One Night with a Scoundrel

by Shelly Thacker

  She sifted among the rest of the pile, finding a pair of long silk tubes—the purpose of which she could only guess at—various fastenings, and a pair of plain leather slippers.

  She frowned. “Sahib…might I humbly ask whether you have anything else? If you have fabric aboard, I might fashion myself something more…pleasant. Something in the Hindu style. I have never worn Angrez garments before—”

  “You’ll get used to it. You wanted something practical. This is practical.” He rested his hands at his waist. “We have samples from European and Oriental textile mills aboard, but this is what I prefer you to wear.”

  “But—”

  “And I want you to learn English as well.”

  Ashiana stared at him in openmouthed surprise.

  He held up a warning hand, cutting off her question before she could ask it. “Captain’s orders.”

  It was several seconds before Ashiana realized her mouth was still open. She closed it, biting back a storm of questions. Why would he object to her wearing Hindu clothes? And why must she learn to speak his language? She wrestled with simmering pride. He had lived among Hindus; did he somehow still believe that the ways of her people were inferior to his?

  But of course, he was Angrez. Overbearing, arrogant…

  “Sahib, unlike you, I have never had a talent for languages,” she said coolly. “I could not possibly learn English.”

  “You’ll have to manage at least a few phrases so you can speak with Nickerson and Wyatt when necessary. Now stop making a fuss over it and get dressed,” he commanded.

  “Are you this imperious and demanding all of the time?”

  “Yes. Ask anyone who knows me.”

  Ashiana let herself hold his stare defiantly for a moment. Then she worked a deep, calming pranayama breath and waved a hand over the garments. “Which would you like me to wear?”

  “All of it.”

  “All of it?” she sputtered. “I…” She choked back her protest. Arguing with such a stubborn male was pointless. “Han, sahib.”

  “We’ll start your English lessons with that. The word for han is ‘yes.’ The opposite of ‘yes’ is ‘no’—although that’s not a word I expect to hear from you often.”

  Ashiana muttered a Hindi oath. Very quietly.

  His mouth curved. “The word for sahib is ‘sir.’ You may also call me ‘captain’ or ‘my lord.’”

  Five weeks, Ashiana told herself, her eyes on the pile of clothing. She only had to endure his company for five weeks. “Yes, my lord,” she said, twisting her tongue around the strange English words. She looked up at him.

  He nodded in approval.

  Sighing, Ashiana started to sort through the garments, trying to decide which of the graceless items she was supposed to put on first.

  She picked up one of the white skirts. To her surprise, Saxon turned his back.

  The man was utterly impossible to figure out. How could he be arrogant and insufferable one moment, only to be thoughtful of her modesty the next? If he was trying to drive her completely paagal, he was off to an excellent start.

  Ashiana thought of asking him the English word for paagal but decided against it.

  She examined the skirt with a frown. Did this go on top of the gray choli-paridhana or beneath? She didn’t have the most distant idea.

  Removing the sheet she wore, she quickly pulled on the skirt. The stiff fabric rustled as she put it on. She started to tie it around her waist, but it seemed much too long, dragging on the floor behind her.

  Saxon kept pacing back and forth in front of his bookcase. She wished he would stop going anywhere near that corner.

  Her stomach in knots, she struggled with the overly long skirt. Perhaps it was meant to be worn higher. She moved it up and settled it beneath her arms, tying it in place over her breasts. It fell to just below her knees.

  She picked up the other white skirt. This one was a bit shorter, so she pulled it on overtop the first and fastened it around her hips.

  She frowned. That couldn’t be right. She looked as big and billowy as a festival tent.

  “Sah—my lord?”

  He stilled his pacing and turned slowly around.

  Ashiana looked down at herself and back up at him, raising her hands helplessly. “I do not think this is right.”

  He blinked. The corners of his mouth quirked upward. After fighting it for a moment, he laughed. “No.” He shook his head. “It’s not.”

  Ashiana felt foolish, her cheeks warming. “I have never seen an Angrez woman.”

  “No, it’s rather obvious that you haven’t.” His tone was gentler. “Here.” He came over and scooped the clothing on the bed out of the way, “Sit.”

  She did as he asked. He knelt in front of her.

  “You might as well learn the words for what it is you’re wearing.” He picked up one of the silk tubes from the bed and held it up. “‘Stocking,’” he pronounced.

  Ashiana imitated the strange, harsh-sounding word. “Stok-eeng.”

  He took her foot, resting it on his knee.

  The warmth of his hand on her bare skin rendered her momentarily breathless. All at once, he went still.

  His voice sounded dry when he spoke again. “‘Foot.’” His fingers traced over the shape of her arch, her ankle.

  Ashiana had to struggle with the strange sound that began the word—and an uncomfortable shivery sensation in her middle. “F-foot,” she repeated at last.

  He slipped the stok-eeng over her foot, then moved it up over her knee, where he fastened it into place by tying a ribbon snugly around the top.

  For a moment, his fingertips lingered there, at the soft spot at the back of her knee. The swirls in Ashiana’s middle tightened into a shimmering knot.

  His hand moved downward, slowly, over her calf, his touch warming the silk and her skin. He didn’t say a word. Ashiana didn’t—couldn’t—speak. Or move. Or do anything but look down at his tousled hair, the color of it like sunlight.

  “‘Leg,’” he said at last, his voice so low she had to strain to hear it.

  When she didn’t repeat the word, he raised his head. Their gazes met and just for an instant Ashiana saw—felt—the intensity of his desire for her.

  “Leg,” she whispered.

  As if her breath had blown out a flame, the heat in his eyes vanished. He nudged her foot from his knee and fitted her other leg with a stok-eeng, his movements brisk, then he stood.

  “Stand up and turn around,” he said brusquely.

  When she complied, he untied the white skirts, settled both at her waist, then took the bone-stiffened garment and wrapped it around her. His hands were so quick, she didn’t even have time to feel his touch.

  “Ai-ee!” she protested with an indrawn breath as he laced this strange new garment tightly.

  “It’s supposed to fit that way.”

  He told her the name of the torturous device—kor-set—and the name for the skirts, a long word which she could not pronounce if her life depended on it, something like pet-ee-koots.

  When he had finished strapping her into the kor-set, she walked around experimentally, looking down in dismay at her new clothes. “I feel like an elephant armored for battle.”

  “Perhaps I should start calling you Ganesha.”

  Ashiana glanced up and saw that he was grinning. Ganesha was the Hindu god of luck, the elephant god. “I only wish I had Ganesha’s trunk,” she gasped. “It might be easier to breathe.”

  “Be careful what you ask for. I understand he grants wishes.”

  “Would it not be an improvement?” She extended one arm in front of her nose like a trunk and made a trumpeting noise.

  His grin gave way to a soft laugh. “No, I prefer your nose as it is. Come here, little Ganesha. You’re not fully dressed yet.”

  She groaned at that news. He lifted the gray thing—a gow-oon, he said—over her head. Ashiana thought for a moment she would suffocate, it was so heavy, but then he pulled it down into
place and began to work at the scores of little fastenings up the back.

  “Now I truly am an elephant.” She frowned at the unattractive color. The garment was hot and uncomfortable and the high neck was itchy. “Surely, sah—” She struggled to remember the English words he had taught her. “—my lord, not all Angrez women wear this sort of gow-oon all of the time?”

  “This is not even a formal ensemble, little Ganesha. You’ve no hoop or pannier.”

  Ashiana did not ask what either of those were. She did not want to know. The kor-set was awful enough.

  “Lift your hair out of the way.”

  Ashiana did as he ordered, piling her hair atop her head and holding it there with both hands.

  His thumb brushed the bare nape of her neck. It was not done on purpose, but that didn’t change Ashiana’s reaction. A hot shiver went through her, like a rush of sparks, straight from the touch of his thumb to the very center of her body.

  She knew he could feel her response to him. He went still. He didn’t speak, only stood there, his breath warm against the nape of her neck.

  Then his hands settled on her shoulders…and he took a step forward.

  She couldn’t make herself move, couldn’t even drop her hands.

  When he leaned down, brushing his lips over that spot his thumb had just grazed, all she could do was feel.

  She tilted her head, eyes closed, unable to hold back the sigh that came from deep within her. He dusted kisses over her neck, then found an exquisitely sensitive spot where her jaw curved into her throat. She meant to object, knew she should object, but her protest came out as a breathy moan.

  He slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her back against him. Even through the thick fabric of her Angrez garments, she could feel the evidence of how much he wanted her.

  Opening her eyes with a sharp cry, Ashiana pulled out of his arms, appalled by her own shameless behavior, confused by the unfamiliar feelings coursing through her.

  Saxon let her go and turned away with a low, frustrated sound. He left the last few fastenings at the top of her gown undone.

  Ashiana let her hair fall, pulling it around her like she would a peshwaz, crossing her arms over herself, her hands touching her shoulders where his hands had just been. She bent her head. She felt like crying.

  Not because he had touched her, kissed her—but because she hadn’t tried to stop him.

  Hadn’t wanted to stop him.

  By all the gods, what was happening to her?

  From behind her, she heard his voice, rougher now. “Why did you not eat the food I had Nickerson bring for you?”

  Ashiana turned to face him, taking refuge from her feelings in pride, casting a disdainful look at the plate of food she had left untouched on a stool near the bed. “I do not eat meat.”

  “You are Hindu?” he asked in surprise.

  She shook her head. “No, my lord,” she said in English.

  “Christian, then?”

  That question touched an old and very painful place within her. “I am not a Hindu by birth, so I cannot claim to be truly Hindu, but I was raised in their traditions.” She lifted her chin higher and spoke before she could stop herself. “You may clothe me however you wish, my lord, and make me learn your language, but I will never be one of your kind.”

  “What do you mean ‘your kind’? You are of the same ‘kind’ as I am. You are English.”

  Ashiana backed up a step, horrified by the suggestion. “Nahin! I am a—” She barely managed to stop, a heartbeat from declaring herself an Ajmir princess.

  “Well?” He looked confused. “If you are not English, then what are you? Portuguese?”

  “No, I am…” Ashiana shrugged. “I am a dancing girl of the emperor’s harem. I have never had a home or people of my own.” She did not have to feign the sadness that lay beneath those words.

  He didn’t reply for a moment. “Well, while you’re aboard the Valor, you will wear English clothes and learn to speak English. It’s entirely a practical matter.” He stalked toward the door. “I need you to be able to make yourself understood to the crew. And avoid being a distraction.”

  Ashiana didn’t flinch this time when he shut the door hard behind him. She was getting used to it. The man didn’t seem capable of leaving a room quietly.

  Returning to the spot where she had been meditating earlier, she let herself sink slowly to the floor. She tried to fold herself into a familiar, comforting yoga pose, but the kor-set made stretching—even breathing deeply—impossible.

  She sat with her back straight and picked at the ugly fabric of the uncomfortable dress, hating it, hating every moment she was forced to spend on this ship filled with enemies.

  She tried to tell herself that none of it mattered. Let Saxon take away the clothes and traditions and even the language she had learned to cherish among the Ajmir all these years. He could not change her. He could not make her into a European.

  Because he could never touch her heart.

  In her heart, she was an Ajmir princess. Forever.

  With the sun beating down mercilessly, the fickle wind stilled, and the Valor becalmed, Saxon was not in the best of moods this morning. His crew manned the yards, trimming the sails to catch every chance breeze so the ship could inch forward. A few of the men not on watch trailed bait astern, fishing for sharks. According to an old sailors’ superstition, the wind would pick up if they caught one.

  Seated on the binnacle box in front of the ship’s wheel, scowling, Saxon fiddled with a brass Hadley quadrant he had bought on his last visit to Fort William in Calcutta. He was starting to think a shark might be more help than the expensive, newfangled navigational instrument.

  The fact that he had barely slept didn’t improve his humor. Dressing Ashiana in drab clothing hadn’t cooled his desire or banished her from his thoughts—not in the least. He’d spent another unsettled night prowling the ship. He hadn’t even been able to find refuge in reading. And none of his books had turned up any useful information about the Andaman Islands.

  Apparently, the islands were all but unknown to European explorers. Which made them an ideal hiding place for the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir and the fierce Rajput clan that guarded them.

  Sometime after two bells, he had settled into a hammock in the sickbay again, but every time he drifted off, he slipped into the nightmares, the brutal images that always lurked at the edge of his consciousness…Mandara’s final moments, the arrow—

  He cut his finger on the sharp metal edge of the Hadley and muttered a curse.

  “Cap’n? There’s a wee bit of a problem below, sir.”

  Saxon looked up to find Fergus MacNeil, the ship’s young purser, standing at attention. His fresh-scrubbed face was a bit pale, his black hair mussed and his hat missing. “Problem, MacNeil?”

  “Aye, sir. I didna wish to disturb ye, Cap’n, but I think this requires your personal attention. ’Tis no’ like anything I’ve encountered before. I know I’m no’ quite so experienced as most, but if there’s one thing I know, sir, ’tis cargo. I am the one charged with keeping it all in order, and though I may spend more time on my account books than—”

  “Is there a point here somewhere, MacNeil?” If Saxon let the talkative young officer go on, they would be here until supper.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. There’s a problem with the lass’s belongings in the hold.”

  Saxon squinted into the sun, wondering if fatigue was playing tricks with his hearing. “What belongings? Make yourself clear, man.”

  “The ones Lord Julian ordered us to stow below, sir—the lass’s things. He had them brought up from the palace when we left morning before last.”

  Saxon vaguely remembered Julian saying something about Ashiana’s belongings being brought aboard, but he had been too concerned about his missing sapphire at the time to care about a few perfumes and silks. “And what’s the problem? Haven’t we room for them in the cargo hold?”

  “’Tis no’ that, Cap’n. Th
ey’ve been fine since we left port. But this morning…uh, there’s a box, sir, and ’tis…well, ’tis making an odd noise.”

  Saxon wondered again whether he was fully awake. “A box making a noise?” he repeated incredulously.

  “’Tis no’ like anything I’ve ever heard, sir. I thought you’d best look at it, Cap’n.”

  Saxon stood, setting the Hadley quadrant aside, exhaling slowly. Ashiana seemed to be the source of an endless variety of trouble. “Lead on, MacNeil.”

  The young officer hastened toward the main hatch that led below. They climbed down the ladders, through the gun deck, the berth deck, and the orlop deck, then lowered themselves down the longest ladder into the deep cargo hold, their eyes adjusting to the darkness. Carefully placed lanterns provided enough light for them to chart a course through the stacks of casks, crates, and sacks. The hold smelled of wood and packing straw and the spicy-sweet odor of tea.

  MacNeil went all the way aft in the main chamber, where a bundle of clothing, wrapped and tied with a length of silk, had been deposited beside a basket and a small crate, bound with a leather strap. The young officer stopped a few feet away, seeming reluctant to get any closer. He picked up his hat from where it had apparently fallen earlier.

  “Well?” Saxon surveyed the seemingly harmless collection of goods. “What noise is it you were speaking of?”

  MacNeil leaned forward, head cocked, and listened for a moment. “I dinna hear it now, Cap’n, but I tell ye, that crate there—” He pointed a wary finger. “—’twas makin’ odd sounds like a banshee were in it. And it moved, sir.”

  Saxon looked skeptically at the item in question, walked over and crouched down to examine it. The crate looked utterly ordinary. He shook his head. “I don’t think we’ve any spirits to worry about, MacNeil.” Sailors tended to be a superstitious lot, he thought with a grin, Scotsmen more than most. “But I would like to know what she’s got here.”

  He searched through the basket, but it held nothing more interesting than cosmetics, slippers, bracelets and other feminine frippery. Nor did he find anything hidden in her bundle of clothing. There was no trace of his stolen sapphire.