As if being injured and starved wasn’t enough, he had arrived plagued with malaria. Abandoned in the barracks, his fevered brain fought to stay alert. Was Sarani in trouble? Did she need him? The thought of her believing he’d left without her had gutted him. And then, weeks later, when the fever finally broke, Markham had come himself to take great pleasure in giving him the crumpled parchment and informing him of her marriage to the regent.
She had chosen another.
Wedded another.
It was Gideon who found him half drowning in drink and opium and convinced him to join the privateering ship leaving Bombay. Rhystan had kept the small miniature of her that he’d had on his person—inside a locket he’d intended to gift her—but before he left, he’d written a reply to the princess of perfidy herself. His sentiments had been less than kind, but he’d left the note behind with most of his Royal Navy trappings, not caring whether it reached her or not. Obviously, it had. That pompous, bigoted arse of a vice admiral must have delivered it to her.
Not that Rhystan had cared.
But now she was here. On his ship. As intoxicating as ever. She’d always held some mystical sway over him, though he was older now. And wiser. She’d had her chance and thrown him over for a marriage to a peer. Lady sodding Lockhart.
Once he outran the storm, Rhystan intended to get some answers. Namely why she needed passage so bloody quickly to England, why she was traveling only with a maid and a houseboy, and what had happened to her husband. Other burning questions like why she’d chosen to turn her back on him would never escape his lips.
She’d made her bed, and he’d made his.
Doesn’t mean you can’t share one now.
The sly thought made his raging desires flame anew. He thought of her straddling him on the bunk, the feel of her trim ankle in his fingers and the heated rise of her bosom. He’d been a hairsbreadth from yanking her down on top of him when he’d realized who she was. The comprehension had been like a bucket of ice-cold water to his brain. The rest of his sex-starved body, however, continued to march on, despite reason.
Even now, drenched in salt and frigid spray, he wanted her.
Perhaps he should have sought out willing female company before they’d left port that last night in Bombay and braved the consequences. Anything would be better than the lust eating away at him. Rhystan shoved a hand through the wet clumps of his hair, ignored the demands of his stiff nether regions, and focused on the matter at hand—steering them out of the path of the oncoming storm.
“You truly intend to put her to work?” Gideon asked, piercing his thoughts.
He ignored the man’s tone. “Yes. They took the places of two boatswains. Everyone contributes onboard.”
“She’s a lady, not a servant.”
Rhystan scowled. “She’s a goddamned princess. But she came here under false pretenses, and she’ll pull her weight like everyone else.”
“And the men?”
He hadn’t thought of them. For the most part, he trusted his crew, but he’d taken on half a dozen new men after a bout of malaria had culled his ranks. Two of them had taken bribes from her over honest work, which didn’t say much for them. And the others were unknowns.
Rhystan knew he had a ruthless reputation, but even he couldn’t have eyes on a lady and her maid every minute of every day. Two females onboard for several weeks could prove disastrous.
He speared Gideon with a grin. “Since you pointed that out, you’re on guard duty.”
The look on the man’s face was almost comical, his large jaw gaping and big fingers clenching on the railing. Rhystan was sure they would leave splintered dents.
“I’m your quartermaster,” Gideon said. “Not a wet nurse.”
“You hired those greedy bastards, so you’re equally at fault.”
“Fuck you, Hunt.”
Gideon stormed off, and Rhystan fought his laughter. “Get in line, my friend.”
* * *
A handful of weeks later, well into the voyage, a tight-faced, patience-stretched-to-the-limit Rhystan wasn’t laughing. He was almost ready to throw his replacement cabin “boy” over the side. In the first week, they’d managed to outstrip the storm by a hair when it veered out to sea, east of the Indian Ocean. And after two more weeks of rain and rough seas, it’d been smooth sailing.
Smooth on the seas, though not on the ship itself.
The storm brewing within its casing was one of gargantuan proportions, promising casualties never hitherto recorded. One black-haired, bright-eyed victim in particular. Rhystan let out an aggravated growl as he climbed down from the crow’s nest after checking the rigging and headed toward his cabin.
Lady Sara Lockhart, also known as the bedeviled royal thorn in his side, would be the death of him. Locking her in her cabin would be far too easy. Giving up and assigning her elsewhere would make him an object of ridicule. The men had started making wagers on when he would concede and admit defeat.
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.