Page 9 of The Princess Stakes
“We need to reduce tensions with the natives, and she’s one of them.”
Rhystan suppressed his growl of rage, knowing he was toeing the line of misconduct by challenging the man. He’d expected it from Markham, whose prejudice against the locals was obvious, but in recent weeks, Rhystan had become acutely aware of the hypocrisy of other officers in the British regime, particularly the Company, taking what they wanted without consequence and trampling the rights of the locals with impunity. They wanted the lands and the riches, but scorned the people who lived there. Including the maharaja and his daughter.
After spending so much time with Sarani and seeing things through her eyes, the duplicity dug at him. He’d seen those underhanded treaties for what they were—cheating local princes out of power and autonomy, while their lands were pillaged. Rhystan had even cast aside his pride and written to his father, hoping his and Sarani’s concerns might be aired in chambers, but he should have said more.Donemore. He blinked at the vice admiral and frowned. Had his letters even been delivered?
“May I ask on whose authority, Vice Admiral?”
Cold eyes met his. “The Duke of Embry.”
Hearing his father’s name was a blow. Rhystan’s mind raced. How would the duke have learned about his relationship with the princess? Edward was the only one who had been privy to his interest in the girl, but the duke also had many connections in India, including the vice admiral.
“It’s not that simple,” he admitted. “I care for her.”
What looked like disgust tinged the officer’s features as a sneer appeared. “She’s a half breed.”
The slur to her mixed origins made Rhystan see red, but before he could launch himself across the table and grab the vile man’s throat in his hands, two soldiers stepped forward to restrain him.
“She’s bloody royalty,” Rhystan growled, abandoning the hold on his temper.
“You forget your place, boy.” The vice admiral rose, his revulsion clear now. “I’ve watched you for months casting pearls before swine. You’re a disgrace to the entire British regiment.” He nodded to his men, his lip curling. “Get this sorry sack of shit out of here, and make sure he’s on the next convoy bound for London. Let his father deal with him.”
* * *
Sarani rose from her bath, jasmine-infused water dripping down her skin as her handmaidens rushed forward to enclose her body in warm drying cloths. Her thoughts, as usual, centered on Rhystan…the handsome young commander who had stolen her heart.
Though in all honesty, she’d thrown it at him enough times herself in the past weeks. She wanted to throw more, including her body. Love made people stupid, evidently.
Is it love?
She’d devoured enough Sanskrit mythology to suspect it very well could be. TheMahabharata, theRamayana. Her people loved their epic romances, and their gods and goddesses were renowned for celebrating life, devotion, and fertility. At the last, she flushed and bit her lip, her cheeks hot as the handmaidens dressed her in her flimsy nightclothes.
She wished she had someone to talk to, someone to confide in, but her mother had died from a mysterious stomach ailment a few years before. The doctor had said it was caused by diseased water, though Sarani had had her suspicions. A woman didn’t go from being perfectly healthy to deathly ill in the space of one day unless she’d been poisoned.
Someone had wanted her dead.
Assassination wasn’t a stretch. Some of her distant cousins in line for the throne had always scorned her mother. They worried she would birth a son. But mostly they resented her. She wished they didn’t, but she understood why…she was an outsider. Her mother had taught her to judge people on their internal merits rather than their exterior appearances, but most people did not think like that. Not some of the locals, and certainly not the self-aggrandizing British who swarmed her father’s palace.
Even with her status as a princess, Sarani wasn’t truly accepted by the hundreds of English officers and their wives currently occupying Joor. They afforded her respect, of course, because of her station, but she wasn’t immune to their whispered remarks and snide comments hidden behind fans and sugary smiles.
Sarani sighed. Only Rhystan had treated her as if her mixed bloodlines didn’t matter. He reminded her so much of her mother in the way that he approached things—with fairness and an open mind. He had strong opinions about the corrupt agenda and actions of the East India Company and had ideas to dismantle them from within.
“I’ll write to my father,” he’d told her.
“Is he powerful?” she had said and then frowned. “But you don’t speak to him.”
His eyes had shuttered, but he’d nodded. “He has connections, and this is important.”
Not that one man could fight the will or the arm of the British Crown, but her mother had once said that one stone could still cause ripples in the largest sea. The fact that Rhystan was willing to approach his estranged father based upon whatshehad shared with him spoke volumes. The truth was, the more time she spent with him, the more compromised her heart and mind became.
“Thinking about your handsome young suitor?” her maid, Asha, teased from where she was braiding and brushing Sarani’s hair.
“No.” But her fierce blush gave her away.
Asha smiled, her brown nose wrinkling. “Will you marry him?”
The innocent question threw her. Other than a few furtive kisses and stolen touches, Rhystan hadn’t signaled his intentions. What were his plans? Would he stay in Joor? Go elsewhere? Sarani knew he was of good birth. His education, diction, and bearing certainly supported the notion that he was of aristocratic lineage, and his service record was unsullied. But he’d never mentioned returning to England, and the curt way he spoke of his home there suggested a painful history.
Her father would not throw out such a match if it made her happy, but she was his only child. She worried the inside of her cheek and squashed the suddenly uncertain direction of her thoughts. “Perhaps one day,” she replied, noncommittal.
