Page 41 of The Princess Stakes
“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.”
“We don’t suit,” she whispered, something like desolation flickering in her gaze. “You said it yourself. No one will believe that we are to be wed.”
Pushing off from the rail, he shuttled the distance between them, noting the wild pulse in her throat and the immediate widening of her eyes. His brow lifted. “I counter that we suit rather well.”
“That’s lust.”
“Lust is as good a basis for an aristocratic marriage as any,” he said.
“But you said you wanted love.”
Rhystan reached out a hand to tuck a loosened strand of hair behind one ear. Her lush mouth parted on a soundless sigh that she couldn’t quite hide. “No, you misunderstand me. I require thepretenseof love. Easy enough when one puts one’s mind to the task. A glance here, a touch there. Whispered nothings and sentimental looks. Love is but a show, you see. You have to admit that Byron had the right of it—the man was a swindler of women’s soft hearts.”
He could see the argument push to her lips, then see her swallow it down with force. Oh, the rub that she still chose to believe in love nearly made him laugh out loud. Despite her strong opinions and unconventional views, his fierce princess remained quixotic at heart. Some things hadn’t changed. He tucked that bit of information away to use later.
Worrying that temptingly plump lip of hers, she heaved out a breath. After the barest moment of indecision, her shoulders straightened and she met his stare. “If I agree to your terms and I’m followed to England by my pursuer, will you agree to help me identify who wants me dead and why?”
Rhystan squashed the burst of triumph. “Yes.”
“And Tej and Asha will both accompany me?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
