“I told Thornton and your servant that I would not take any passengers.”

She cleared her elegant throat, those high cheekbones staining rose. “Yes, well. There was a misunderstanding. You will be compensated, of course.”

Rhystan’s eyes narrowed and he pushed off the door. He didn’t miss her flinch or the fact that she’d moved to insert the desk between them. “I also made it clear that no amount of money would sway me.”

His mocking gaze swept her trim form. Sleek tendrils of ebony hair escaped the loose knot of her coiffure to toy with the perfect oval of her face. Her beauty had not dimmed with time. He did not let his gaze drop to the decadent, dusky bow of her lips, knowing they’d always been his undoing.

Instead, he let his mouth curl into a slow, derisive smirk. “I assume then that you have some other form of compensation in mind?” The insinuation was far from veiled.

“You are a brute.”

“And you are a beautiful woman, despite everything.”

“You hate me, remember?” she tossed back. “Or have you forgotten your correspondence outlining my transgressions in such foul detail?”

His face tightened. He hadn’t forgotten the response he’d sent from Bombay after receiving her thin excuse for a letter, delivered by Markham himself, but he hadn’t waited around to find out whether she’d received his reply. Had she spoken to the tavern owner? Heard about the wretched state in which he’d been beaten and taken? Or gotten one of her lackeys to report back on what had happened to poor, naive, heartsore Commander Huntley?

She and whichever bootlicking earl she’d married had probably had a good laugh at his expense. His letter was the least of what she deserved.

“Everything above my waist does,” he said with a pointed look. “Doesn’t mean my cock agrees. Ask any of the men on this ship. Holes are holes.”

Her face flushed red. “You are—”

“Yes, yes, a brute.” Rhystan waved a careless arm. “We’ve already established that, Princess Sarani or Lady Whatever-The-Fuck-Your-Name-Is.”

Ignoring her flinch at his oath, he sauntered to the near side of the desk while swiping the half-full bottle of whisky from the floor and taking a liberal swallow. Leaning on the edge of the desk, he crossed one foot over his ankle. The casual stance belied the latent rage coursing through his veins.

“So shall I call you Countess or Princess?” he drawled. “Which title is worth more, do you think?”

Her mouth tightened imperceptibly, her spine going stiff. “I should think duke trumps both of those, Your Grace.”

Rhystan laughed without mirth. “Ah, the trap springs. You wish to set your sights on a loftier peer. I hate to disappoint you, my clever stowaway, but I’m not in the market for a wife.” His mouth turned into a smirk. “Or a shipboard doxy.”