnerability. He sensed her hesitancy, but he needed answers and he would have them.
“Sarani?”
She exhaled, hazel eyes flaring at the use of her given name, the words following in a rush. “The reason we left India is because my father was murdered. And I believe whoever killed him is on that ship that’s been following us. With the intent of finishing what he started.”
* * *
The confession wasn’t as difficult as Sarani had thought it would be, though Rhystan was still blinking in stunned surprise as if he’d been expecting something else. She assumed that he would have thought she was running from a scorned lover or an irate husband. Not a murderer.
“What happened to Lord Lockhart?”
Her mouth fell open, even though she’d expected him to be thinking along those lines. “That’s what you want to ask me? After I tell you the Maharaja of Joor, my father, was murdered and we’re being tracked by his killer?”
“Answer the question, Countess.”
Sarani rolled her lips between her teeth, but then shook her head. Telling him the truth would not hurt them at this point, and Asha was right that they were in the middle of the ocean with no options but what they had at hand. Which were Rhystan, his ship, and his men.
She walked over to the desk, poured herself some whisky, and took a healthy swallow, not even gasping when the liquor burned a hot path from her throat straight down to her quivering belly. She took another sip for good measure. For courage.
“There is no Lord Lockhart, not in the way you imagine anyway,” she began, her gaze on the tumbler between her palms. Bringing up the past felt like picking at a nearly healed scab. “In Joor, as you know, my father ordered me to wed Lord Talbot, the regent. I put off the wedding for as long as possible with any excuse I could come up with. At first, it was because I was too young and wanted to wait. My father agreed. And then later, the rebellion and mourning for those who died. Anything to prolong the engagement.” She didn’t hide her shudder at the memory of Talbot—his ashen, almost skeletal features and those watery eyes that stripped her bare every time they fell upon her. “He was odious.”
“Wait, you didn’t marry? Markham told me that you had.”
Sarani didn’t miss the stunned rage that darkened his expression. She shook
her head. “No. The wedding was supposed to be the day after I ran.” She drew a breath. “When my father was assassinated, I knew it was only a matter of time before Talbot or the murderer would come for me. I suspect my cousin Vikram was behind it. He has the most to gain, though he would not have acted without Talbot’s help.” She lifted the glass, thought about it, and then set it down on the desk. She didn’t need her mind muddled. “Tej got us to Bombay, so we decided to leave on a ship in the dead of night that just so happened to be yours.”
“What are the odds?” he murmured.
Sarani was not particularly religious, but destiny—or karma as she learned from the Upanishads: the philosophical law of ritual action and its effect in the universe—did indeed seem to have a twisted sense of humor. Fate had decided to throw them together once more.
“Slim to none, rather.” Sparing him a glance, she shot him a tiny, wry smile. “England was the only place I could think of where we could be safe. My maternal grandfather was the youngest son of the Earl of Beckforth, who married a Scottish countess. My mother had saved documents of the property she had inherited through my great-grandmother’s title, and I decided to take her maiden name of Lockhart.” She exhaled and reached for another bracing sip of whisky.
“Traveling as Princess Sarani Rao was much too conspicuous, and it’s easier to travel without a companion as a widow. I just didn’t expect to run into you.” Sarani swallowed hard. “But then, once we were away from Indian shores, I thought we might be safe. Obviously, we’re not. Whoever killed my father has followed us and means me harm. Or it’s Talbot, coming to claim his due.”
They stared at each other in silence, her hand rising to her pounding heart as she tried to catch her breath from the confession that had tumbled out.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said after a beat. “Your father was a good man.”
“My father was undermined by those around him, just as you once said. In the last few years, he became nothing but a figurehead.”
Rhystan dipped his head. “All the same, I’m sorry.”
The Princess Stakes Page 9
