She bit her lip, her eyes glancing over her shoulder to the departing shores, her indecision clear. He still couldn’t fathom that she would choose to face a killer over betrothal to him. She’d always been headstrong, but her intelligence had always been a dependable foil to her more impulsive ideas. He felt a stroke of admiration for her unshakable courage, as misguided as it was.
“Will it be in name only?” she asked. “This temporary engagement.”
Rhystan fought back amusement. “Meaning?”
“No…er…kissing,” she said, a blush rising up her neck. “Or inappropriate touching. Or any other things.”
“No.”
A shocked stare collided with his, hot color saturating those elegant cheekbones. Her lips parted on a gasp. “What do you mean, no?”
“Just what it sounds like,” he said. “My mother will see through the subterfuge if it’s not believable. You must allow me to touch you, and you must be willing to touch me. Though based on recent evidence, that will not be a hardship for either of us.”
Desire and heat twined through him, and Rhystan willed his overeager body to behave. A cockstand at this juncture would not win him any favors. He glanced at her flaming cheeks. Or perhaps it would. He leaned on the railing, jutting his hips forward. Rhystan knew the moment her gaze dipped to the overcrowded area in question, when a strangled sound escaped her throat and her flush deepened to dark rose. “You are unspeakable.”
“I’m a red-blooded male,” he returned evenly. “You want me, and I want you. Ignoring the monster between us won’t make it go away, Sarani.”
She rolled her eyes at his innuendo. “Your ego is truly enormous, unlike that part of you. And my name is Sara.”
“Sara, then,” he conceded, resenting the shorter sound of it on his lips. He much preferred the lyrical sound of her whole name but would yield if it meant that much to her. “The duchess will ferret out any lie in a heartbeat. As my fiancée, you must act the part, because she has to believe it’s a love match.”
Her slender throat worked. “Why? Most gentlemen hardly marry for love.”
“Because she is well versed on my vow never to marry. The fact that the ever prosaic, unsentimental duke has been brought low by Cupid will undoubtedly appeal to her female sense of romanticism.” He didn’t add that the Duchess of Embry did not have a romantic bone in her body.
Sarani narrowed her eyes, lips pursing. “Female sense? I didn’t expect such a deeply elemental thing to be relegated to one particular sex or for you to describe it so.”
His lips twitched, that tart rejoinder reminding him of their many vigorous discussions. From politics to literature to philosophy to science, they’d never been at a loss for topics of discourse, and she’d always argued her points passionately and with conviction. Those few times that he’d won an argument, she’d conceded with grace, willing to learn and widen her worldview. He’d never met another like her. Smart, articulate, and deviously clever.
Had she been born a man, she might have left revolution in her wake.
“Everyone knows women are hopeless romantics,” he said, biting back his smile.
“A sweeping generalization,” she said, eyes sparking. “I know of many men who would stake their fortunes on the value of a single romantic gesture.”
“Let me guess, poets like Byron?”
She sniffed. “And Coleridge, Wordsworth, and other poets of English note while you’re at it. Not all of the great poets hail from the west, you know. Jalal al-Din Rumi’s evocation of divine love could be read as the most intimate kind of love poetry.”
“I’m familiar with translations of his work. It might surprise you that James Redhouse is a distant acquaintance of mine.” He smiled, seeing her brows pleat at the mention of the well-known literary translator.
“I thought I saw something from the Royal Asiatic Society in your bookshelf,” she said. “I did not take someone like you to be a connoisseur of Rumi or a collector of peregrine literature.”
“Why? Because I’m a humble ship’s captain?” He shot her an arch look.
“No. Because you’ve…”
Changed.
He saw the moment the banter fled from her eyes and the wariness returned. Once more, she turned a desperate, panicked gaze to the shoreline. “I don’t—”
“Sarani, you are not safe there,” he interjected before she chose rashly and he had to resort to less pleasant measures to get his way. “I will protect you in London. You will have the safeguard of my family and my name. Once I conclude my business in London, we can end the engagement however you please. A public scene? A quiet send-off? It’s up to you.”
“You could have any woman you choose.”
He nodded. “But with you, I would have an understanding. With you, this is a trade. An eye for an eye—we both get something out of it.” He let out a measured breath. “It’s your choice.”
She was much too intelligent not to know it was merely the illusion of choice. St. Helena would be dangerous, not only for her but for her servants…whom she considered family. Rhystan could see the war waging in her mind. She’d always been fiercely independent, and that trait had not been tempered. It would gall her to accept his help, especially when her every instinct warned against trusting him. And she had every right to mistrust him.
“I don’t rate as a wife for the son of a duke, much less an actual duke,” she said eventually. “Your letter stated as much, so why the change of heart?”
He frowned, recalling the harsh lines of the letter he’d written five years ago. “I thought you didn’t think I was high-ranking enough for you. You were a princess and I was a lowly, third-born son with little to recommend me. I was jealous and angry when I wrote that.”
“That was obvious.” She shook her head. “Your sentiments were more than clear.”
He tilted his chin. “I was furious at what I thought you’d done—that you’d married another—though now I can hardly blame you for obeying your father’s wishes, seeing as I’m to be put through the same paces for the sake of duty. Forgive me for being an angry, jilted man.”
It still pulled, the old injury of losing her, like a scab that hadn’t quite healed. Early on and believing her love false, he had yearned for vengeance, when every single memory of her had brought pain and fury in equal measure. But now he needed her—the one woman who had ever broken him. The whole thing stung of irony. And folly.
“I propose a peace,” he said and then pushed a conciliatory grin to his lips. “No more barnacles in my bed, and no more mucking out stalls. I’ll prove to you that I can be quite civil.”