Excerpt: One Night with a Scoundrel
Book 3: Escape with a Scoundrel
“A pleasure to meet you, Ashiana.” The name suited her perfectly, soft and flowing like a warm Bengal wind. “No last name?”
“I…I have no family.” She arranged some of the pillows and curled up on them, still not getting too close to him. “I was orphaned when I was very young.” Looking down, she toyed with a tassel on one of the pillows. “May I ask your name, sahib?”
Saxon hesitated. He was here to ask questions, not answer them. But he wanted her to relax and feel comfortable with him so she would give him the information he sought. “Saxon,” he said. “I’m the captain of an English merchant ship. The emperor said your father was also a sea captain—Portuguese, wasn’t it? Voce fala Portugues?”
She shook her head. “I have not spoken Portuguese in many years. I remember only a few words.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Filho da puta…droga…va para o inferno.”
Saxon chuckled. “Those are all curses.”
“Oh.” She ducked her head, a grin curving her mouth. “The sailors on my father’s merchant ship—they were the ones who raised me after…after my mother died.” Her grin faded.
He reached out to tuck a fallen strand of her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t mean to make you sad, Ashiana.”
She remained still as his fingers brushed her cheek before he withdrew his hand. “You have not made me sad, sahib. I have not thought about those days in a very long time…but they were some of my happiest days.” She took a piece of qandi from the platter and ate it. “I was born at sea.”
“So was I.” Saxon felt surprised that they shared that unusual trait in common. He hadn’t expected to discover any sort of connection with his dancing girl…or to find himself liking her.
She studied him in silence for a moment. “When I first noticed you in the emperor’s diwan-i-khas, I thought you looked awfully dangerous, very…dusht.”
“In English, the closest word would be ‘scoundrel.’”
“Scoun-drel,” she repeated, having trouble pronouncing it. “But I think…I think I may have been wrong, Captain Saxon. You are not so awful.”
“Thanks,” he said wryly.
“I only meant,” she explained, her smile returning, “that you do not seem to be made entirely of stone and steel. Despite the fact that you have so many muscles, your clothing does not even fit you.” She edged a bit closer and touched the medals on the front of his uniform. “What do they mean, these bits of metal and ribbon?”
“Tokens of places I’ve been, things I’ve done.” He started to shrug but couldn’t. He sat up and finally gave in to the urge to take off the accursed frock coat that had been binding his shoulders all day. He dropped it to one side and sank back on the pillows, almost sighing in relief.
“This garment also looks most uncomfortable.” She reached for the top button on his waistcoat.
He caught her hand, stopping her. “Ashiana, that’s not a good idea…” His voice trailed off as he noticed a mark on her arm—a tattoo of a rose that ran from her wrist to her elbow. He brushed his thumb over it, realizing that the stem concealed a scar. “Is that from a whip?”
She stiffened. “From childhood.”
“Someone whipped you when you were a child?” His gaze met hers. The thought of any child suffering such abuse sickened him.
“It…it was a long time ago.” She tried to withdraw her hand.
He wouldn’t let her go. “Was there no one to protect you?”
“No,” she whispered.
He felt a rush of anger toward whoever had hurt a vulnerable little girl. “Any man who treats a child that way deserves to have the whip turned on him. Women and children should be protected, always.”
“Arey,” she gasped, a soft exclamation of surprise. “I do not think many men in this world feel as you do.”
“I’ve been told it’s a weakness.” He nodded. “But it’s something my parents instilled in their sons from the time we were young.” Looking down, he brushed his thumb over her scar again, gently—and reminded himself that he had come here for a reason. “I suppose you must despise the Ajmir, especially after they mistreated you so badly.” He looked up. “They hate the English, you know.”
A heartbeat passed. Another.
“Yes,” she said slowly, her gaze on his. “I know.”
Still holding her hand, he laced his fingers through hers as he settled back into the pillows. “I don’t suppose you remember any of their legends?” he asked lightly.
“Nahin, no, sahib. I only lived among them when I was very young.”
“Before they gave you to the emperor, yes. But you must know the tale of the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir…”
“I have heard the myth.” She tilted her head, regarding him curiously. “Everyone has.”
“But do you remember anything more from when you were a child?” He massaged her fingers, playfully. “Perhaps rumors of where the stones are hidden?”
He noticed that she had stopped trying to pull away from his touch.
“Hidden?” She curved her fingers around his, returning his massage. “The sapphires are only a myth.”
“Then you’ve never seen them?”
“No one has, because they are only a colorful tale, invented centuries ago to entertain children.” She settled more comfortably on the pillows, closer to him this time—so close that he became aware of the heat of her body. “The Nine Sapphires of Kashmir are no more real than…” She waved her other hand dismissively, her bracelets jingling. “Than flying carpets or magical swans that grant wishes.”
Saxon chose not to mention that he happened to be wearing one of the sapphires around his neck at the moment.
She laughed. “Truly, sahib, the only people who believe that those jewels exist are little girls and boys.” She withdrew her hand from his and touched his shoulder, running her fingertips over the muscles outlined by his snug-fitting white shirt. “And, apparently, certain rather large Englishmen.”
Her light caress made his body take fire and his breathing deepen. “In these colorful tales that you’ve heard,” he persisted, “where are the sapphires kept?”
She inched closer, her expression becoming serious, as if she were about to reveal a secret. “In the faraway kingdom of Shambhala,” she whispered, “in a palace that floats on a cloud, guarded by a troop of flying red squirrels who can talk.”
“Flying squirrels who can talk,” he echoed dryly, arching one brow.
“Extremely fearsome flying squirrels,” she assured him with a grin. “They grow quite large here in India. Is this what you wanted to talk about, when you said you wanted to talk? A children’s story?” She lowered her lashes, her mouth so close to his that he could almost taste the honeyed balm glistening on her lips. Her voice became husky. “Saxon, there are so many more enjoyable ways we could spend our time together.”
Suppressing a groan, he lifted one hand to her cheek. “Ashiana…” He should leave. Now. She obviously didn’t have any useful information to offer about the Ajmir or the sapphires. Now would be a good time to send his harem girl back to the harem and get to his ship.
He would never see her again, this seductive, sea-born beauty with the azure eyes and the impressive vocabulary of Portuguese curses…and the honeyed lips.
Before he could stop himself, he threaded his fingers into her hair and drew her toward him, unable to resist just one kiss…