The Duke & the Pirate Queen Read online

  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 bot
hered 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, then twisted 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 there-unto. 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.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MAXIME’S HANDS STOPPED MOVING, AND IMENA slowly let out her breath. He would stop touching her now, and she could relax. He was to marry a courtier’s daughter because his king commanded. She was to marry someone who wasn’t a duke; therefore even the thought of…this…was impossible.

  There was no this. Maxime was performing a servant’s duty for her, that was all. One of his odd notions of diplomacy. She was a little overcome by his touch because she’d been at sea for months and was sadly deprived of sex.

  She needed to shake off inappropriate arousal, leave here and find Sanji, who was always glad to see her on her infrequent visits to his chandler’s shop. Sanji would take care of her need in his sunny bedroom, and then they’d have a lovely dinner and she would play with his two sons out in his garden, and she might spend the night. He’d be happy to have her spend the night. He always said he’d like to see more of her.

  She was having a difficult time remembering why mild, steady Sanji was preferable to Maxime.

  After a pregnant pause, Maxime placed her soapy foot on the towel covering his thigh and began washing her calf, his strokes slower than before. She flexed her callused toes involuntarily against hard muscle; his shoulders tightened. She looked away. She would not think of it. She would not. He said, “Did your parents offer you any choice of husbands?”