Their handful of stolen kisses and furtive explorations in their youth had not prepared him for the sight of her unclothed—all that glorious, honey-hued skin and a pair of perfect dusky-tipped breasts, not to mention the mouthwatering swells of her buttocks and those never-ending slender legs that he instantly wanted wrapped around him.

He’d been hypnotized.

And hard as forged Damascus steel.

As the minutes went by, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to move, not when every delicious feminine curve had been on display. He’d stood there in silence, jaw agape, guilt and desire warring inside him, and had wolfed down the sight of her. In his stupor, he’d realized two things. One, Princess Sarani was no longer a girl. And two, his body’s reaction to her was much the same as it’d been five years ago.

Even now, as she sat on the foredeck, her ratty clothing did little to diffuse the memory of the damp, dewy skin hidden beneath it, and his body swelled. Rhystan adjusted the crowded crotch of his trousers discreetly, ignoring Gideon’s smirk as he followed Rhystan’s line of sight to where Sarani sat. The man’s thick black eyebrows rose, but Rhystan pretended not to notice. Hell if he’d acknowledge acting like an oversexed greenhorn to his bloody quartermaster.

Sarani leaned in to hear something Red was saying and burst out laughing. The unaffected sound made his heart leap and his groin tighten further. Rhystan scrubbed a hand through his hair, yanking at the roots, and blew a frustrated breath through his teeth. He didn’t have to look at the blasted man beside him to see that he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Why don’t you just put yourself out of your misery?” Gideon asked. “If you want her that badly.”

Rhystan shot him a glare. “I don’t.”

“Lie to yourself all you please, but the sexual tension between the two of you could propel this ship to the Americas and back again. Admit it, you want her.”

“Why would I want a lying, conniving, silver-tongued, devious—” He broke off at the warning look in Gideon’s eyes, but not before the object of his diatribe had joined them on the quarterdeck, carrying a tray with his midmorning pot of tea.

“Princess,” Gideon murmured, though Rhystan had the sneaking suspicion he used the deliberate royal address to grind him instead of being proper. The quartermaster didn’t give a lick about courtly etiquette or anyone’s noble rank. It chafed at Rhystan’s rapidly souring mood.

“Please, it’s just Sara,” she said, flushing and setting the tray down on the ledge next to the wheel. She masked the flicker of injury in her eyes with bluster when her stare met Rhystan’s. “Don’t you get tired of talking about yourself, Captain? Honestly, anyone would think you hate yourself, the way you carry on.”