“What are the odds?” he murmured.
Sarani was not particularly religious, but destiny—or karma as she learned from the Upanishads: the philosophical law of ritual action and its effect in the universe—did indeed seem to have a twisted sense of humor. Fate had decided to throw them together once more.
“Slim to none, rather.” Sparing him a glance, she shot him a tiny, wry smile. “England was the only place I could think of where we could be safe. My maternal grandfather was the youngest son of the Earl of Beckforth, who married a Scottish countess. My mother had saved documents of the property she had inherited through my great-grandmother’s title, and I decided to take her maiden name of Lockhart.” She exhaled and reached for another bracing sip of whisky.
“Traveling as Princess Sarani Rao was much too conspicuous, and it’s easier to travel without a companion as a widow. I just didn’t expect to run into you.” Sarani swallowed hard. “But then, once we were away from Indian shores, I thought we might be safe. Obviously, we’re not. Whoever killed my father has followed us and means me harm. Or it’s Talbot, coming to claim his due.”
They stared at each other in silence, her hand rising to her pounding heart as she tried to catch her breath from the confession that had tumbled out.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said after a beat. “Your father was a good man.”
“My father was undermined by those around him, just as you once said. In the last few years, he became nothing but a figurehead.”
Rhystan dipped his head. “All the same, I’m sorry.”
“I can’t imagine what Vikram promised Markham and the regent. He could not have done this without their knowledge or support.” She paused, tears gathering in her eyes. “Money, I suppose. And power.”
“Markham had to have been desperate.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I made it my business to ruin him. He was skimming money for years and profiteering off of unspeakable practices. I destroyed his dealings and revealed his behavior. From my last report, he’d been demoted.”
Sarani let out a breath. Come to think of it, the vice admiral had been looking a lot worse for wear in the last year, but she had just thought it’d been because of local unrest. Despite the loss of the sepoys two years ago, the fallout had been significant.
“Desperate men are dangerous,” she said.
Sarani lifted an anxious gaze to the duke. He was watching her steadily with no sign of distrust or skepticism, and the only emotion she could see was the flexing muscle in his jaw and his white-knuckled grip on the edge of the desk. Was he angry? Did he believe her? Would he turn around and tell her she deserved what she’d sown? Sarani could never tell with this new version of the boy she’d known, but she needed his help, more than ever.
His next words made her jump. “You think your cousin is behind it?”
“I don’t know. Papa’s”—a small sob escaped her lips—“throat was cut. It had to be someone who had access to the palace. Who knew the guards. With all the growing instability in the region, my father was careful about who he trusted and who he allowed into the family apartments. And yet someone still got to him. The fact that that ship has been on our tail for weeks can’t be a coincidence. I’d rather be wrong than willfully ignorant.”
“Where were you planning to go in England?” he asked. “To the Earl of Beckforth?”
Sarani shrugged. “That was the plan.”
“And if that didn’t work, what then?”
His cool tone irritated her. She was well aware that going there was a long shot. Her mother had been quite publicly cut off and the scandal had been the talk of the town for years, and given what Sarani had learned about Englishmen and their bigotry, it wasn’t likely that she would be welcomed back into the family fold with open arms. But she’d been low on options—low being the understatement of the century—and she didn’t even know which of her distant male relations was the current earl. Perhaps, whoever he was, he would be more open-minded.
One could only hope.
“I have money,” she replied with some defiance. “I’ll find somewhere to stay. Go to my mother’s holdings in Scotland.”
“And when your store of money runs out?”
Lifting an eyebrow, Rhystan folded his arms across his broad chest. Sarani had the sudden indescribable urge to be cradled against him and wrapped in his strong arms. Ever since the death of her mother, she’d been largely self-reliant—the maharaja being occupied with affairs of state—but the idea of leaning on someone else for a change had appeal. Not that Rhystan was offering. He was simply playing devil’s advocate.
Though that didn’t mean she had to like him poking holes in her plans.
She would be fine!
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “I can get work, I suppose. I can now add shoveling horse manure, being a maid, fetching food, heaping coal, and braiding rope to the list of things to recommend me.” In a fit of frustration, she slammed her hand down upon the desk and shrieked in pain, cradling her injured fist to her breast. He was beside her in an instant.
“What have you done?” he demanded. “Show me.”
“It’s nothing,” she replied, but the agonizing throb in her palm nearly made her see stars.
Despite her protests, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, drawing her hands carefully to him. Slowly, she opened them, displaying their red raw, blistered surfaces and wincing. Half scabbed over, several of the plum-colored, oozing streaks looked angry and irritated, and they stung fiercely.
Rhystan swore. “Damn it, Sarani, what in hell happened?”
“The wooden shovels in the animal pens have splinters, and using my kukri earlier must have torn some of the scabs. When I fell, I caught myself with my hands. It made some of the older wounds reopen.”
“They’re bloody festering, you daft woman. You should have come to me.”
She shot him a sour stare. “To whine?”
“Yes. No! This is not whining, you fool-headed imp.” Rhystan leaned over to blow on the tender, aching skin, and something else crept into the edges of her pain. “Be sure to add bullheaded, stubborn, and contrary to your job-qualifications list.” Propping her against the desk, he released her hands gently to get a clean strip of linen from a nearby chest and poured some of the whisky on it. “We have to clean it properly. I won’t lie… This will hurt like the devil.”
“I’m not afraid.”
One thick eyebrow arched. “You’ve proven that time and time again. Ready?”