Page 27 of The Princess Stakes
Oh, you have no idea, you big, uncooperative lump.
She sensed she wasn’t going to get anything out of him, at least not about that ship. Or anything about this ship. Or Rhystan, or why the British navy could possibly be tracking them. Or any useful information at all. Her eyes narrowed with sudden suspicion, recalling the crates in the hold that were sectioned off and padlocked.
“What cargo does theBelongingcarry?”
Gideon grunted. “What?”
“If this isn’t a passenger ship, what does it carry?”
The man had the audacity to smile, or offer what passed for a smile anyway. It was more of a grimace on that taciturn face. Sarani knew that whatever he was going to say was going to aggravate her even further. She wasn’t wrong. “Ask the captain.”
“Fine, I will.”
Knowing Asha was safe with the ogre, even though Sarani wanted to kick him in his truculent shins, she decided to make her way down into the hold. Not to see the crates in question and assuage her curiosity but to feed the livestock and clean out the paddock. Anything would be better than thinking about what that ship on the horizon meant. Even shoveling piles upon piles of smelly dung.
She should have known Vikram wouldn’t let her go so easily, not when he’d murdered a maharaja without a qualm. Sarani feared for Asha’s family and the rest of her handmaidens—she hoped they were safe—and she worried for her people because Vikram would be looking out for himself, not them. Her father, for all his faults and concessions to the crown, had tried to keep Joor’s interests at heart. Even her loathsome engagement to Talbot would have been a necessary evil.
Though it had only been a few weeks, she felt the loss of her father keenly. While she knew Western traditions of mourning meant she’d be garbed in black for months, her people treated death differently. Their cultural and religious traditions were tied up in rebirth, what they calledsamsara. She hoped her father would have been cremated—not even Vikram would provoke the gods, despite his certain hand in the maharaja’s death. And initial mourning would have lasted thirteen days, whereupon she would have worn white, not black, to honor him.
Sarani glanced down at her stained clothing. Not that she had a choice now. She didn’t have a garland of flowers or anything on her person, but she offered up a simple chant in her heart for him. Her moments with him had been precious, if few later on. As a child, she had memories of him carrying her on his shoulder, tossing her up into the air while she giggled and gasped for breath, and him pointing out the movement of the stars. Sarani stopped on the lower deck and caught the first glimmers winking in the distance. He’d taught her about the constellations, the positions of the planets, and their meanings from ancient Indian scriptures called theRigveda.
“It’s called science of light,” he’d explained once.
Perched high on his shoulders, she’d wrinkled her nose. “Why, Papa?”
“The planets are constantly in motion, and on the day of someone’s birth, their destiny is written. We offered water and light for blessings on yours.”
“Papa, did my stars say I would be big and strong like you?”
“You will be a force, little one.”
The memory made her chest ache as Sarani stared up at the darkening, purplish sky above the ship. She wondered if this journey—and his death—had been foreseen. “I miss you, Papa,” she whispered.
With one final look to the brightening stars, Sarani swallowed down the lump in her throat and headed down to the pens where she grabbed her trusty shovel. Her shadow, Red, trailed her at a discreet distance, staying away as if sensing her morose mood. The cheeky boatswain had always accompanied her around the ship, but now he was extra vigilant. Her official guard, she supposed. Normally, Red was a chatterbox, but he hung back, content to keep an eye on her, and didn’t intervene.
Sarani bit back a curse. No doubt, it was a command from Rhystan…that she had to perform her duties alone. It wasn’t Red’s fault. In fact, in his defense, he had offered before, but she’d always refused. She wanted to pull her weight for the sake of the crew.
Nottheir hard-headed, hard-eyed, hard-bodied captain.
With a groan, Sarani gritted her teeth, swallowing the foul oaths about the man fulminating on her tongue. If a little work was the price to pay for safe passage, she would do it. And she would do it without complaining. She wouldn’t voice her murderous thoughts, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the idea of punishing the captain with slow and gratifying delight.
In fact, as she started to shovel the fresh clumps of manure into a heap, she took great satisfaction in imagining his stupidly handsome face beneath it.
* * *
Rhystan consulted the cartographic charts on his desk and downed the rest of the whisky in his tumbler. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, but he was studying the maps to see if there was an alternate route, at least to see if the ship behind them would follow. But he needed fuel, and turning back toward Cape Town wasn’t an option. He had sailed enough oceans to know that the other ship’s identical course wasn’t by chance.
And his gut had never failed him.
It wasn’t a ship from the Royal Navy. That, he’d already ascertained. It was a private passenger ship, one that looked like an East India Company steamship, but it was too far away to tell. It wasn’t a trading vessel or he would have taken no small delight in blowing it to pieces. It was also too far away to determine if it meant them harm. In other circumstances, he would slow his pace and allow the ship to catch up. While most of the guns on theBelonginghad been removed for the sake of weight and speed after her redesign, there were still a few, and they were kept in good working order.
He wasn’t afraid to use them.
But with Sarani onboard, he couldn’t risk endangering her life.
Slumping back in his chair, he poured another glass of whisky, letting the spicy burn of the liquor numb his brain. With continued luck, they would reach port in less than a week. The winds on the journey had been advantageous, and apart from the ship on their heels and the initial threat of the cyclone and a few smaller squalls in between, the voyage had been uneventful. Well, with the exception of one willful passenger.
Rhystan glanced around the spotless cabin. Everything was in meticulous order—the bed made, bookcase neatly stacked, his clothing laundered, folded, and put away. Even the furniture shone, polished to within an inch of its life. Something was on her mind. Normally, he would find telltale signs of rebellion, like watered-down whisky bottles, salt in his morning coffee, or barnacles in his bedsheets. That last one he was certain had been Red’s idea, considering the boatswain was responsible for scraping them off the hull.
