The Duke and the Pirate Queen. Victoria Janssen

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.”

      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 СКАЧАТЬ