Читать книгу The Duke and the Pirate Queen - Victoria Janssen - Страница 6

“MY LADY,” MAXIME SAID, “I UNDERSTAND YOU’RE disappointed—”

Lady Diamanta Picot threw a gold-and-ruby pomegranate at Maxime’s head. He ducked, but it still clipped the top edge of his coronet and rebounded into the wall of the receiving room before hitting the floor and spinning to a stop.

A handblown goblet whizzed by his ear; he flung up his hand and caught it before it could shatter against the ducal throne behind him. “Now, wait,” he said. “That was a particular token of my esteem—look at all these beautiful cloud fish etched into the bowl—” “Fuck you!” Lady Diamanta screamed. “I’m afraid not,” Maxime said. “I did not agree to this marriage. Therefore I will not marry you.”

Diamanta vibrated with rage, her slender fingers clenched upon the next gift, a handful of ebony hair sticks topped with gold knobs, the rich coppery-red gold of the far south, seldom seen in the duchies. She snarled, “You have no choice in the matter.”

“On the contrary,” Maxime said. “I am a duke of the realm. I may marry whom I please. My charter clearly states—”

“You will marry at the king’s command,” Diamanta said, her voice going cold. She set the hair sticks back on the table, but continued to fondle them, as an archer might fondle arrows. “If you refuse me, my life will be ruined.”

“No, it won’t,” Maxime said. “You hate me. You’ve hated me since we were both fourteen.” He set the goblet down on another table, out of her reach.

Diamanta licked her lips. They were plump and pink and inviting. Her fingers trailed along the table and lightly caressed the marquetry lid of a box of caraway comfits before returning to the hair sticks. She said, “My feelings don’t enter into it, nor do yours. I am wealthy.”

“So am I.”

“That’s why we belong together. That’s why I am to be a duchess. My father’s wealth will provide a substantial dowry for the crown, and for your duchy, as well. I’ve been trained from birth to manage a duchy and its interests.”

“You won’t be my duchess,” Maxime said. He clasped his hands behind his back. The elaborate rings he’d worn, hoping she’d see them as the respect he intended for her, dug painfully into his fingers. “My refusal has nothing to do with your management skills. I am despondent you traveled all this way. I informed the king weeks ago I would not marry you, or anyone of his choosing. Perhaps you could convey this to him directly.”

“You are a fool,” she spat. “Our marriage could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. I would increase your wealth beyond anything you can imagine. You may have two heirs of me, or even three. And I would not restrain you from your … interests outside the marriage bed, if you would extend me the same courtesy.”

She’d just stated his worst nightmare. Slowly, he shook his head.

He held her gaze. She held his. Slowly, she released her grip on the hair sticks and trailed her fingers up her rib cage and over her bosom, perfectly displayed in her low-cut purple gown. It was one of the finest bosoms in all the duchies. She lifted a brow. Maxime shook his head.

Diamanta took one of the hair sticks and briskly used it to tidy dislodged strands of her platinum-pale hair. She remarked, “You would have been lucky to have me. You’re not such a prize, you know. No matter what the women of the court say of your … endowments.”

“I’d rather not be a prize in a contest,” Maxime said. “You will of course accept my gifts, which express my regret in refusing our betrothal?”

Diamanta cast a glance over the tables spanning the room, each one laden with silks, jewels, sweetmeats and exquisite handicrafts. Thirty matched tourmalines were arrayed on black velvet and surrounded by twists of intricate lace. Whole pears, glittering with an armor of sugar crystals, spilled from a brightly polished silver bowl, and a mixture of saffron pastilles and candied violets adorned a perfect marzipan replica of the king’s castle. A tiny yellow bird with an orange beak warbled sweetly in its bamboo cage, and an albino monkey watched them from atop a tree carved from jade.

Diamanta fondled a distinctive enameled sweets box, this one the most valuable item of the lot, containing as it did candied lumps of a balsam imported from the other side of the world, which Maxime had not yet released to a general market. Feigning reluctance, she picked up the palm-size box. “I suppose they will have to do.” She gestured to her silently waiting maid, whirled in a swirl of silks and exited.

After the door closed, Maxime sank into a chair and scrubbed his hands over his cropped dark beard. He’d barely escaped a fate that made him shudder inside—a lifetime of brittle politeness and brittle, obligatory sex with someone with whom he never wanted to converse. Being threatened with such a marriage was one of the things he’d managed to avoid while still merely Lord Maxime of the Coastal Protectorate.

He was lucky the king hadn’t had him drugged and forced to speak vows. He cast a glance at his wineglass, remembered Diamanta had passed near it and poured its contents into a potted tree.

The monkey ate another grape.

He’d thought he had more time.

Until five months ago, he and his duchy had been treated as a client state in all that mattered. As the son of a duke murdered for unspecified acts of treason, Maxime’s position had been precarious. One false move, or even a whim on the part of the king, and he would have been swept from power, perhaps even executed. For that reason, he had never married, and made certain never to sire an heir or indeed any child. He’d been left orphaned when his own parents were killed. He wouldn’t wish that fate on anyone, either the initial pain or the subsequent subjugation to another.

He’d wanted to be his own man when he proposed marriage, free to ask because it was what he wanted, not because it was required of him. He’d wanted to marry a woman of his own choosing, who would share in ruling the duchy with him, as his parents had shared. He wanted a lover and a confidante, and he wanted those things with legal status that no one could take away. He’d waited years for the privilege of marrying as he wished.

This business of being a duke was not all that he’d hoped it would be. It was more of a prison than a privilege.

When he was still merely a lord, his unmarried status had been allowed, and even encouraged. Now, though, the dukedom was restored to him. His marriage had become a matter of concern to the new king, a concern that grew steadily more pressing. Letters and messengers had been succeeded by the actual appearance of Diamanta as a potential bride, and he didn’t doubt other “choices” would soon arrive at his castle gates. He needed to marry soon, before the king took stronger action.

He would have to approach Captain Imena Leung.

For the thousandth time, he cursed himself for employing her soon after they’d met. If he’d known she would be so scrupulous about separating pleasure from her business relationships, he could have tried some other method to get to know her. It was too late now. He had to work with what he had, and if he wished to escape being married off like a virgin princess, he needed to work quickly.

He hadn’t wanted to rush something so important. Again and again he’d delayed, out of fear he’d make a mistake and lose any chance at her forever. Now he had no choice, and for that, he cursed King Julien as well as his own cowardice.

Captain Leung was due back in the duchy this week, after a visit to her parents in the Horizon Empire. He would speak to her then.

Captain Leung seized one end of her trunk and hauled it noisily across the bamboo decking. “I’ll visit in the spring,” she said.

Her father stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “Let me call a servant to carry your trunk.”

“Quickly,” she said. She didn’t actually want to manhandle her trunk all the way across the palatial houseboat, up the stairs to the main deck and then down to the waiting cargo skip. She lowered it to the deck.

Her father smiled and gently stroked her arm with his large, callused hand. To most, his dark-skinned, elaborately tattooed face with its odd pale eyes was frightening; to her, impossibly dear. “Imena, you don’t have to leave just yet. Your mother and I—”

Imena crossed her arms over her chest. “It was her idea to marry me off.”

“Well, you are past thirty now, and—”

“Your marriage wasn’t arranged for you,” she pointed out. In fact, her father had been a prisoner of the imperial navy; his love match with her mother, his former captor, was still a scandal, decades later.

“That was different,” he said. “Utterly different. We want to do the right thing for you. We don’t want you to grow old alone.”

“I’d rather marry one of Mother’s lapdogs than one of that crew of—”

“Imena!” Her mother stood in the doorway, dressed in full regalia as an admiral of the fleet, looking much larger than she actually was; the immense pile of hair atop her head added to the illusion of size, but not as much as her posture and air of command. Three snub-faced dogs with silky black-and-white hair snuffled at the hem of her deck-length robe. The fourth flung itself onto a pillow on the deck, resting its head on its paws. “They are all respectable men,” she said. “You won’t have to suffer for your choice as I did. I had them investigated very carefully. Any one of them would make a fine husband for you.”

“I don’t want—”

“I spoke to all of them first, as well, and made sure to impress upon them how closely I’ll keep my eye on them,” her father said. He stroked the long knife he wore at his hip. “I’ve seen that these arranged marriages often work out well, much better than you would think at first. Most of the marriages in this port came about that way. If you would only reconsider—”

“I don’t want—”

Her mother interrupted. “You’ll never find a husband at sea, or among the foreigners. Be reasonable. Let us find a suitable man for you.”

Apparently, her mother’s own husband didn’t count as a foreigner. “I don’t want you to find a suitable man for me.”

Admiral Leung’s cheeks colored with anger. “Imena! I am your mother. It’s your duty to obey me in this.”

“As you obeyed your parents?” Imena asked. “I’ll see you both in the spring.” She bowed to her parents, stepped over her trunk, pushed past her mother and climbed up to the deck. She’d catch a ride in the cargo skip rather than wait for more formal transport.

At least on her ship people listened to her.

Three weeks later

Imena straightened her embroidered turquoise dress coat and brushed off the matching silk trousers as she emerged onto the deck of her ship, Seaflower. Her feet were bare, displaying their swirling wavelike tattoos, and she wore a long, jeweled dagger at her waist, a gift from her employer, Duke Maxime. She smiled. It felt good to be back in the duchy, where she was free of parental dictates. If only her mind could be free of them, as well. Her visit to Maxime should help. She always looked forward to seeing him. He was pleasant to look upon, and he wasn’t difficult to talk to, either. Under other circumstances, she might have tried to seduce him.

No, she would have tried. And knowing him as she did, she would easily have succeeded.

Imena’s handpicked sailors, both male and female, filled Seaflower’s narrow deck, chanting while they passed crates of mangosteens from hand to hand and thus onto the dock. She gave them a nod in appreciation of their efficiency, and went to the railing where her first mate waited.

Chetri smiled at her. His long, wavy hair was loose, rippling in the breeze, a sure sign of upcoming shore leave; normally he wore it tightly coiled at the back of his neck. “We’ll finish the offloading by this afternoon,” he said.

“Shore leave is port watch first, this trip.”

“Aye, Captain.” He grinned at her. “And may I say the captain looks … very clean and tidy?”

She laughed. “You may.” She ran her hand over her bare head. At sea, she rarely bothered to use a razor, but in port she made a point to expose the intricate blue, red and white designs tattooed on her scalp, each hard won in her youth as an imperial privateer. Like Chetri, she’d outlined her eyes with kohl.

Chetri wore tightly fitting trousers and a silver-embroidered vest that showed his muscular form and the black tattoos on his pectorals, circles within circles within circles, to good advantage. Silver rings cascaded along his earlobes; his neck was hung with bright silver chains, one of them suspending a medallion engraved with birds, another a cluster of black pearls. Another tattoo, this of a snarling monster’s face with a tongue of flame, marked out his hard-muscled belly. He needn’t worry that advancing middle age would deter anyone’s glances. She said, “May I offer the hope that my first mate is … lucky … on his shore leave?”

“You most certainly may. Now, be off with you, Imena, and do the pretty with His Grace. And may you be lucky, too. What’s his name again? Sanji?”

Her stern glare only made him laugh. Chetri knew very well that Sanji had been her only lover for almost a year. There was a saying, that making the tide on land didn’t count. For her, that had never been true.

She was lucky the potential husbands her mother had introduced to her hadn’t permanently put her off sex. She’d never seen a more tightly laced bunch, draped in layers of fine silk robes and ballasted with necklaces and belts enough to festoon an entire fishing village, all of them eyeing her as if she were a trinket they wanted to buy, if they could only overcome their distaste at her profession.

She would have to face them again the next time she visited, or worse, she would have to confront her mother and make plain that she would not marry a man of the Horizon Empire, and forever be considered his accessory. After that, it would be almost trivial to convince her father that he could never threaten such a man into loving her. For a couple who swore they’d fallen in love at first sight, their opinions on marriage for their daughter seemed decidedly odd. Perhaps they’d finally realized the truth of the matter, as Imena had.

Her good mood was spoiling rapidly. Imena concentrated on the wooden pier beneath her bare feet, and the warmth of the sun on her scalp. Slowly, her mood improved. She missed the sea, as always when a voyage had ended, but shore had its own charms.

Here in port, the briny sea air mingled with the bite of boiling tar from the shipyard and tantalizing whiffs of sugary fried dough, overlaid with the scents of ripe fruits and steaming mint tea served hot and honeyed, of sticky rice balls and steamed fresh fish and hot spices. Her mouth watered; she would snack on a fish cake before she reported to Maxime.

Perhaps she would ask his advice on what to do about her parents’ demands. He was past forty and unmarried, though his position was much different from hers; he could pick and choose his potential spouses. She shook her head. Doubtless, he had no time for personal conversations of that nature. Or if he made time … she didn’t want his pity. She wanted … she didn’t know what she wanted from him.

She stopped at the harbormaster’s office to drop off the necessary paperwork from her last voyage. She made a brief call at the shipyard to deliver a list of supplies she and Chetri had prepared, bought a fish cake and a sugared dumpling for good measure, then waved over a donkey cart to carry her up the long hill to Maxime’s castle.

The ride was the first time she’d had entirely to herself in months. She savored each bite of her fish cake as she watched the traffic around them, mostly traders, but a few locals, as well, who divided their work between the castle and the nearby town. One day, she planned to be one of those locals. She thought the duchy would be a better home to her than the land of her birth, where her position suffered from her mixed race. Her mother might be an admiral in the empress’s navy, but even now her father was considered barely higher in rank than a concubine, despite all her mother’s efforts to the contrary.

If Imena lived in the empire, with them, she would have to endure low status. Privateers were considered far inferior to sailors in the navy, and in the company of her mother’s people, her darker skin and paler eyes marked her out to even casual view. If she married here, however, she would be a citizen. Mixed race was less of a sin here, and she would be far from the only person of foreign birth, as well.

However, her past as an imperial privateer would still be against her. It was emblazoned forever on her skin. Even here, in a coastal town that knew the difference between pirates and privateers, she was often looked at askance, and sometimes worse. After all, she hadn’t been a privateer for the duchy, but for a country that was only nominally an ally. Her motives would always be suspect.

She imagined presenting a list of her failings to a potential husband in the duchies. She could write each problem in a different color of ink: foreigner, mixed-race daughter of a not-entirely-respectable potentially-enemy naval officer and her exotic barbarian husband (acquired in dubious circumstances), and had she mentioned she was a suspected pirate?

Of course, she needn’t marry. She could bear a child to a citizen of the duchy and gain citizenship through that route, but she didn’t plan to go through the rigors of childbearing unless she was married already. Owning land in the duchy was another path to citizenship, except she was always at sea and wouldn’t be able to oversee the land properly; also, even if she met all the other legal conditions, she would need to steward the land for a period of ten years before her petition would be heard. Marriage was the most direct path, and the most appealing to her.

An ox-drawn wagon trundled by, loaded with vegetables. Two children rode on the tail, their bare legs dangling over the edge. They whooped when they saw her; she waved a casual salute and they bounced with excitement until her donkey cart passed them. She glanced at her driver. “You’d think I was the duke.”

He grinned. “His Grace they can see any day. It’s not often they get to see Captain Leung.”

Imena rubbed her hand over her scalp. “No, I suppose not.” Sometimes it still took her by surprise that people she’d never met might be impressed with her; she was more used to wariness or outright fear from those who’d heard about her past and linked her with piracy and other crimes. Being viewed with admiration had never happened in her previous postings; but then, before her employment with the duchy she’d worked for and around the empire, where she would always be her mother’s daughter, who could not inherit her mother’s position as was proper. Where her appearance would always set her apart.

She could make her own position, here.

The duke’s castle was built of local stone, green alternating with white in striped layers, the whole topped with crenellations and spiky observation towers, lending a resemblance to fish she’d seen when swimming among tropical reefs. The donkey cart crested the hill, passed the castle’s first low wall and approached the bronze gates, heavily ornamented from top to bottom with representations of octopuses and different species of fish. The gates stood open on a path made of crushed white shells leading to the castle’s ceremonial main doors, used for occasions such as when Maxime had been made duke.

Imena paid off her driver and approached a side entrance. Two guards with pikes checked her credentials and the handwritten note that allowed her to carry weapons into the castle, then a boy in livery swung open the door and waved her through. The temperature dropped inside, the deep green floor tiles cool against her bare soles. Imena was led down a corridor where oil lamps flung colored light on the white walls. Near the corridor’s branching, she entered a chamber full of clerks, all busy calculating the duchy’s wealth. Her own cargo would soon be written in the long books, minus her own share, and that of Chetri and her sailors.

The duke’s aunt, Lady Gisele, was seated on a high stool near the door, reviewing columns of figures while a senior clerk stood by attentively. The pen Gisele held looked more incongruous in her scarred hand than the sword that hung at her hip. She looked up when Imena entered. “Captain! How very good to see you back. Will you have time for an evening of cards while you’re here?”

Imena was always surprised that Lady Gisele welcomed her personally. She’d seen the older woman stand on much more ceremony with other captains in Maxime’s employ. She replied, “I’ll find out shortly, from His Grace. Chetri is arranging for your special shipment to be carried to the castle.” Imena usually obtained some of Gisele’s favorite teas on each voyage, along with new types for her to try. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a tin box. “I’ve also brought you more of the balsam ointment.”

“Thank you!” Gisele beamed. “I used the last pot you brought me on an old scar. It’s much better, look.” She swung her arm in a full circle and added, “Sylvie is visiting. Perhaps she will join us for cards later. Maxime is in the baths. He asked that you be sent to him whenever you should arrive.”

Imena had last seen Sylvie, the duchess Camille’s bodyguard and lady’s maid, at Maxime’s accession. Sylvie had lost to her at cards, but, Imena later learned, had seduced Imena’s card partner, a wealthy merchant. And the wealthy merchant’s male paramour, an acrobat. And the acrobat’s female performance partner, a contortionist. All at the same time. Imena was not in the mood for hearing about such adventures today. She resolved to avoid seeing Sylvie this trip.

She said, “I’ll find His Grace in the baths.”

Maxime often welcomed his guests in the extensive system of steam baths in the castle’s lowest level. Sometimes sexual pleasures were offered, as well. Imena wasn’t often entertained there, and she wondered at it now. Though they’d never spoken of it, Duke Maxime clearly found her attractive, and she just as clearly never encouraged him in the least. He was her employer, and off-limits.

She’d made that mistake once before. Never again. One unmitigated disaster was enough for any lifetime.

If Maxime hadn’t been her employer, though, he might have been a candidate for a shore-leave affair, except that now he was also a duke, and clearly out of her reach. He definitely wasn’t husband material. Dukes couldn’t afford companionate marriage, and she refused to be merely a concubine or occasional lover.

She tried not to regret his accession to the dukedom. He’d been denied it his entire life; she ought to be happier that he’d achieved his goal. She never could have married him. Dukes or even almost-dukes didn’t marry politically difficult foreign sailors of ambiguous social rank.

And Maxime … she didn’t think he was made for marriage. Not the sort she would want. He had too many sexual partners, both his social equals and his servants alike. She wouldn’t share. She couldn’t see how he could forswear all others.

It was her parents’ fault she’d suddenly become obsessed with marriage. Perhaps Maxime had planned on a bath anyway, and had no ulterior motives. It wasn’t as if he had summoned her to his bedroom. She could use a soak in hot, mineralized water, and perhaps a massage from one of Maxime’s highly trained servants.

Her muscles had been knotted for weeks, ever since she’d arrived home and been ushered aboard her parents’ houseboat. The decks had been crammed with wealthy bureaucrats, swilling her parents’ liquor and estimating the value of the furnishings. One of them in particular, a provincial tax collector, had offended her with his oily grins and the way he took every opportunity to offer her food and drink, as if he were the host and not her parents. He’d touched her arm without asking, pretending fascination with the muscles of a woman who worked on a ship. She’d had to resist planting her knee in his crotch.

She really must stop stewing over it. Her mother meant well. Her father went along because he trusted her mother’s opinions when it came to imperial society, and planned to make the best of it in his own way. That didn’t mean Imena had to go along, as well. She would tell her parents so, as soon as she saw them again. Or, better, she would simply marry here and tell them afterward. She didn’t want to marry for convenience, but offered the alternative of an imperial, she would do it … wouldn’t she? If it didn’t work out, there was always the sea.

The corridor leading to the baths was utterly silent except for the faint rippling sound of lantern flames behind colored glass.

A heavy door, decorated with octopuses, opened and a man stepped out. He was naked, but in the area of the baths that was unremarkable. They exchanged polite nods, and he headed in the opposite direction, toward a row of guest chambers.

Was the man one of Maxime’s lovers? He’d partnered with almost as many men as women. She knew firsthand from two different ship captains that they’d shared liaisons with him.

It shouldn’t matter to her. Maxime was no worse than many a sailor, except he had more opportunity for affairs. She wasn’t sure why it bothered her. She had no business being jealous of his attentions.

She dragged open the door and slipped in, remembering to say, “Your Grace?” rather than “my lord.” She had not seen Maxime since soon after his accession.

He’d looked grand that day, his shoulder-length hair bound back in a sheath of gold filigree, emeralds glinting from his earlobes, encrusting his white gloves and shining from the buttons of his white silk coat, embroidered all over with waving kelp and heraldic octopuses.

Just now, all the panoply was gone; he was naked, and pouring a pail of water over his head. Soap bubbles sped down his muscular back, rear and thighs along with the water, leaving a damp sheen on his pale skin that begged for touch. Also, for her tongue.

Imena shook herself and repeated, “Your Grace?”

Maxime whirled. The pail in his hand did not block her view of his dark chest hair, flat belly and impressive cock. Hastily, she shifted her gaze to his face. Nudity was normal in the baths, but it wasn’t polite to stare.

He didn’t look as if he’d been engaging in sex, and the bathing room did not hold any scent of such activities.

His voice was low and pleasant as usual. “Captain Leung. I hadn’t expected you so soon. It’s good to see you. How was your visit home?”

He turned away quickly and scooped up a towel from a nearby bench, wrapping it around his waist. He wasn’t usually modest at all, so the towel surprised her, but perhaps he was chilled. Perhaps he’d dunked himself in cold water, but if so, surely his genitals. She stopped the thought, and an urge to laugh.

No doubt the towel was intended to let her know he wasn’t trying to seduce her. She hadn’t expected to find him alone, without even a servant. It was the unexpected intimacy that led to such thoughts about him, forgetting he was her employer. She hadn’t ogled him before, in similar situations. Well, not very much.

“I can return later, if you wish,” she said.

He used another towel to rub at his dark hair, thent wisted it back from his face with a ribbon. “No, no.” He gave her a closer look, and grinned. His smiles could be stunning, white teeth slowly revealed in his dark beard, and Imena was momentarily dazed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked about your visit home. You look as if you could use a nice soak. Here, I’ll scrub you down while you report.”

Men and women were usually segregated in public baths, but in private ones standards were relaxed. She’d more than once visited the castle baths to see servants ministering to guests of opposite gender, or guests doing so themselves. However, she hadn’t thought a duke would take on such a task.

She was being foolish. This was Maxime. Duke or not, he was a very physical man. He wouldn’t change his bathing habits because of a title. And she … would like to have someone else bathe her. She was more tired than she had any right to be, her body tight with stress and unresolved anger. Maxime’s strong hands would feel good on her skin. A little indulgence wouldn’t kill her. This was only a bath.

“That would be welcome, Your Grace.”

She was already sweating in her silk coat and trousers, and it felt good to slip them off and hang them on hooks next to Maxime’s elaborate coat. Her dagger and belt knife went on a shelf next to his. The gold hoops from her ears went into a wooden bowl that already held his lacquered finger sheaths, an official-looking medallion and a pair of immense ruby earrings. Normally, he didn’t adorn himself quite so much. She asked, “Who visited today?”

He grimaced. “An envoy of the king.” Imena glanced around, and he gestured to a wooden bench. “Sit. I’ll carry the water.”

The bench was warm and polished to a sheen with age and scrubbing. Oil lamps in niches lit the stone chamber in sunset shades of red, orange, pink and gold; portions of the stone floor had been mosaicked in similar colors. Steam curled gently from the soaking pools; she inhaled and felt her breathing ease. It felt good to be nude. She could already feel the warmth easing into her as she laid a towel over the bench and sat. She listened to Maxime pour water. As he approached, she asked, “Why did the king send an envoy? Does he want his taxes? Have you been holding back, Maxime? Your Grace,” she added.

He didn’t appear to notice how she’d addressed him. “Close your eyes.” He smoothed a warmed cream around her eyes and gently wiped it away, removing the kohl from her skin. She could feel his breath on her face as he worked, more intimate than his hand’s touch. He cleaned the rest of her face with more lotion and a new cloth, then scrubbed her ears and finally her scalp. Shivers passed down her back with each touch. She was hard put not to shove her head against his hand like a petted cat.

“Why an envoy?” she asked again.

The soapy cloth touched her shoulder blade and he scrubbed vigorously. She bit back a moan of pleasure and closed her eyes. Maxime didn’t answer her until the delightful scrubbing paused and she heard him rinsing the cloth in the bucket. “His Highness sent the lord Odell, whom you might remember is the chief steward of the Duke’s Council. His Highness King Julien the Seventh, Master of the Eastern Passes, Sovereign of the Eight Duchies—which includes mine, he made sure to remind me—requires me to marry. He is weary of waiting for me to accomplish this on my own recognizance, and has ordered I marry immediately.” He returned to scrubbing her back, more vigorously than before.

She sighed and rested her elbows on her thighs so he could scrub harder. “I suppose since he can’t bear your heir himself, someone under his thumb is the next best thing.”

A moment’s silence, then Maxime laughed. “Julien is an attractive man, but I don’t think his tastes run to partners who are bearded.”

Fighting down an unexpected sharp disappointment, she asked, “When’s the wedding?”

“I refused.”

Imena peered over her shoulder at him, awkwardly because he was scrubbing her arm, shoulder to fingers. He wasn’t smiling. “You’re a duke of his realm,” she said.

“So I am. With all the rights and powers given thereunto. I’m a tad annoyed it took blackmail for that to happen, given that I was born to the position. Julien likely has another envoy on the way. I’ve already begun preparing a legal defense if he should try anything dubious.”

“Do you have an heir already?”

“I wouldn’t be so careless!” he said harshly. Immediately, he released his grip on her. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

His fingers had tightened on her, but only for a moment. “No. Will you scrub the other arm?” She’d never seen him show anger, not like this; not helpless anger, like the kind she felt herself. The rush of empathy she felt for him startled her, and she barely resisted laying her hand on his shoulder.

Maxime was much gentler with her left arm. “You didn’t come here to listen to me complain,” he said. “I have nothing to complain of.” He rinsed the cloth and added more soap; he swept the cloth over her breasts and belly with cool detachment. “Did the mangosteens travel well?”

Imena tried to ignore the warmth of his hands through the cloth. “Exceptionally so. We’ll be stowing them that way next time, as well. The custard fruit also. Chetri will be sending up a crate for you.”

She detailed the rest of the cargo, its cost and the expected profit, grateful for the distraction. As he swept the cloth over her thighs, Maxime said absently, “I like this one.” His fingers outlined an octopus tattoo, concealed within swirling tracery.

She shivered; this touch felt more intimate than the others. She didn’t mention she’d been thinking of him as she chose the design, and seen him in her mind as the needles had punctured her skin. The memory mixed oddly with the gentle pleasure of his touch.

He moved on to the rest of her leg without further comment. He asked other questions, his usual ones involving local conditions at the ports she’d visited, occasionally inquiring after a port official or shipyard master whom he knew. She gave him all the bits of information she’d gathered, no matter how small, including reports she’d had from Chetri, various of her sailors and her cabin girl, Norris.

Maxime listened to it all, an abstracted look on his face, but she knew from past experience he would forget nothing. When she’d finished speaking, he tossed a towel on the floor, knelt and began washing her feet.

He wasn’t massaging, or stroking more than he needed to stroke, but she couldn’t deny the erotic thrill racing up her legs. Imena stared down at the nape of his neck and thought about resting her hand there, or pressing her lips where his hair was pulled aside. She needed to say something, anything to distract her from his fingers sliding soap between her toes. She imagined his tongue sliding delicately between her toes and shivered with desire. Desperately, she said, “My parents want me to marry.”