The Duke and the Pirate Queen. Victoria Janssen
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through a second doorway, which led into a larger room crowded with tall tables, each just large enough for two or three tankards. A boy wiggled between the tables while carrying a tray atop his head. Imena stopped him with a click of her fingers. When she didn’t promptly hand over a tankard, he muttered, “Cup rental’s extra,” and held out his grimy hand.
Imena handed over three coppers. The boy said, “Four coppers for a bunk down below, no sleeping allowed.” She shook her head; she had no need to rent a private space. The boy pocketed the coins, unhooked a tankard from his belt and expertly aimed a stream of wine into it before ducking behind the bar for a new flask. She sniffed discreetly at the wine—awful—and pretended to take a sip as she shouldered her way into the rear cabin.
No one took notice of her. Her cap hid her distinctive face and scalp tattooing; her loose clothing hid the shape of her body. No one was looking at the floor to see her tattooed feet. She was tall and slender enough to pass as a man at a casual glance. The anonymity relaxed her. She eased between patrons clustered around the tables, heading for the end of the cabin, where one bulkhead was propped on poles, leaving that side open to the outside air.
One of the cargo handlers leaned against the outside bulkhead, another kneeling before him, apparently just having completed a brief encounter, as the kneeling man was licking his partner clean. They ignored her as they tucked away their cocks and went back inside. She glanced around but saw no others concealed in the shadows cast by the deck lamps.
If she’d been thinking logically, she would have headed inland for her solitude. Few traveled even the main road up to the castle at night. She might have sat beneath a tree in complete comfort, and forgone this tankard of wine more suited to stripping paint than drinking. But then she would not be listening to the slow lapping of the water against the sides of the boat and feeling the easy rocking beneath her feet.
She set her tankard on the deck and dangled her feet over the side, hooking one arm around a post and resting her feet on one of the ropes that traversed the side. She inhaled the sea air and tried not to think of Maxime. She need stay ashore only tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps she would hire a light boat and go out alone, or take Norris and give her a lesson or two in handling small craft. Also, there was the business of visiting the enclave of naturalists down the coast; she had samples to show them, of resins and dried flowers, dried leaves and seeds. Some were probably useless except for the sake of study, but others might have monetary value. She had particular hope for one of the resins; not only would it bring in considerable coin, of which she and her crew would receive the largest share, but the trade itself provided a useful excuse for information gathering, among peoples who’d had little contact with the duchies thus far. The new resin might be as valuable, or more so, as the balsam she’d found on her last trip; it was reputed to have medicinal value.
The boat’s motion and her own exhaustion lulled her to a doze. She dreamed Maxime was there, settling in behind her on the deck, and insisting she call him by his name; then she came awake and realized she had heard his name, and more than once.
Voices carried by the breeze to her ears. A man’s voice with a sleek accent was saying, “Julien will reward me well if I bring Maxime to heel.”
Julien the king? Referred to so informally? The king had sent a man here recently, Maxime had told her. Was this the messenger Maxime had spoken of, or someone else?
The other man’s voice was also accented, and more indistinct. Imena heard only fragments of his reply: “Your business—she won’t—I could—” An indistinct murmur, then she clearly heard, “An accident.”
Imena stiffened. Men speaking softly of accidents did not bode well. And who was she? What wouldn’t she do? Cause an accident? Pay for an accident to happen? Or something else entirely?
Imena couldn’t identify the exact source of the voices. The men could be concealed behind a heap of cable opposite from where she sat, or they could even be on one of the adjoining craft. Until she had a hint of which direction to move, she didn’t dare risk alerting them to her position.
The first man said, “I will arrange everything. You may return, and report back to me if there is any news.”
“—king asks?”
They did refer to Julien, then.
“You know nothing. I will take care of that rutting tomcat Maxime. He won’t trouble Julien any further. And when I’m rewarded with this duchy, I will reward you beyond your wildest dreams.”
The clink of coins carried even better than the sound of voices. It was clear Maxime was in danger. Imena didn’t wait to hear more. She eased soundlessly over the boat’s side and slithered down ropes until her foot touched water. She took a series of deep breaths as silently as she could, then slid beneath the cold water, keeping one hand on the boat’s hull as her guide.
She had to go to Maxime, and quickly. But first, she would need to find Chetri.
CHAPTER FIVE
AFTER SYLVIE LEFT HIM, MAXIME CALLED FOR A bath in his quarters, but it did not make him sleepy as he’d hoped. He sent the servants away and spent several hours at his desk, reading the accounting for the past couple of days and then placing his seal on various permissions, customs documents and requisitions to supply the castle. All had been meticulously prepared by his aunt, Lady Gisele, and two of her children, whom she was presently training in the fine art of bureaucracy. He tried not to think about how little he was actually needed here; no longer was he necessary to distract Julien’s attention from the business of the duchy, because now everything was legal, open to inspection.
Being a duke felt more like extra bonds than the freedom he’d thought the position would represent. He was tempted, sometimes, to run. To head down to the docks and take ship for elsewhere.
He moved to a tray of letters already opened and ready for him to peruse. As he’d feared, Julien hadn’t waited for his formal refusal of Diamanta; another envoy was on the way.
Maxime glanced at the piles of legal texts he’d assembled. He would need to shift a few of his secretaries to that duty, for copying documents if nothing else. Because no one was watching, he put his head in his hands for a few moments and allowed himself to curse at length. He didn’t want to do it, but he would start in on the legal tomes tomorrow. For now, he composed replies to some of Camille’s letters, and to a personal one from Henri, whom he was beginning to consider a friend, as well. He briefly considered sharing his worries about marriage with Henri, but what could the boy tell him in return? Henri was barely twenty, and though acknowledged as legal consort to Camille, his situation was vastly different from Maxime’s.
When he’d finished, he wiped off his signet ring and laid it in its dish along with the carved stamp that bore the same design, an octopus curling around the initial letter of his name. He blew out the lamp, tossed his robe over the back of his chair and walked naked into his bedroom. The floor, heated by piped water from the hot springs, soothed his feet. Sometimes he stretched out upon the warm tile, with a pillow to prop his head, and reviewed the day’s work in his mind. Today, though, he planned to go straight to bed. Perhaps sleep would organize his thoughts on Imena Leung and how he could entice her to listen to his point of view.
His bed, with its intricately carved wooden canopy, loomed in the dim light of a single yellow lamp. The servants had carefully tidied the heaps of goose-down-filled bedding and pillows and attempted to straighten the mountain of leather-bound books and encased scrolls stacked near the bed’s head. Despite their efforts, the pile leaned dangerously and soon would create a landslide of reading material in five languages.
It didn’t matter if the room was a mess. He rarely entertained anyone in here. He preferred the baths and the adjacent chambers; it was safer that way, easier to keep his partners at a distance. The only woman he’d fucked in his own bed was Camille, and he didn’t count her, exactly; they’d known each other for such a long time that she didn’t seem like a mere sexual partner, and besides that, he’d known she was in love with her stable boy, Henri. It had been safe to have her here, safe to let her see his things spread about. He’d