“I don’t know. Papa’s”—a small sob escaped her lips—“throat was cut. It had to be someone who had access to the palace. Who knew the guards. With all the growing instability in the region, my father was careful about who he trusted and who he allowed into the family apartments. And yet someone still got to him. The fact that that ship has been on our tail for weeks can’t be a coincidence. I’d rather be wrong than willfully ignorant.”

“Where were you planning to go in England?” he asked. “To the Earl of Beckforth?”

Sarani shrugged. “That was the plan.”

“And if that didn’t work, what then?”

His cool tone irritated her. She was well aware that going there was a long shot. Her mother had been quite publicly cut off and the scandal had been the talk of the town for years, and given what Sarani had learned about Englishmen and their bigotry, it wasn’t likely that she would be welcomed back into the family fold with open arms. But she’d been low on options—low being the understatement of the century—and she didn’t even know which of her distant male relations was the current earl. Perhaps, whoever he was, he would be more open-minded.

One could only hope.

“I have money,” she replied with some defiance. “I’ll find somewhere to stay. Go to my mother’s holdings in Scotland.”

“And when your store of money runs out?”

Lifting an eyebrow, Rhystan folded his arms across his broad chest. Sarani had the sudden indescribable urge to be cradled against him and wrapped in his strong arms. Ever since the death of her mother, she’d been largely self-reliant—the maharaja being occupied with affairs of state—but the idea of leaning on someone else for a change had appeal. Not that Rhystan was offering. He was simply playing devil’s advocate.

Though that didn’t mean she had to like him poking holes in her plans.

She would be fine!

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “I can get work, I suppose. I can now add shoveling horse manure, being a maid, fetching food, heaping coal, and braiding rope to the list of things to recommend me.” In a fit of frustration, she slammed her hand down upon the desk and shrieked in pain, cradling her injured fist to her breast. He was beside her in an instant.

“What have you done?” he demanded. “Show me.”

“It’s nothing,” she replied, but the agonizing throb in her palm nearly made her see stars.

Despite her protests, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, drawing her hands carefully to him. Slowly, she opened them, displaying their red raw, blistered surfaces and wincing. Half scabbed over, several of the plum-colored, oozing streaks looked angry and irritated, and they stung fiercely.

Rhystan swore. “Damn it, Sarani, what in hell happened?”