The minute distraction allowed Gideon to get a blow into his chin that smacked his head sideways. Despite the crunch of bone, Rhystan followed with a ruthless jab to his quartermaster’s gut that had the man stumbling back with an ugly wheeze.
Stretching his aching jaw, Rhystan smirked at Sarani, who had bolted to her feet, and he raised a mocking eyebrow at the look of admiration edged with concern on her face. Unsurprisingly, she shot him a crude finger gesture that made him laugh aloud. Which made him unable to dodge the ham-sized fist that came directly at his temple.
He was still laughing when he crashed down like the sorriest sack of shit this side of the ocean.
* * *
“Move aside, you lot!” Sarani swore as she shoved through the smelly line of bodies exchanging coin and other items to crouch at Rhystan’s side.
Gideon stooped beside her and grunted through a split lip. “He’s out like a blown lamp.”
“I can see that, you great oaf,” she growled, wincing at the swelling bruise that was already spreading on the duke’s temple and cheek. “Did you have to hit him that hard? And why were the two of you brawling anyway? Fisticuffs isn’t the way to solve disagreements.”
“We didn’t have a disagreement,” Gideon said. “He needed to let out some sap.”
“Sap?” she repeated.
His pointed look made Sarani blush.
Oh.
Their passionate interlude in the cabin must have sent him here to Gideon. It had very nearly sent her over the side of the ship into the frigid sea to cool her overheated blood, so she could empathize. But this? Choosing to be pummeled to oblivion? It seemed rather counterintuitive, not to mention barbaric.
Scanning his limp frame, Sarani winced at the bloodied state of the duke, tearing off a piece of her hem to wipe the blood away from the corner of his lip. Her fingers traced the edges of the sculpted lips that had devoured hers, and her breath caught, her own lips tingling in response.
She snatched her fingers away, fighting the tide of her blush with everything inside of her as her entire body started to hum with arousal…just from the one touch. She revised her earlier thought. Perhaps there was something to thrashing the lust out of one’s body. Or in Rhystan’s case, welcoming insensibility. She’d give anything to douse the emotions cresting inside her.
The attraction between them had always been their destruction, and so many years later, that appeared still to be true. Much like Rhystan, Sarani hadn’t been able to shut her eyes after she’d left his cabin. Her every nerve had been on fire. So when the cheers and hoots from the crew had drawn her topside, she’d been grateful for the interruption.
Once she’d seen what was happening and who was fighting, however, she hadn’t been able to move a muscle. Though his opponent’s upper body had been bare as well, her greedy eyes hadn’t strayed from Rhystan’s glistening, chiseled, shirtless form. She’d seen many men brawl before, but nothing came close to Rhystan’s predatory grace. While Gideon fought like a bear, Rhystan moved like one of the feral tigers native to Joor, all sinew and ruthless elegance.
She’d been mesmerized, reminding her of the times when she’d boxed with him in secret in Joor. In secret because her father would definitely not have approved of any man putting his hands on her person. While Sarani’s unusual eastern and western upbringing allowed her some liberties, she was still a princess of Joor. Rhystan had found her arguing about pugilism with her weapons master in one of the training centers, and when her instructor had outright refused for fear of the maharaja’s reaction, Rhystan had offered to demonstrate some basic strategies.
After showing her how to hold her stance, with feet shoulder-width apart and offering as little of her body as possible for a target, Rhystan had danced around her, fists raised to his chin. He hadn’t been as broad as he was now, but he’d still towered over her.
“Go on, hit me,” he’d goaded her.
Unable to resist, she’d thrown a few lackluster jabs. He’d evaded her initial strikes easily, but Sarani had used the time to watch his feet and track his movements, committing them to memory. With that unearthly grace of his, he’d spun and jeered at her.
“You’re not even trying, Sarani.”
“I am trying, you bully ruffian.”
He’d laughed at her puny efforts. “Then try harder.”
The scoundrel had taunted her until she’d gotten so angry that she’d watched and waited for the precise moment when his prancing feet had brought him close enough within range to punch upward with all her might. The contact had surprised them both. Rhystan had had a sore jaw for days. It was a small-won victory that she’d gloated about.
Watching him fight Gideon, it was apparent that his pugilistic skills had only improved. The orchestrated grace with which he’d boxed before had gotten scrappier and more vicious. He still moved like a cat, but his new style was savage. And until he’d caught sight of her and been distracted, Rhystan had held the upper hand. Though admittedly, it’d been by the thinnest sliver of margins.
Sarani assumed she was to blame for that, too.
“Help me get him to his cabin,” she told the quartermaster. “I’ll see to his injuries.”
It was the least she could do.
At least, that was what she told herself.
Ten
Rhystan’s eyes flickered open and he groaned. Hell. It hurt to blink. It hurt to breathe. Everything hurt. His head felt like it had gone straight through a wall, and his ribs squeezed like they were buried under a ton of stone. A wheezing breath blew out of him as he registered the familiar details of his cabin, lit by a single lamp. His eyes slid to the nearest porthole and the hazy gray-and-purple light shining through it.
How long had he been out?
He sighed, groaning slightly at the crushing pressure in his chest. His ribs were going to be sore for a while. Gideon hadn’t pulled any punches this time. Nor was he going to live it down with his crew. It’d been an age since his quartermaster had bested him. Usually any fight between them ended in a well-earned draw, never in a loss on his part. This time, however…his thoughts had been occupied elsewhere.
He moved to sit up, only to be restrained by a firm but gentle hand.
“Don’t,” a soft voice commanded.
A cool cloth touched a cut on his forehead, and he hissed. Other details registered in his pounding brain, including the faintest scent of jasmine and the shapely silhouette of the woman tending to him.
Sarani.
The early-morning gloom in the cabin sheathed her in lamplight and shadow, as if she were some elegant, graceful nymph stealing into his dreams. She was the one who’d taught him about such spirits—celestial dancing nymphs, much like Muses, Valkyries, naiads, and nature spirits from other types of lore—when he’d teased her about her obsession with swimming. He closed his eyes and let memory wash over him.