“Go on, hit me,” he’d goaded her.

Unable to resist, she’d thrown a few lackluster jabs. He’d evaded her initial strikes easily, but Sarani had used the time to watch his feet and track his movements, committing them to memory. With that unearthly grace of his, he’d spun and jeered at her.

“You’re not even trying, Sarani.”

“I am trying, you bully ruffian.”

He’d laughed at her puny efforts. “Then try harder.”

The scoundrel had taunted her until she’d gotten so angry that she’d watched and waited for the precise moment when his prancing feet had brought him close enough within range to punch upward with all her might. The contact had surprised them both. Rhystan had had a sore jaw for days. It was a small-won victory that she’d gloated about.

Watching him fight Gideon, it was apparent that his pugilistic skills had only improved. The orchestrated grace with which he’d boxed before had gotten scrappier and more vicious. He still moved like a cat, but his new style was savage. And until he’d caught sight of her and been distracted, Rhystan had held the upper hand. Though admittedly, it’d been by the thinnest sliver of margins.

Sarani assumed she was to blame for that, too.

“Help me get him to his cabin,” she told the quartermaster. “I’ll see to his injuries.”

It was the least she could do.

At least, that was what she told herself.

Ten

Rhystan’s eyes flickered open and he groaned. Hell. It hurt to blink. It hurt to breathe. Everything hurt. His head felt like it had gone straight through a wall, and his ribs squeezed like they were buried under a ton of stone. A wheezing breath blew out of him as he registered the familiar details of his cabin, lit by a single lamp. His eyes slid to the nearest porthole and the hazy gray-and-purple light shining through it.

How long had he been out?

He sighed, groaning slightly at the crushing pressure in his chest. His ribs were going to be sore for a while. Gideon hadn’t pulled any punches this time. Nor was he going to live it down with his crew. It’d been an age since his quartermaster had bested him. Usually any fight between them ended in a well-earned draw, never in a loss on his part. This time, however…his thoughts had been occupied elsewhere.

He moved to sit up, only to be restrained by a firm but gentle hand.

“Don’t,” a soft voice commanded.

A cool cloth touched a cut on his forehead, and he hissed. Other details registered in his pounding brain, including the faintest scent of jasmine and the shapely silhouette of the woman tending to him.

Sarani.