hands. It made some of the older wounds reopen.”
“They’re bloody festering, you daft woman. You should have come to me.”
She shot him a sour stare. “To whine?”
“Yes. No! This is not whining, you fool-headed imp.” Rhystan leaned over to blow on the tender, aching skin, and something else crept into the edges of her pain. “Be sure to add bullheaded, stubborn, and contrary to your job-qualifications list.” Propping her against the desk, he released her hands gently to get a clean strip of linen from a nearby chest and poured some of the whisky on it. “We have to clean it properly. I won’t lie… This will hurt like the devil.”
“I’m not afraid.”
One thick eyebrow arched. “You’ve proven that time and time again. Ready?”
Sarani nodded and bit back a scream when he dabbed the alcohol-soaked cloth to her skin. Sending her an apologetic look, he blew a warm stream of air on her hands again and repeated the process. The second time hurt less, but not by much.
The next few times his breath gusted on her skin, however, she felt the tingle of it in her chest. The sight of his head bent over her was doing strange things to her equilibrium. His distinctive masculine scent wafted to her, and all she wanted to do was breathe him in. Lean into him. Obviously, it was a moment of weakness because she was in pain.
Memory leached into the present with scattered images of a different Rhystan, a younger Rhystan, head bent over her hands that had been decorated with mehndi in the Mughal tradition by one of her handmaidens. He’d kissed each of her red-stained fingers and the dotted sphere at the center of each palm when she’d explained that the stain had been made from the ground leaves of a plant.
“What is it for?” he had whispered.
“Blessings for luck, joy, and beauty.”
His easy smile had been full of wicked promise. “I believe a man makes his own luck, and you already have the last one, so it shall be my earnest pledge to bring you as much joy as possible, Princess.”
One of her handmaidens had piped up. “Also for marriage and fertility, sahib.”
Sarani’s blush had nearly matched the color of the dye on her hands, but Rhystan had only smiled a secret smile and continued kissing her fingertips. Until he’d approached her in her chambers that fateful night, she’d been hopeful of his intentions and a future between them. Marriage. Maybe even children someday.
But then duty had intervened and destiny had conspired to throw them apart. Only to hurl them back together. The symbolism of the current moment was not lost on her. Not that he was flirting or kissing her fingers. Even now, the memory of his lips on her skin was so fresh that a rash of gooseflesh broke out on her arms.
Huffing a shallow breath, she almost snatched her hand away.
“Does that hurt?” he asked, glancing up.
Sarani forced herself not to give away her roiling emotions or the lie that left her lips. “Some.”
Reaching for more clean linen strips, he added some salve from a jar and expertly bandaged her palms. “There. Better?”
“Yes, thank you,” she whispered.
Rhystan stood upright but made no move to step away, instead caging her with his arms on either side of her hips on the desk. Her newly bound and dressed palms sat cradled in her lap, a puny barrier to the tension that was unspooling between them. Had he been thinking about the last time he’d held her hands as well? Nothing showed in his expression—no softening in those hard, inscrutable eyes.
But still he stared.
Their breaths loud in the silence, the duke studied her face in wordless fascination while she did the same. Relearning him. Remapping his features. Taking in the maturity of his stern bristled jaw and the dissolute curve of his mouth. Oh, that mouth… It had known hers intimately. Tasted her skin, sipped at her hands, her neck, the slope of her cleavage.
With a blush, Sarani wrenched her eyes away to trace his strong, bold nose, the arch of his cheekbones, and those darkened, storm-hued irises. Silky blond-brown hair streaked gold by the sun framed his cheeks and curled into his brow, and her injured hands ached to sweep it away.
Her tongue darted out to lick dry lips, and his stare returned there. Within a heartbeat, the tension humming between them spiked and ignited, spreading like wildfire over spilled oil. Rhystan’s sharpened gaze turned hot and desirous, scorching