of the Duke’s Council. His Highness King Julien the Seventh, Master of the Eastern Passes, Sovereign of the Eight Duchies—which includes mine, he made sure to remind me—requires me to marry. He is weary of waiting for me to accomplish this on my own recognizance, and has ordered I marry immediately.” He returned to scrubbing her back, more vigorously than before.
She sighed and rested her elbows on her thighs so he could scrub harder. “I suppose since he can’t bear your heir himself, someone under his thumb is the next best thing.”
A moment’s silence, then Maxime laughed. “Julien is an attractive man, but I don’t think his tastes run to partners who are bearded.”
Fighting down an unexpected sharp disappointment, she asked, “When’s the wedding?”
“I refused.”
Imena peered over her shoulder at him, awkwardly because he was scrubbing her arm, shoulder to fingers. He wasn’t smiling. “You’re a duke of his realm,” she said.
“So I am. With all the rights and powers given thereunto. I’m a tad annoyed it took blackmail for that to happen, given that I was born to the position. Julien likely has another envoy on the way. I’ve already begun preparing a legal defense if he should try anything dubious.”
“Do you have an heir already?”
“I wouldn’t be so careless!” he said harshly. Immediately, he released his grip on her. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
His fingers had tightened on her, but only for a moment. “No. Will you scrub the other arm?” She’d never seen him show anger, not like this; not helpless anger, like the kind she felt herself. The rush of empathy she felt for him startled her, and she barely resisted laying her hand on his shoulder.
Maxime was much gentler with her left arm. “You didn’t come here to listen to me complain,” he said. “I have nothing to complain of.” He rinsed the cloth and added more soap; he swept the cloth over her breasts and belly with cool detachment. “Did the mangosteens travel well?”
Imena tried to ignore the warmth of his hands through the cloth. “Exceptionally so. We’ll be stowing them that way next time, as well. The custard fruit also. Chetri will be sending up a crate for you.”
She detailed the rest of the cargo, its cost and the expected profit, grateful for the distraction. As he swept the cloth over her thighs, Maxime said absently, “I like this one.” His fingers outlined an octopus tattoo, concealed within swirling tracery.
She shivered; this touch felt more intimate than the others. She didn’t mention she’d been thinking of him as she chose the design, and seen him in her mind as the needles had punctured her skin. The memory mixed oddly with the gentle pleasure of his touch.
He moved on to the rest of her leg without further comment. He asked other questions, his usual ones involving local conditions at the ports she’d visited, occasionally inquiring after a port official or shipyard master whom he knew. She gave him all the bits of information she’d gathered, no matter how small, including reports she’d had from Chetri, various of her sailors and her cabin girl, Norris.
Maxime listened to it all, an abstracted look on his face, but she knew from past experience he would forget nothing. When she’d finished speaking, he tossed a towel on the floor, knelt and began washing her feet.
He wasn’t massaging, or stroking more than he needed to stroke, but she couldn’t deny the erotic thrill racing up her legs. Imena stared down at the nape of his neck and thought about resting her hand there, or pressing her lips where his hair was pulled aside. She needed to say something, anything to distract her from his fingers sliding soap between her toes. She imagined his tongue sliding delicately between her toes and shivered with desire. Desperately, she said, “My parents want me to marry.”
CHAPTER TWO
MAXIME’S HANDS STOPPED MOVING, AND IMENA slowly let out her breath. He would stop touching her now, and she could relax. He was to marry a courtier’s daughter because his king commanded. She was to marry someone who wasn’t a duke; therefore even the thought of … this … was impossible.
There was no this. Maxime was performing a servant’s duty for her, that was all. One of his odd notions of diplomacy. She was a little overcome by his touch because she’d been at sea for months and was sadly deprived of sex.
She needed to shake off inappropriate arousal, leave here and find Sanji, who was always glad to see her on her infrequent visits to his chandler’s shop. Sanji would take care of her need in his sunny bedroom, and then they’d have a lovely dinner and she would play with his two sons out in his garden, and she might spend the night. He’d be happy to have her spend the night. He always said he’d like to see more of her.
She was having a difficult time remembering why mild, steady Sanji was preferable to Maxime.
After a pregnant pause, Maxime placed her soapy foot on the towel covering his thigh and began washing her calf, his strokes slower than before. She flexed her callused toes involuntarily against hard muscle; his shoulders tightened. She looked away. She would not think of it. She would not. He said, “Did your parents offer you any choice of husbands?”
Never had she been so grateful for conversation. “Nearly a dozen,” she said.
“Were any of them suitable?”
“They were all … very monied. Very eager to marry into the family of Admiral Leung. She chose them, though my father had final say.”
Maxime moved to her other calf. “They were eager to join with her family, but not with you? They object to your father?” When she didn’t answer, he said, “You told me about him, remember? I know he was a foreign captive.”
She’d forgotten that drunken evening, which he’d referred to as her interview for a position as his trusted captain. “Did I tell you what else that means?”
“You can’t inherit a position in the imperial navy,” he said in a detached tone. “Nor can your children. They can’t work for the imperium, at least not for payment, though their children’s children will be allowed to do so, so long as they pass the appropriate examinations. And provided all their other ancestry is imperial. You are, however, permitted to work as a privateer, risking death for the imperium’s glory.” As he spoke, he stood and dropped the cloth in the bucket. His hands closed over her tight shoulders and massaged.
Despite the bitter truth of his words, Imena drooped forward, sighing with pleasure. His thumbs were digging unerringly into the worst knot, just at the base of her neck. She hadn’t realized how much her head was aching until the gnarled muscle released. As if he knew, Maxime smoothed his palm over her scalp before returning to the massage. He said, “So what is the advantage, if you marry one of these men?”
Imena considered, though it was hard to think while his hands squeezed the tension from her shoulders and neck. “Position,” she said. “I’d be absorbed into his family, and would thus be considered trustworthy, at least to a certain extent. My husband would be responsible for me.” She tried to keep the anger from her tone, but couldn’t manage it.
“You’re not going to do that.”
“I might have to.” She slumped on the bench as his hands traveled down either side of her spine, pressing out tension as they went. “I’d have money of my own, to dispose of as I wanted. I would have to give up Seaflower, though. The wives of wealthy men don’t go to sea.”
He said, “It won’t come to that, if you’d accept sanctuary in the duchy.”
She smiled. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t think King Julien would be happy to have the daughter of an imperial admiral living in his kingdom.”
“What if you married someone here? Your loyalty would be assumed more readily, and your children could do whatever they wished.”
She closed her