The Duchess Quest (Jordinia Book 1)

by C. K. Brooke

“I beg to differ,” the giant insisted. “The man cares for his libido as much as his wealth.” He shot Cosmith a look of disdain. “I do not trust him around Duchess Eludaine.”

  “Nor do I,” agreed Macmillan.

  “And that is why we’ll not let him out of our sight,” concluded Pascale, with a note of finality.

  Macmillan did not like the nature of Cosmith’s smirk at all.

  FOR DINNER, SEVEN CHAIRS WERE crammed into the dinette, and the party enjoyed a celebratory meal in honor of Priya and Pascale’s engagement, as well as Dainy’s last night in Beili. Such exotic flavors Macmillan had never tasted, and he continually remarked so to his blushing hostesses. His tongue was still dancing, his stomach never having felt so full, when he finally ascended the loft to take to his mat.

  After climbing the ladder, he saw that the little loft held a few narrow rooms, with a passageway in between. Bos was unable to stand up there, so the women arranged his bedding on the parlor floor below.

  Presently, Macmillan entered his room, alone for the first time in days. He was grateful for a shelter in which to sleep, after so many nights spent under the stars.

  There were no proper doors, but netting strung with seashells, akin to the one in the dinette. Macmillan had left his tied back, not having thought to obscure the doorway before removing his tunic. Standing shirtless, he turned, only to see someone in the passageway. “Oh,” he said.

  “Oh,” came the duchess’s shy voice. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Come in,” he entreated her.

  She didn’t. Macmillan saw that she wore a rather shapeless night shift. Athletic calves poked out from beneath its knee-length hem, and her small, flat feet were bare.

  “I’m going downstairs for a drink,” she told him, averting her gaze. “Do you…or your companions…wish for me to bring anything?”

  “No, thank you, Your Royal Highness,” said Macmillan, hoping she would at least meet his eyes.

  But the girl only nodded, about to depart. She stopped herself, however. “About that,” she said, fingering a seashell on the door netting. She then braved a look at him and smiled, the expression illuminating her face as those green eyes shone like lanterns. “Just call me Dainy.”

  Macmillan didn’t know how to respond. Dainy gave him one last friendly bat of her lashes and was gone, her footsteps so silent, she might have never been there.

  DAINY WAS WELL-PRACTICED AT being light on her feet at that hour. After all, sleeping patrons ought never to be disturbed.

  On the tips of her toes, she went into the dinette, and poured fresh water from the pitcher into her thirsty mouth. When she’d had her fill, the water recalled a sensation to her bladder, so she noiselessly opened the back door and traipsed outside to the washhouse.

  The moon was full, and she could see her path well. Warm and balmy, the evening air settled around her, with the occasional breeze meandering past her bare neck.

  Reaching her destination, the young woman extended a hand to the washhouse door, when it suddenly flung open, seemingly of its own accord.

  She jumped back.

  “Who’s there?” demanded a male voice in the darkness.

  “Just me,” replied Dainy, startled.

  A figure emerged, and the washhouse door promptly slammed shut. Dainy took another tentative step back, but her stomach jolted to discern the handsome face in the darkness.

  “Ah,” Jon Cosmith declared pleasantly. “We meet again, Your Royal Highness.” He inclined his head. “Only this time,” he added softly as he straightened, “gratefully, we are without any hovering audience.”

  Starlight shone in his eyes and flashed against his teeth as he grinned openly at her. Dainy noticed, her stomach twisting once more, that his blouse was untucked with several buttons undone, his belt unfastened at the waist. How many men would she glimpse in various stages of undress in one night?

  Say something clever, she urged herself. She overturned the contents of her mind, searching for a coy response, some flirtatious retort, but nothing worthy came to mind. “It appears so,” she finally managed. She instantly longed to kick herself for the lame reply.

  “Now, I want the truth, my lady,” said Cosmith, feigning suspicion as he placed his hands on his hips. “You were spying on me in the washhouse, were you not? It’s all right, you can admit it.”

  Dainy burst with laughter at the suggestion, and immediately covered her mouth. “Of course not,” she exclaimed, unable to suppress her lingering grin.

  The handsome man laughed with her, lowering his arms. “You see? Got you to relax a bit there.” He watched her kindly. “You need not feel shy around me, darling. For I witnessed you earlier with your dear Uncle Pascale, and couldn’t help but delight in finding you to possess the spirit of a firecracker.”

  Dainy held her smile, but her face grew hot. She was unaccustomed to so much attention. Surreptitiously, she rolled her shoulders to loosen them. Jon Cosmith wanted her to relax for him, and she didn’t wish to come off as reserved.

  “Firecracker is a nice way of putting it,” she said, working up the nerve to speak to him conversationally. “Usually, my aunts just call me foolish, or impossible.”

  The man clucked sympathetically. “Horrible words,” he lamented. “Rest assured, you are no fool. And I should hope,” he added, smiling to himself, as though at a private joke, “that you should not choose to make yourself so impossible for me.”

  Whatever did he mean by that? The skin on Dainy’s exposed calves hardened, and she forced herself to retain her grin. “Well then.” She folded her arms, although her heart thudded. “Give me your definition of possible.”

  “Possible?” repeated Jon Cosmith, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  Dainy gazed upon his throat in the moonlight, feeling a sudden, overpowering yearning to trace her fingertips along the perfectly defined angles of his jaw. It was all too unfamiliar to her, and made her feel strangely feral.

  “Possible, according to my definition,” began the exquisite man, in a sultry tone to match the evening’s air, “is a life of freedom, dreams manifesting.” He gazed upon her intently, inching closer.

  Dainy stood still, willing him nearer, not daring to back away.

  “Answering to no one,” he went on, taking yet another step. “Possessing everything one desires. Fantasies,” he added, dropping his voice to an alluring whisper, “fulfilled.” He stopped just short of their noses touching, his eyes locked into hers. “All of these things,” he murmured, his breath lingering tantalizingly against her cheek, “and more, are possible.”

  Chills coursed down her body, spark-like tingling in places she’d never felt before. She was pointedly aware that she wore only her shift with nothing beneath it, and the thought sent her gut into a frenzy of knots.

  “Mr. Cosmith,” she intoned, unable to stop herself as she leaned slightly into him, her eyes flickering shut involuntarily.

  But she was startled to hear him issue a groan of displeasure, and her eyes popped open again.

  “You called me Mr. Cosmith,” he supplied at her look of confusion. He pouted in jest, his lower lip extending enticingly. “As I told you earlier, Your Highness, to my friends, I am simply Jon. You do not wish to be my friend?” he asked, the corners of his mouth lifting.

  “Oh, but I do,” she found herself saying in a poised voice she hardly recognized as her own. “If only you wished to be mine,” she added, in her best attempt to peer up at him coquettishly. Something ineffable, which had lay dormant, buried deep within her, was suddenly awakening and on the rise. And Jon Cosmith was the man responsible.

  He watched her, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Do explain.”

  “Such formal titles,” said Dainy in an undertone. A cloud passed over the moon, obscuring the pair in temporary darkness. “Your Royal Highness. My lady,” she repeated with exag
gerated disdain. “Tell you what.” She lifted her chin. “I will call you Jon, if you call me Dainy.” She fought to appear just as confident as he. “Agreed?”

  A wide grin spread across his lips. “There she is, the firecracker,” he cooed, and Dainy’s legs trembled. “You have a deal, Dainy. Although, just between us,” he whispered, “I shall call you my little firecracker.” He laughed softly.

  The cloud moved, and the moonlight was imminent again, illuminating Jon’s irresistible smile and penetrating eyes. He stood so near, Dainy could see the pulse of his throat and the stubble sprouting on his jaw. Feeling faint, she inhaled the delectable scents of cowhide and musk on his skin.

  Everything about him called to her, drawing her in beyond reason. She longed to reach across and run her fingers through his umber hair, but couldn’t work up the nerve to touch him. She forced her breaths to steady.

  “I have an urge, Dainy,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened. He couldn’t mean…?

  “Have you ever taken a swim by moonlight?”

  She was taken aback. She shivered, although it had little to do with temperature. “When I was young, I suppose.”

  Jon laughed devilishly, an amused, throaty sound. “Ah, but you are still young,” he reminded her. “Very, very young.”

  Dainy knew he hinted at more than just her age. Why, was it so obvious to everyone that she was wholly inexperienced in the world of men? Then again, she reminded herself, so were all unwed maidens.

  …Or were they? That’s what her aunts had insisted, at least. But her aunts had been lying to her about her very identity. After all, in a single day, she had transformed from an undesirable outcast to a lady of royal blood, now catching the eye of the most wickedly handsome man she’d ever met.

  She paused upon these thoughts.

  “Dainy,” purred Jon, taking her hand and fingering the sleeve of her shift. “I’d like to take a night swim with you.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yes, tonight.” He chuckled, jiggling her hand, but her arm had gone limp. He bent his head, anxiously searching her eyes. “But what is wrong, my dear?” he asked, surprisingly perceptive. “Have I said something to upset you?”

  Dainy heaved a small, relieved sigh. She was being silly. Jon certainly did not have ulterior motives. It was clear he was genuinely interested in her. Why else would he be so attentive to her feelings?

  “Have I given you any reason to fear me, darling?”

  “I trust you, Jon,” Dainy assured him.

  “Good.” He grinned. And then suddenly, he seized her hand and bolted with her down the dunes. Dainy released an exhilarated laugh, scarcely able to believe what she was doing.

  As they approached the waves, he unfastened his blouse. Dainy tried not to stare at his chest as he tossed his garment onto the sand. To her surprise, he pulled her in and ran his hands effortlessly down her waist, making to lift her shift with noticeably practiced ease.

  She caught his hands, restraining him. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “You don’t really wish to swim in that, do you?” he asked innocently.

  Dainy gave him a look. “Yes,” she said, “I do.”

  He didn’t argue, only took her hand again and pulled her to the ocean where they rollicked in the nighttime waves, rising with the foamy crests, floating on their backs and trying to capsize one another, until both were breathless with exhaustion, the wear of the day finally beginning to catch up with them.

  As they slowed to a peaceful bob just beyond the shallows, Jon enclosed her in the warmth of his firm arms. Her shift, now soaked, clung to her, tight and translucent as a second skin. She shuddered as he dragged calloused fingers down her back.

  “I daresay, my Dainy, I never expected to share such a perfect evening with you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Her breaths frayed. “Nor did I.”

  “We can make it…exceptional.” With too much eagerness, his fingers traced down her back over her drenched garment. He stopped just short of her backside, where his hand rested precariously, sending anticipatory chills up her spine.

  “Jon,” she attempted to protest, but only halfheartedly. “We just met.”

  “Let us make haste to port,” he said suddenly, squeezing her by the waist. “Pascale’s boat is there, a safe shelter in which we can pass the night.” Dainy’s pulse hammered at the words. “And then,” he continued, his voice rising with excitement, “when the sun rises, we’ll set sail to Häffstrom, just you and me. Forget the others.” He ceased speaking and began planting his lips feverishly over her skin, showering her neck and shoulders with continuous pecks of his hungry mouth.

  Dainy trembled in his hold, physically unhinged in a sort of ecstasy, yet her mind stalled at his suggestion. “Steal Pascale’s boat?” she mumbled, willing her blood to stop rushing with the intensity of the waves around her. She tried to pull away from his lips, which were now trailing dangerously down her chest, but he wouldn’t budge.

  With all her might, she pushed him away. Yet he seemed to merely interpret this as an invitation to proceed more passionately, as he yanked her closer and grunted, “Ah, yes, that’s it…how I love when you maids get feisty….”

  He honed in to claim her mouth with his when Dainy shoved him back. “Jon,” she snapped. His eyes shot open at her rigid tone. She peered up at him squarely, ignoring the desperation on his face. “You would steal my uncle’s boat?” she demanded. “It’s his only means of livelihood.”

  Jon exhaled, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.

  Dainy could no longer face him, so she looked down at the wet hair on his chest instead, and found herself vaguely wondering at his age. Surely, he was older than she. Possibly by as much as a decade, she realized, feeling rather intimidated, yet flattered at the thought.

  “I am sorry, my dear.” He bowed his head to simper up at her. The effect was, admittedly, nothing short of infuriatingly adorable. “But of course. You must forgive me, for I tend to get carried away whilst in the throes of passion, and don’t always think upon my careless words before uttering them.”

  Dainy lifted an eyebrow. “And how frequently, might I ask, do you find yourself in the throes of passion, Jon? Is this something you do quite often?” She couldn’t stem the sudden flow of jealous displeasure at the thought of Jon frolicking so with another girl.

  “Dainy, Dainy,” he soothed her. “None of that matters now,” he assured her. “These eyes,” he tapped his temple with one hand, while tenderly cupping her chin in the other, “they see only you.”

  “How do I know you don’t say that to every girl you charm, Jon Cosmith?”

  His eyes glimmered. “Ah, so is that it, my sweet? You are jealous for me?” He laughed. “I daresay, Dainy, I’m flattered. But you need not fear, for you have wholly consumed me.”

  Dainy looked away, the insides of her stomach tossing at his resumed caresses. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The water was cooling off as the night grew late, and the tiny shells of the seafloor were digging into her feet.

  Her senses were returning. What had she been thinking? How would she get home and to her mat, unnoticed by her aunts? Surely, she would reek of the sea, tracking water everywhere, and dampen her blankets. What had she been planning to provide for an excuse?

  “Oh, but my dear, you’re trembling,” fussed Jon. “Come.” He took her arm, helping her ashore. They climbed back onto the sand, regaining balance. And then Jon was lifting the mouth of her shift again.

  “What are you doing?” Dainy hissed, forcing her hem back down.

  “I cannot permit you to wear that soaking gown; you’re shivering quite severely.” His voice was sterner than she’d come to expect. “You must remove it at once, or else you shall fall ill.”

  “But I’m wearing nothing beneath it!” she protested, mortified.


  Jon glanced about the beach and found his blouse lying in the sand. He hurried to retrieve it. “Here you are, darling,” he said breathlessly, handing it over. “Now, if I turn my back, will you remove that soggy thing,” he pointed to her wet shift, “and don my blouse instead?”

  Dainy stared at him. “I cannot go home wearing nothing but your blouse, Jon.”

  “You see?” He folded his arms. “This is exactly why I had wished for you to remove your clothing before swimming with me in the first place.”

  “Oh, yes, I am sure that was the reason,” snapped Dainy, but the man was already chuckling. Dainy giggled in spite of herself, and unexpectedly, the two doubled over with laughter.

  The tension between them dissipating, Dainy took his blouse. Jon turned his back as promised, covering his eyes with his hands for good measure.

  Carefully, she peeled off her sticking wet nightgown. For a moment, she stood behind him in the darkness, a tingling sensation running up the length of her spine. She watched as moonlight reflected off of his strong shoulders, knowing that all she had to do was tap one of them, and he would turn, those brown eyes widening at her generous display, and….

  She brushed the fantasy aside and slid her arms through the sleeves. His shirt was warm from the sand, and smelled of him—like musk and freshly hewn cowhide, mint leaf, and also, she noticed, a hint of fish. Once on, it hung down to her knees, pinching her snugly at the chest.

  “Oh, Dainy,” Jon sighed in earnest, after she granted him permission to turn. “Forgive me, but you wear that blouse far better than I do. I should hope to see you in my clothing more often.” He smirked.

  She laughed. “Come off it, Jon.”

  They faced each other, the sea rushing in their ears. Dainy did feel better wearing his shirt, and told him so.

  “I’m glad,” he said genuinely.

  “Only, now you’ve no shirt to wear,” she apologized, her gaze lingering upon his chest for just a moment too long. She checked herself and glanced away, but was too late. Jon had noticed, and his lips lifted, although he remained silent.