“You’re like a water sprite or a siren,” he’d told her once when she’d convinced him yet again to sneak out to visit her secret spot at the river.
“I’ll lure you to your death, shall I?” she’d teased back. “Like an apsara.”
“A what?”
“A heavenly water nymph, skilled in the arts of music and dancing”—she’d thrown him a sultry look over her shoulder that was so full of promise that his knees had buckled on the steep slope of the riverbank—“and seduction. Sent to lure sages from their purpose.”
“I’m already yours,” he’d croaked, mesmerized.
“Are you?”
“As long as I draw breath, you will be the only apsara to tempt this wastrel’s heart.”
She’d laughed and floated in the pool then, the voluminous white folds of the traditional garb fanning about her, looking much like the divine nymph she’d described, and Rhystan had never been more grateful for the isolation of their secret spot than he had at that moment.
The small waterfall had been a short hike away from where the villagers usually bathed and washed their clothing, but it was worth it for the seclusion. There she was free of the trappings of her station and could speak her mind. There he could kiss her fragrant skin without recrimination, judgment, or censure. It had been their secret adventure.
The first time he’d shown her the pool, climbing through the sweltering bush hadn’t deterred his fierce princess in the least. She was adept at sneaking out of the palace. She’d allowed her maid, Asha, to accompany her for propriety’s sake, though she’d refused a guard, insisting she could defend herself well enough should any need arise. And she could with those kukri blades of hers. Not that she’d needed them where Rhystan was concerned; he was already wholly at her mercy.
As the recollection dimmed, he licked dry lips. That was a more fitting name for her than the lukewarm Sara. His apsara sent to lure him from his purpose, from reason.
And now she had returned.
He ground his jaw. He was hardly the naive, lovestruck lad he’d been then, though he couldn’t deny the attraction that still burned like an unchecked flame between them. His heart was already beating a resounding staccato in his chest. And other parts of him… Well, he’d been at half-mast for so much of the voyage that it had become his natural state.
A sorry state indeed.
Rhystan shook his head at his inability to control himself and winced at the ache that shot up his spine and between his bruised ribs. There was no doubt in his mind that she was dangerous, and not just to him. She’d already brought danger on his heels with this unnamed assassin, if her story about why she’d fled Joor and Indian shores was true. Now that his thoughts had settled somewhat, his brain had processed the information she’d shared.
She never married.
The thought flew into his brain like a fly to honey. But it didn’t matter if she was unmarried or a widow. She wasn’t his.
Why can’t she be?
He almost growled at the supremely rational voice in his head. Theirs was not a story that could ever end in some unrealistic happily-ever-after. The court in Joor had been a small taste of what any union between them would face.
As vile as his behavior had been, Vice Admiral Markham would not be the only one in England to look down the length of his arrogant, prejudiced nose at Sarani. The truth of her lineage would come out sooner or later. London, with all its social rules and discrimination, was hardly the place for either of them.
St. Helena was still an option. He could rid himself of her once they put into James Bay. Though his gut clenched at the thought of leaving her in an island port without any means of escape. Would she be able to find passage on another ship? With another captain? One who wouldn’t take advantage? His jaw clenched at the thought of any such unscrupulous man getting his hooks into her, having her at his mercy on the seas. With her blades, she could defend herself against one, but what about many?
She’s not your problem.
She wasn’t, and yet he warred between wanting to protect and punish her. But punishing her didn’t mean abandoning an Indian princess at a random shipping port of call. The wolves would scent her vulnerability and be upon her in seconds.
A cool cloth dragged across his brow, and his gaze snapped open to his unwelcome nurse.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
She recoiled at the venom in his tone. “You’re hurt. I wanted to help.”
He didn’t snarl that it was because of her that he was hurt, that she had driven him to seek a thrashing from the biggest man onboard. Because in truth, provoking Gideon had been his choice. He’d needed a release from the paralysis that had gripped him. He’d needed reason pounded into him. “You’ve done enough.”
She sat back, her face contrite. “I’m sorry. If I’d known that this was your ship, I would have found another or told Tej to hide us somewhere else. I never would have—”
“Stolen onboard and bribed my crew?”
“Chosen this ship,” she finished, a faint blush cresting her cheeks.
“But it is my ship and here we are,” he said with a groan as he pulled himself to a sitting position. He licked parched lips and took the cup of water Sarani offered, wishing it were whisky instead. Anything to burn away the hint of jasmine seeping into his nostrils and making him desire impossible things. He swallowed and exhaled. “The current Earl of Beckforth is not the friendliest of men.”
A surprised gaze met his. “You know him?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
He blew air through his lips and thought back to what he knew—scant though it was, and it had only jogged his memory after he’d skimmed through the latest copy of Debrett’s he had in his collection. Beckforth had inherited the earldom when the previous earl had died without male issue. The man was rumored to be close-fisted with money and a quiet sort of man with an aloof nature. Not exactly the kind of earl to welcome a half-blooded daughter of a disowned third cousin.
Not that it mattered.
Princess Sarani Rao would hardly be welcomed with open arms if the peerage discovered her identity. The scandal when Lady Lisbeth had left England—in defiance of her parents and on a ship bound for India with an Indian prince—might have died over two decades, but those poisonous harridans who had chased her from the ton and vilified her were still very much alive. And they would not hesitate to revive painful gossip and malign Sarani for being the issue of such a union.
It would take a miracle to protect her.
Or…marriage to a powerful peer.
His gaze snapped to hers, and she sucked in a breath, jeweled eyes going wide as if he’d laid his hands upon her person. A nervous pink tongue darted out to wet her lips, and once more, Rhystan felt his body stir.