Sarani didn’t like the predatory gleam that had appeared in Rhystan’s eyes as soon as his hunter’s stare fastened on her. She could see the wheels in his brain turning, and instinctively, she knew that whatever he was thinking would decide her immediate future on his ship.

Her stomach flipped and soured. Goodness, would he turn her over to the assassin? Cut her loose in St. Helena? She was prepared for that option, though being stranded on an island with a killer on her heels wasn’t ideal. And it would be impractical to hide within the small and no doubt tight-knit local aristocracy.

The newssheets mailed to the palace in Joor a year ago wrote of a short visit to St. Helena by Prince Alfred, second son to the queen, and the excitement of the local elite. Everyone knew everyone. She would hardly be able to blend in to avoid detection, and she wouldn’t have much time to secure passage on another ship, but it wasn’t an impossibility. She had money, and money could work magic in difficult situations.

Sarani did not need a man, much less a salty, mercurial sea captain, to save her. She could—and would—save herself.

Still, Rhystan’s intense gaze unsettled her. And that sudden smirk did not bode well.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked.

His blue-gray gaze slipped down to her bandaged palms, the tips of her fingers grasping the now-warm cloth in them. Sarani tossed it back into the bowl and straightened her shoulders, her belly tightening with dread. If he chose to, he could toss her overboard just as he’d done with the unfortunate fellow who had put his hands on her. Not that he would…but he could. He held all the cards here. Every instinct screamed that whatever fell from his lips would not be in her best interests. She held her breath when his mouth opened.

“Since you have injured yourself,” he said, “I have to think up another suitable position for you to pay for your place on my ship.”

“I can still work.”

Rhystan smiled. “No, I’ve a better idea.”

He couldn’t mean…

Oh, good gracious.

Though a spark of desire ignited in the pit of her abdomen, Sarani shook her head wildly, backing away several steps as though reason would miraculously appear with more space between them. It didn’t. “I refuse to be your ‘shipboard doxy,’ as you called it, or whatever insanity you’ve conjured in that head of yours,” she burst out, waving a wild hand. “Regardless of what happened between us earlier”—she sputtered at the sudden gleam in his eye—“that’s not going to happen, Your Grace.”

A darkening gaze met hers. “Would that be so bad, Sarani? Being in my bed?”

Would it?