Page 17 of The Princess Stakes
He speared Gideon with a grin. “Since you pointed that out, you’re on guard duty.”
The look on the man’s face was almost comical, his large jaw gaping and big fingers clenching on the railing. Rhystan was sure they would leave splintered dents.
“I’m your quartermaster,” Gideon said. “Not a wet nurse.”
“You hired those greedy bastards, so you’re equally at fault.”
“Fuck you, Hunt.”
Gideon stormed off, and Rhystan fought his laughter. “Get in line, my friend.”
* * *
A handful of weeks later, well into the voyage, a tight-faced, patience-stretched-to-the-limit Rhystan wasn’t laughing. He was almost ready to throw his replacement cabin “boy” over the side. In the first week, they’d managed to outstrip the storm by a hair when it veered out to sea, east of the Indian Ocean. And after two more weeks of rain and rough seas, it’d been smooth sailing.
Smooth on the seas, though not on the ship itself.
The storm brewing within its casing was one of gargantuan proportions, promising casualties never hitherto recorded. One black-haired, bright-eyed victim in particular. Rhystan let out an aggravated growl as he climbed down from the crow’s nest after checking the rigging and headed toward his cabin.
Lady Sara Lockhart, also known as the bedeviled royal thorn in his side, would be the death of him. Locking her in her cabin would be far too easy. Giving up and assigning her elsewhere would make him an object of ridicule. The men had started making wagers on when he would concede and admit defeat.
The answer was never. Gideon already couldn’t stanch his snickers about the ruthless captain being tested and bested by a kitten. Little did his faithless quartermaster know that this kitten possessed the heart and claws of a tiger.
As vexed as he was with his additional duties, Gideon had kept an eye on the two women. He’d started escorting the lady and her maid up to the deck for twice-daily walks, which they loved, and the men had gathered from the quartermaster’s hostile scowl that the ladies were not to be harassed.
Asha had taken to playing a type of bamboo wind instrument, called ashehnai, in the evenings. The crew flocked to her like children waiting for sweets, and Rhystan didn’t deny them the musical entertainment. The discordant notes of theshehnaiwere mournful and beautiful in equal measure, and the maid’s skill with the instrument was remarkable.
It reminded him of his time in Joor.
He suspected the same was true for Lady Lockhart, who usually watched from the side with an undecipherable expression on her face. Sadness? Nostalgia? If he recalled correctly, she played as well, though her talents also extended to the pianoforte and the harp.
Once more, the thought of her made him scowl.
The crafty little imp defied him at every turn. If he gave an errand or a job, she went out of her way to botch it, and when he confronted her about it, she was all doe-eyed innocence. Rhystan knew she was pulling one over him. No one could be that naive or clumsy or unintelligent. And he knew for a fact she wasn’t.
He tasked her to mend his clothes, and she somehow managed to sew the sleeves shut. He ordered her to dust his cabin, and she managed to find a rag that the cook had used to wipe his hands while gutting fish. His quarters had stunk of fish entrails for days on end. He’d had half a mind to make them switch rooms and have her sleep in the stench she’d created, but he couldn’t bring himself to give up the bed that had been built to accommodate his large frame. He’d borne the reek in grim silence until it had faded.
His precious collection of books had been rearranged by binding color and then size—nautical and scientific texts mixed in willy-nilly with volumes of Shakespeare and poetry. It’d taken him hours to find one with charts he’d been working on, lodged neatly between Thoreau and Brontë. If she hadn’t boasted once upon a time that her own collection of books in Joor was meticulously arranged bysubjectandauthor, he would have thought it a blunder.
No, it had been intentional.
Rhystan supposed they were small acts of rebellion, considering how crudely he’d treated her that first day of discovery. But he hadn’t escaped punishment either. Despite the tomfoolery, desire was a double-edged sword that cared little for its wounded.
Her constant presence wore at him, getting under his skin and driving him mad. Her jasmine scent lingered everywhere. Not a day went by that he didn’t wake with an erection or go to bed without one, and his dreams were chock-full of erotic fantasies, all of which included her.
Not that he would ever admit that.
Once belowdecks, he summoned her to his cabin, intent on making his displeasure known and putting his foot down once and for all. He was the bloody captain, damn it!
“You rang, your lordship,” she said with a jaunty bow.
Rhystan gaped at her appearance. Somewhere in the last day, she’d purloined a pair of loose trousers and a shirt, a patched coat, and a pair of scuffed boots. The overall look was better suited to a cutpurse on the streets of St. Giles than a lady. It was also disturbingly provocative. The woolen fabric of her shortened pants outlined the shapely lines of her legs to indecency, and the coat buttons strained in their moorings over the distracting swell of her bosom. None of her clothing did anything to hide those feminine curves.
“What the bloody hell are you wearing?”
“Clothes?”
The corners of his mouth drew down. “Not suited to a lady.”
