“Why haven’t you asked me to dance?” a voice like cool velvet on hot skin asked.
Rhystan whirled, the scent of jasmine curling around his already overheated senses as the princess came into view. Several guards hovered behind her, ever vigilant. His jaw slackened as she laughed softly at his expression. He was still struggling to take in the honeyed rasp of her voice, to deal with the musical, chest-tightening sound of her laughter that followed. “Apologies, I assumed your card would be filled.”
“It is,” she said. “But I dance with whomever I please.”
Once more, she laughed, causing him to fixate on her lips. They were perfect, a dark rose pout that curled in amusement. Gulping, he took in the rest of her face, from those entrancing eyes and strongly drawn nose to the golden freckles dancing over a pair of sweeping cheekbones. By God, she had to be one of the most stunning women he’d ever seen. His tongue felt thick in his mouth even as his heart raced.
“Are you naturally quiet?” she asked after he escorted her into the first turn of the next dance. “Or just shy?”
“I’m in awe of your beauty.”
She sniffed and tossed her head. “A woman’s worth is not only in her looks, sir.”
Rhystan forgot about their audience and suddenly wanted to sample that saucy mouth, see if it was as tart as it sounded. “What other attributes should I be looking for?”
“Her intelligence, her compassion, her knowledge, her wit, her strength.”
“I see no lack thereof, but then again, we’ve only just met. You could be a coldhearted, book-burning, humorless harpy for all I know,” he teased, his chest leaping at the delighted curl of her lips.
She threw a dramatic palm to her heart and blew out a breath. “Take that back, you rascal! I love books, more than people, in fact.”
Rhystan grinned, the flash of a mischievous pair of dimples in her cheeks making him want to tease them out again. They parted in a swirl of skirts and came back together. “Besides reading, what else do you enjoy doing, Princess?”
“I am fond of simple pleasures, Commander Huntley.”
“Rhystan.” It was the only word he could safely say after the word pleasures fell from her lips and his mind was blanketed with all manner of wicked things. Like kissing. Kissing her senseless, specifically. Sweat beaded under the collar of his uniform. This girl could be the end of him. He cleared his throat. “I mean, my name is Rhystan.”
“Calling you by your given name in public would not be proper, Commander.”
His voice lowered. “In private, then.”
He expected her to slap him. To lift up the voluminous silk of her skirts and flounce away in indignant rage. But a thick fringe of jet lashes lifted as those storm-bright hazel eyes caught his, wicked mirth in their depths, her whispered cadence matching his. “In that case, you may call me Sarani. In private.”
And in that moment, Rhystan was lost.
From that day onward, he spent every available moment he could in her presence. If an opportunity came up to accompany the princess, he volunteered for it, and if his commanding officer was noticing his obsession or disapproving of it, Rhystan didn’t care. She was as intoxicating in intelligence as she was in beauty, and he was utterly lost.
However, he should have known it couldn’t last, and after a few months, Vice Admiral Markham summoned him to his quarters.
“End it,” he said without preamble.
“End what, sir?” Rhystan asked.
Markham did not look up from his papers. “This unpalatable distraction you have with Rao’s daughter.”
Rhystan stiffened. “Unpalatable?”
“We need to reduce tensions with the natives, and she’s one of them.”
Rhystan suppressed his growl of rage, knowing he was toeing the line of misconduct by challenging the man. He’d expected it from Markham, whose prejudice against the locals was obvious, but in recent weeks, Rhystan had become acutely aware of the hypocrisy of other officers in the British regime, particularly the Company, taking what they wanted without consequence and trampling the rights of the locals with impunity. They wanted the lands and the riches, but scorned the people who lived there. Including the maharaja and his daughter.
After spending so much time with Sarani and seeing things through her eyes, the duplicity dug at him. He’d seen those underhanded treaties for what they were—cheating local princes out of power and autonomy, while their lands were pillaged. Rhystan had even cast aside his pride and written to his father, hoping his and Sarani’s concerns might be aired in chambers, but he should have said more. Done more. He blinked at the vice admiral and frowned. Had his letters even been delivered?
“May I ask on whose authority, Vice Admiral?”
Cold eyes met his. “The Duke of Embry.”
Hearing his father’s name was a blow. Rhystan’s mind raced. How would the duke have learned about his relationship with the princess? Edward was the only one who had been privy to his interest in the girl, but the duke also had many connections in India, including the vice admiral.
“It’s not that simple,” he admitted. “I care for her.”
What looked like disgust tinged the officer’s features as a sneer appeared. “She’s a half breed.”
The slur to her mixed origins made Rhystan see red, but before he could launch himself across the table and grab the vile man’s throat in his hands, two soldiers stepped forward to restrain him.
“She’s bloody royalty,” Rhystan growled, abandoning the hold on his temper.
“You forget your place, boy.” The vice admiral rose, his revulsion clear now. “I’ve watched you for months casting pearls before swine. You’re a disgrace to the entire British regiment.” He nodded to his men, his lip curling. “Get this sorry sack of shit out of here, and make sure he’s on the next convoy bound for London. Let his father deal with him.”
* * *
Sarani rose from her bath, jasmine-infused water dripping down her skin as her handmaidens rushed forward to enclose her body in warm drying cloths. Her thoughts, as usual, centered on Rhystan…the handsome young commander who had stolen her heart.
Though in all honesty, she’d thrown it at him enough times herself in the past weeks. She wanted to throw more, including her body. Love made people stupid, evidently.
Is it love?
She’d devoured enough Sanskrit mythology to suspect it very well could be. The Mahabharata, the Ramayana. Her people loved their epic romances, and their gods and goddesses were renowned for celebrating life, devotion, and fertility. At the last, she flushed and bit her lip, her cheeks hot as the handmaidens dressed her in her flimsy nightclothes.