Sarani’s knees nearly buckled at the idea of touching him. Of putting her hands on those acres upon acres of glistening skin. She wanted her hands on him, her lips on him, her tongue… Gracious, her mouth actually watered at the thought. She wondered whether all those muscles were as hard as they looked. If it was a cabin boy’s job, then it was her duty to do it, wasn’t it? For the sake of devoted cabin boys everywhere. She’d turned and almost taken a half step back toward him before she came to her rioting senses.
Oh, get it together, you bean-brained hussy.
She should stand her ground. Cut him dead like the royal she was. Flay him alive with the whip of her tongue. But her stupid, shameless tongue had apparently decided to mutiny. It had other ideas instead of sensible speech…ideas that involved licking and sucking and a variety of lewd things that defied decency or morality.
Her mouth went dry at her wicked thoughts of tasting him there.
Squaring her shoulders, she met his stare. “I wasn’t aware that you required washing like a helpless babe.”
“Are you offering?”
“No.”
A glittering gaze swept her. “You know you want to, or at least your body does.”
“And what would you know of what my body wants, Your Grace?”
His hot stare fastened on her breasts. To her undying shame, her nipples were proclaiming their steadfast adoration, straining against the thin, dampened lawn of her nightclothes that had now become transparent. Sarani slapped her arms across her front, her cheeks on fire.
“So I’m cold… What of it?”
His smile was wicked. “Are you certain that’s the reason?”
“For a duke, you’re no gentleman.”
“I never said I was.” His smile grew teeth. “And you should know that I’m done playing games, so you had better get used to it, my little apsara.”
The lyrical sound of the Hindustani nickname he used to call her—water nymph—rolling over his tongue did unconscionable things to her needy heart and already shaky willpower. She was weak when it came to this man. And here he was, throwing down the gauntlet.
He hates you and wants to punish you.
He’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Don’t trust him.
Gathering the shreds of her dignity, she tossed her chin high. “Play your games or don’t. But I guarantee you, Captain, that the only thing you will do is lose.”
Seven
“There’s a ship on our tail.”
Rhystan passed the spyglass to Gideon and shaded his eyes with one palm to squint at the horizon. It was no more than a black speck in the distance, but the vessel had been following in their wake for some time. Possibly since the storm they’d outrun in the Arabian Sea, though Rhystan couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t been preoccupied with it because he’d been more focused on what lay ahead than what was behind them.
Gideon shrugged and lowered the glass. “This is a common enough trading route. We see other ships all the time.”
“Yes, but they either pass or disappear after a few days. That one has maintained the same gap. That’s what worries me.”
“You expecting trouble, Captain?”
Rhystan shook his head at his quartermaster. “Not that I know of, but keep an eye on it,” he told him. “Best be prepared if it is.”
Gideon actually looked elated at the prospect. Then again, after being stuck on a ship for weeks on end, a man tended to get restless. And a man like Gideon needed an outlet more than most. Normally, he and Rhystan sparred on deck once a day, but they’d both been busy.
In the Baltic Sea when they’d first sailed together, they’d dealt with many unsavory types on the ocean, including cutthroat pirates, whom Gideon had been merciless in hunting down. Given his lethal array of skills, he’d enjoyed putting his deadly scimitars to use. He’d been in the business of privateering for the carnage and the coin, but lately, actual physical combat had been sparse.
In that first year after leaving Joor, Rhystan had made it their business to disrupt the East India Company whenever they could. They sank ships in the dead of night, disrupted known opium trade routes, and repossessed valuable cargo, only to redistribute it to the locals it had been stolen from. He had taken great pleasure in compromising their shoddy practices and emptying their coffers.
The past four years, however, he’d spent more time in the West Indies, investing in infrastructure, trading goods, and doing what he could to better the lives of the people there. Handing over ownership of the former duke’s plantations to the locals was the first thing he’d done as duke. It wasn’t nearly enough to account for the crimes of the past, but it was a beginning—and a sign of how he intended to proceed.
Ironically, those choices had been because of Sarani.
Not that he would ever tell her that.
In Joor, she’d always been suspicious of the crown’s motives. “They didn’t come to settle or to integrate,” she had grumbled once when they were at the river. “They came to pillage. Tell me that isn’t true.”
Rhystan remembered thinking of Markham’s plans to subjugate the princely states under his rule. “I wish I could. In their eyes, more advanced civilizations have always explored lesser ones.”
“Lesser?” Sparks had flown from her. “What makes their country more advanced than mine? Our art, our wealth, our cultural history cannot even be measured. One people’s standards of civilization cannot be held to another’s!”
She’d been right, of course, and in truth, he’d never looked at the expansion of the British empire in the same way. She’d made him open his eyes to the injustices being committed in full view.
Rhystan frowned at the thought of their now intersecting paths. Five years had passed in a blink and yet felt like an eternity. It was a miracle he’d even been in Bombay at all, but he’d received word of an enormous shipment of opium, arranged by none other than his old friend, Markham.
Had fate had a hand in his return?
In this unwelcome reunion?
With one hand on the wheel, Rhystan let his gaze rove the deck, over the handful of men swabbing the wood clear of seaweed and crusted salt, until it fell on one small figure. Sarani sat with Tej and Red, a man he trusted, braiding ropes. A cap was pulled low over her head, and the nondescript clothing she wore made her blend in with the others, but she could be clothed in a burlap sack and he’d still be able to find her.
He wasn’t an enthusiast of her male attire, but Gideon had pointed out that she didn’t draw as much notice from the men. Rhystan begged to differ. He’d prefer to see those slender legs obscured by yards of voluminous fabric, not encased in formfitting trousers. Then again, heaving manure from the livestock pen off the side of the ship while wearing a dress wasn’t ideal. He scowled. The damned quartermaster had had a go at him for that, too.