The Princess Stakes

by Amalie Howard

  Gideon was right. The current version of him wouldn’t have hesitated to toss any willing bit of muslin to his bed or bend her over his desk, no matter who she was or who she’d been, and finish what he and Sarani had started. And she had been willing…desperately so.

  Then why had he stopped?

  As if his thoughts had conjured her, Rhystan caught a glimpse of Sarani hunkered down by the stairs, her stare trained on the fight. She didn’t display an ounce of worry. She’d seen him spar before, though his style and technique had changed in the past handful of years.

  Eyes as beautiful as the night sky met his. Arousal roared and churned anew through his beaten body. His desire had not waned in the least, not even with a man the size of a house giving him and his libido a thrashing. No, only one thing would satisfy.

  The minute distraction allowed Gideon to get a blow into his chin that smacked his head sideways. Despite the crunch of bone, Rhystan followed with a ruthless jab to his quartermaster’s gut that had the man stumbling back with an ugly wheeze.

  Stretching his aching jaw, Rhystan smirked at Sarani, who had bolted to her feet, and he raised a mocking eyebrow at the look of admiration edged with concern on her face. Unsurprisingly, she shot him a crude finger gesture that made him laugh aloud. Which made him unable to dodge the ham-sized fist that came directly at his temple.

  He was still laughing when he crashed down like the sorriest sack of shit this side of the ocean.

  * * *

  “Move aside, you lot!” Sarani swore as she shoved through the smelly line of bodies exchanging coin and other items to crouch at Rhystan’s side.

  Gideon stooped beside her and grunted through a split lip. “He’s out like a blown lamp.”

  “I can see that, you great oaf,” she growled, wincing at the swelling bruise that was already spreading on the duke’s temple and cheek. “Did you have to hit him that hard? And why were the two of you brawling anyway? Fisticuffs isn’t the way to solve disagreements.”

  “We didn’t have a disagreement,” Gideon said. “He needed to let out some sap.”

  “Sap?” she repeated.

  His pointed look made Sarani blush.

  Oh.

  Their passionate interlude in the cabin must have sent him here to Gideon. It had very nearly sent her over the side of the ship into the frigid sea to cool her overheated blood, so she could empathize. But this? Choosing to be pummeled to oblivion? It seemed rather counterintuitive, not to mention barbaric.

  Scanning his limp frame, Sarani winced at the bloodied state of the duke, tearing off a piece of her hem to wipe the blood away from the corner of his lip. Her fingers traced the edges of the sculpted lips that had devoured hers, and her breath caught, her own lips tingling in response.

  She snatched her fingers away, fighting the tide of her blush with everything inside of her as her entire body started to hum with arousal…just from the one touch. She revised her earlier thought. Perhaps there was something to thrashing the lust out of one’s body. Or in Rhystan’s case, welcoming insensibility. She’d give anything to douse the emotions cresting inside her.

  The attraction between them had always been their destruction, and so many years later, that appeared still to be true. Much like Rhystan, Sarani hadn’t been able to shut her eyes after she’d left his cabin. Her every nerve had been on fire. So when the cheers and hoots from the crew had drawn her topside, she’d been grateful for the interruption.

  Once she’d seen what was happening and who was fighting, however, she hadn’t been able to move a muscle. Though his opponent’s upper body had been bare as well, her greedy eyes hadn’t strayed from Rhystan’s glistening, chiseled, shirtless form. She’d seen many men brawl before, but nothing came close to Rhystan’s predatory grace. While Gideon fought like a bear, Rhystan moved like one of the feral tigers native to Joor, all sinew and ruthless elegance.

  She’d been mesmerized, reminding her of the times when she’d boxed with him in secret in Joor. In secret because her father would definitely not have approved of any man putting his hands on her person. While Sarani’s unusual eastern and western upbringing allowed her some liberties, she was still a princess of Joor. Rhystan had found her arguing about pugilism with her weapons master in one of the training centers, and when her instructor had outright refused for fear of the maharaja’s reaction, Rhystan had offered to demonstrate some basic strategies.

  After showing her how to hold her stance, with feet shoulder-width apart and offering as little of her body as possible for a target, Rhystan had danced around her, fists raised to his chin. He hadn’t been as broad as he was now, but he’d still towered over her.

  “Go on, hit me,” he’d goaded her.

  Unable to resist, she’d thrown a few lackluster jabs. He’d evaded her initial strikes easily, but Sarani had used the time to watch his feet and track his movements, committing them to memory. With that unearthly grace of his, he’d spun and jeered at her.

  “You’re not even trying, Sarani.”

  “I am trying, you bully ruffian.”

  He’d laughed at her puny efforts. “Then try harder.”

  The scoundrel had taunted her until she’d gotten so angry that she’d watched and waited for the precise moment when his prancing feet had brought him close enough within range to punch upward with all her might. The contact had surprised them both. Rhystan had had a sore jaw for days. It was a small-won victory that she’d gloated about.

  Watching him fight Gideon, it was apparent that his pugilistic skills had only improved. The orchestrated grace with which he’d boxed before had gotten scrappier and more vicious. He still moved like a cat, but his new style was savage. And until he’d caught sight of her and been distracted, Rhystan had held the upper hand. Though admittedly, it’d been by the thinnest sliver of margins.

  Sarani assumed she was to blame for that, too.

  “Help me get him to his cabin,” she told the quartermaster. “I’ll see to his injuries.”

  It was the least she could do.

  At least, that was what she told herself.

  Ten

  Rhystan’s eyes flickered open and he groaned. Hell. It hurt to blink. It hurt to breathe. Everything hurt. His head felt like it had gone straight through a wall, and his ribs squeezed like they were buried under a ton of stone. A wheezing breath blew out of him as he registered the familiar details of his cabin, lit by a single lamp. His eyes slid to the nearest porthole and the hazy gray-and-purple light shining through it.

  How long had he been out?

  He sighed, groaning slightly at the crushing pressure in his chest. His ribs were going to be sore for a while. Gideon hadn’t pulled any punches this time. Nor was he going to live it down with his crew. It’d been an age since his quartermaster had bested him. Usually any fight between them ended in a well-earned draw, never in a loss on his part. This time, however…his thoughts had been occupied elsewhere.

  He moved to sit up, only to be restrained by a firm but gentle hand.

  “Don’t,” a soft voice commanded.

  A cool cloth touched a cut on his forehead, and he hissed. Other details registered in his pounding brain, including the faintest scent of jasmine and the shapely silhouette of the woman tending to him.

  Sarani.

  The early-morning gloom in the cabin sheathed her in lamplight and shadow, as if she were some elegant, graceful nymph stealing into his dreams. She was the one who’d taught him about such spirits—celestial dancing nymphs, much like Muses, Valkyries, naiads, and nature spirits from other types of lore—when he’d teased her about her obsession with swimming. He closed his eyes and let memory wash over him.

  “You’re like a water sprite or a siren,” he’d told her once when she’d convinced him yet again to sneak out to visit her secret spot at the river.

  “I’ll lure you to your death
, shall I?” she’d teased back. “Like an apsara.”

  “A what?”

  “A heavenly water nymph, skilled in the arts of music and dancing”—she’d thrown him a sultry look over her shoulder that was so full of promise that his knees had buckled on the steep slope of the riverbank—“and seduction. Sent to lure sages from their purpose.”

  “I’m already yours,” he’d croaked, mesmerized.

  “Are you?”

  “As long as I draw breath, you will be the only apsara to tempt this wastrel’s heart.”

  She’d laughed and floated in the pool then, the voluminous white folds of the traditional garb fanning about her, looking much like the divine nymph she’d described, and Rhystan had never been more grateful for the isolation of their secret spot than he had at that moment.

  The small waterfall had been a short hike away from where the villagers usually bathed and washed their clothing, but it was worth it for the seclusion. There she was free of the trappings of her station and could speak her mind. There he could kiss her fragrant skin without recrimination, judgment, or censure. It had been their secret adventure.

  The first time he’d shown her the pool, climbing through the sweltering bush hadn’t deterred his fierce princess in the least. She was adept at sneaking out of the palace. She’d allowed her maid, Asha, to accompany her for propriety’s sake, though she’d refused a guard, insisting she could defend herself well enough should any need arise. And she could with those kukri blades of hers. Not that she’d needed them where Rhystan was concerned; he was already wholly at her mercy.

  As the recollection dimmed, he licked dry lips. That was a more fitting name for her than the lukewarm Sara. His apsara sent to lure him from his purpose, from reason.

  And now she had returned.

  He ground his jaw. He was hardly the naive, lovestruck lad he’d been then, though he couldn’t deny the attraction that still burned like an unchecked flame between them. His heart was already beating a resounding staccato in his chest. And other parts of him… Well, he’d been at half-mast for so much of the voyage that it had become his natural state.

  A sorry state indeed.

  Rhystan shook his head at his inability to control himself and winced at the ache that shot up his spine and between his bruised ribs. There was no doubt in his mind that she was dangerous, and not just to him. She’d already brought danger on his heels with this unnamed assassin, if her story about why she’d fled Joor and Indian shores was true. Now that his thoughts had settled somewhat, his brain had processed the information she’d shared.

  She never married.

  The thought flew into his brain like a fly to honey. But it didn’t matter if she was unmarried or a widow. She wasn’t his.

  Why can’t she be?

  He almost growled at the supremely rational voice in his head. Theirs was not a story that could ever end in some unrealistic happily-ever-after. The court in Joor had been a small taste of what any union between them would face.

  As vile as his behavior had been, Vice Admiral Markham would not be the only one in England to look down the length of his arrogant, prejudiced nose at Sarani. The truth of her lineage would come out sooner or later. London, with all its social rules and discrimination, was hardly the place for either of them.

  St. Helena was still an option. He could rid himself of her once they put into James Bay. Though his gut clenched at the thought of leaving her in an island port without any means of escape. Would she be able to find passage on another ship? With another captain? One who wouldn’t take advantage? His jaw clenched at the thought of any such unscrupulous man getting his hooks into her, having her at his mercy on the seas. With her blades, she could defend herself against one, but what about many?

  She’s not your problem.

  She wasn’t, and yet he warred between wanting to protect and punish her. But punishing her didn’t mean abandoning an Indian princess at a random shipping port of call. The wolves would scent her vulnerability and be upon her in seconds.

  A cool cloth dragged across his brow, and his gaze snapped open to his unwelcome nurse.

  “What are you doing?” he growled.

  She recoiled at the venom in his tone. “You’re hurt. I wanted to help.”

  He didn’t snarl that it was because of her that he was hurt, that she had driven him to seek a thrashing from the biggest man onboard. Because in truth, provoking Gideon had been his choice. He’d needed a release from the paralysis that had gripped him. He’d needed reason pounded into him. “You’ve done enough.”

  She sat back, her face contrite. “I’m sorry. If I’d known that this was your ship, I would have found another or told Tej to hide us somewhere else. I never would have—”

  “Stolen onboard and bribed my crew?”

  “Chosen this ship,” she finished, a faint blush cresting her cheeks.

  “But it is my ship and here we are,” he said with a groan as he pulled himself to a sitting position. He licked parched lips and took the cup of water Sarani offered, wishing it were whisky instead. Anything to burn away the hint of jasmine seeping into his nostrils and making him desire impossible things. He swallowed and exhaled. “The current Earl of Beckforth is not the friendliest of men.”

  A surprised gaze met his. “You know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  He blew air through his lips and thought back to what he knew—scant though it was, and it had only jogged his memory after he’d skimmed through the latest copy of Debrett’s he had in his collection. Beckforth had inherited the earldom when the previous earl had died without male issue. The man was rumored to be close-fisted with money and a quiet sort of man with an aloof nature. Not exactly the kind of earl to welcome a half-blooded daughter of a disowned third cousin.

  Not that it mattered.

  Princess Sarani Rao would hardly be welcomed with open arms if the peerage discovered her identity. The scandal when Lady Lisbeth had left England—in defiance of her parents and on a ship bound for India with an Indian prince—might have died over two decades, but those poisonous harridans who had chased her from the ton and vilified her were still very much alive. And they would not hesitate to revive painful gossip and malign Sarani for being the issue of such a union.

  It would take a miracle to protect her.

  Or…marriage to a powerful peer.

  His gaze snapped to hers, and she sucked in a breath, jeweled eyes going wide as if he’d laid his hands upon her person. A nervous pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, and once more, Rhystan felt his body stir.

  Why shouldn’t it be her?

  He’d wanted to marry her once upon a time, and as he’d noted, he was still attracted to her. The pretense would be a believable one. It could be an arrangement, one that would be mutually beneficial: she would get her fresh start with the protection of a duke, and he would be freed of the parody of being paraded on display like a prize bull to hordes of matchmaking mothers. Especially to his own.

  If he already had a fiancée, his mother couldn’t very well force him to court any other without inviting ridicule, could she? And once he’d made sure the dowager was hale and hearty, he could leave without any attachments.

  A smile drifted over his lips as he considered his new plan.

  Who would have thought it—his cursed first love, now his unwitting saving grace.

  * * *

  Sarani didn’t like the predatory gleam that had appeared in Rhystan’s eyes as soon as his hunter’s stare fastened on her. She could see the wheels in his brain turning, and instinctively, she knew that whatever he was thinking would decide her immediate future on his ship.

  Her stomach flipped and soured. Goodness, would he turn her over to the assassin? Cut her loose in St. Helena? She was prepared for that option, though being stranded on an island with a killer on her heels wasn�
�t ideal. And it would be impractical to hide within the small and no doubt tight-knit local aristocracy.

  The newssheets mailed to the palace in Joor a year ago wrote of a short visit to St. Helena by Prince Alfred, second son to the queen, and the excitement of the local elite. Everyone knew everyone. She would hardly be able to blend in to avoid detection, and she wouldn’t have much time to secure passage on another ship, but it wasn’t an impossibility. She had money, and money could work magic in difficult situations.

  Sarani did not need a man, much less a salty, mercurial sea captain, to save her. She could—and would—save herself.

  Still, Rhystan’s intense gaze unsettled her. And that sudden smirk did not bode well.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she asked.

  His blue-gray gaze slipped down to her bandaged palms, the tips of her fingers grasping the now-warm cloth in them. Sarani tossed it back into the bowl and straightened her shoulders, her belly tightening with dread. If he chose to, he could toss her overboard just as he’d done with the unfortunate fellow who had put his hands on her. Not that he would…but he could. He held all the cards here. Every instinct screamed that whatever fell from his lips would not be in her best interests. She held her breath when his mouth opened.

  “Since you have injured yourself,” he said, “I have to think up another suitable position for you to pay for your place on my ship.”

  “I can still work.”

  Rhystan smiled. “No, I’ve a better idea.”

  He couldn’t mean…

  Oh, good gracious.

  Though a spark of desire ignited in the pit of her abdomen, Sarani shook her head wildly, backing away several steps as though reason would miraculously appear with more space between them. It didn’t. “I refuse to be your ‘shipboard doxy,’ as you called it, or whatever insanity you’ve conjured in that head of yours,” she burst out, waving a wild hand. “Regardless of what happened between us earlier”—she sputtered at the sudden gleam in his eye—“that’s not going to happen, Your Grace.”