Page 81 of The Princess Stakes
She bit his shoulder hard as her body convulsed around him, the undulation setting off his own release as he groaned and yanked himself from her. Supporting her limp body with one arm, he finished in his fist, barely able to keep them both upright.
“That was…” He couldn’t even speak.
“Outstanding.”
He couldn’t have agreed more. There weren’t many ladies who would have been up for an impromptu tiff in a cobwebbed public nook in a tavern, but she had been as amorous as he. Smiling foolishly, they put themselves to rights, cleaning up with a handkerchief, tucking in shirttails, and buttoning up trousers. In all the passion, her braid had unraveled and unpinned from its moorings, so he helped her secure the silky mass.
“I’ve never felt hair like yours,” he said, lifting a fragrant handful to his nose and inhaling deeply. The scent of jasmine invaded his senses.
“It’s just hair,” she replied self-consciously.
“Not yours. It’s like liquid silk through my fingers.” He deftly rebraided the sleek skeins into a thick braid, catching her astonished look. “I have a younger sister who forced me to comb her hair when we were little.”
“Forced you?” Sarani asked grinning.
“Have you met Ravenna?” He sighed and expertly pinned her hair to her scalp, taking care not to scrape her skin before fixing the cap back in place. “The little hellion had me learn all the fashionable girls’ styles one summer in the country when her maid quit because of newts in her bedclothes. Mother said that she would have to do without a maid since she chased Hettie away with her infernal pranks.”
Sarani laughed, her eyes twinkling. “Ravenna is my kind of girl.”
“She likes you, too.”
He pulled her back by the arm, wiping away the remnants of her smudged mustache with his thumb. Her lips were swollen, plump, and dusky red. He couldn’t resist kissing her one last time before they made their way back out to the main hall of the tavern.
Gideon, who was waiting, took one look at them and his brows shot upward. Sarani’s cheeks flamed, but Rhystan couldn’t help puffing his chest slightly. “Not a word,” he told his friend.
“Wasn’t going to say anything,” the quartermaster drawled. “Good to see you looking so hale, Princess.”
Her blush intensified. “And you, Gideon.”
They resumed their seats, and Rhystan ordered a new round of drinks before looking expectantly to his quartermaster. “Find anything?”
“Yes. Finn Driscoll lost a fortune with him when Markham claimed the ships containing his cargo were sunk at sea. But rumor is Markham stripped the ships himself.”
Rhystan had heard of Finn Driscoll. The Irish captain was as ruthless as he was cruel. “Good. Arrange a meeting. The quicker we muzzle Markham, the safer Sarani and my family will be.”
He felt Sarani glance at him, and he felt a swift rush of guilt. He didn’t make the rules of the beau monde, but the scandal if the truth got out would also hurt them, simply by association.
Like his mother, he would do what was necessary to protect his family name.
* * *
The hour was late. Sarani had excused herself from the musicale that evening, citing a megrim and retiring to her room, but she’d really just needed to think. Something Rhystan had said earlier in the tavern kept niggling at her—that he had to keep his family safe as well. While helping her had been part of their bargain, she hadn’t really thought of the other consequences.
Like what being linked to her would do to Ravenna. Or even the duchess.
These aristocrats did not like their social laws bent, unless they were doing the bending. And she, by virtue of her mixed blood, was not one of them. There was only one thing for it: she had to leave for their sakes. Sarani’s heart constricted. Tej would have to stay behind. She would not rob him of such a bright future. To Asha, she would give the choice.
A crashing noise from downstairs made her fly up from the armchair in her bedchamber. That had sounded like breaking glass. Flashes of the glass she’d seen on the terrace of her own palace in Joor filled her mind. No, no, it was simply a servant dropping a goblet or a wineglass. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Snatching a shawl, she threw it over her shoulders and peeked outside. Her kukri were both strapped to her thighs in their usual sheaths—she hadn’t yet disrobed for bed.
It was late, so only a single lamp burned in the corridor. As far as she knew, the dowager duchess and Ravenna had yet to return from the musicale. The hairs on her nape lifted as she crept down the dimly lit staircase. Her nerves coiled, tension filling her veins when hushed voices reached her ears. It had to be the servants, but she would check to make sure, just for peace of mind.
On soundless feet, she rounded the corner to the kitchen, which was also deserted. The dowager must have returned then—no servant would withdraw before she had. Peering into each of the rooms she passed and noting each one empty with no visible sign of broken glass, Sarani halted when low voices trailed from the vicinity of the drawing room.
She frowned and then picked up the pace as Her Grace’s imperious voice cut through the silence. “What do you want?” she asked.
Sarani whirled, but the dowager duchess wasn’t addressing her. Flanked by two footmen, she stood outlined by the glow of the light coming from the drawing room, still dressed for the evening. Someone replied, but Sarani could not make out the words.
“I’ve sent for the police,” she said calmly. “If you don’t want any trouble, then why have you broken in?”
