The Duchess Inheritance (Jordinia Book 2) Read online

  “Well.” Kramerik straightened. “Meet me at port before sundown, then. Oh, and gentlemen?” His grin was rueful. “I’d suggest one last good, square meal. Unfortunately, my galley chef is not the finest.”

  “NOW, REMEMBER,” JON ROLLED DAINY’S trunk in one hand, hauling his own in the other, “you are Miss Macmillan, savvy? We cannot inform anyone of your true identity throughout our travels.”

  “But Hoste said I shall have amnesty anywhere I go, outside of the New Republic,” Dainy reminded him, recalling their conversation with the Jordinian leader.

  A shadow passed over Jon’s handsome features. “I do not trust Marten Hoste.”

  Beneath the setting sun, the trio greeted the captain of the Evangela. Although small compared to the other ships in Pikosta’s harbor that evening, the freighter was new, and certainly the largest vessel Dainy had ever boarded.

  “She runs on col,” Captain Kramerik explained, guiding them past the quay and up the boarding ramp. He proceeded to describe a rocky sediment, which had recently been discovered in the eastern mines of the Great Continent. Jon and Mac were fascinated, wishing to know everything about this col, where it was found, how it was mined, and how it was burned to heat a boiler and propel a steamship.

  “It’s the latest technology,” Kramerik proclaimed. “Cutting edge. The wave of the future, I tell you!”

  “She’s a fine freighter, Captain.” Jon stepped onto the main deck, offering a hand to help Dainy up. He glanced at the whitewashed walls and waxed planks, nodding approvingly.

  “What sort of cargo does she haul?” inquired Mac, following Kramerik to the cabin deck.

  “Textiles.” The mariner smoothed his beard. “Wool, cotton… In fact, we’re en route to Jophlin right now, to retrieve an order of silk. And then to the Isle of Et, to deliver several cases of leather.”

  “You’re all over the map, aren’t you?” mused Jon, stroking his own bristling chin.

  “Speaking of maps,” piped Dainy, and Kramerik gave her an appreciative glance over his shoulder. “I should like to see one. I know little of geography.”

  “I’ll draw one for you,” Jon offered.

  But the captain laughed. “I’ve maps aplenty, dear Miss Macmillan. You are welcome to all of them.”

  Dainy beamed. How fortuitous that she and her companions had not only found passage, but managed to stumble directly into the path of such a warmhearted captain.

  They came to a small hallway, where she suddenly shivered at the long row of narrow doors. It was all too reminiscent of the treasury in Omar, where she’d recently spent one horrifying afternoon locked inside of her vault.

  “Well!” Kramerik rubbed his hands together. “How delightful to have you aboard. I do appreciate your business.”

  “As we appreciate your service.” Mac bobbed his head as Kramerik opened their cabin doors.

  Dainy made to reach for her trunk when the captain placed a hand on her shoulder. “Any time you wish to peruse my maps,” he told her, “my quarters are just across the way. Please, do not be shy.” He then departed to oversee his crew, leaving Dainy and her companions to acquaint themselves with their new lodgings.

  The young woman stepped into a small, tidy cabin. After sliding her trunk beneath a fold-out cot, she fingered the triangular key in her skirt pocket to ensure that it remained safe. At the sound of approaching steps, however, she looked up. Her pulse quickened to see Jon, penetrating eyes staring her down as he strolled up to her, taking her by the waist…

  “Cosmith,” snapped Mac. “Our room’s over here.” He pointed next door.

  Jon shrugged. “For now.”

  “Huh?” Mac frowned as Dainy raised an eyebrow.

  “So long as we’re in Halvean waters, Macmillan, your brotherly authority is relevant. But soon as we pass the coast of East Halvea…” Jon smirked, removing his hat and tossing it onto Dainy’s cot. “Such patriarchal customs shall no longer apply.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “He means,” said Dainy, forming a smile of her own, “that once we sail out of Halvean territory, I may share my cabin with whomever I wish.”

  “No,” said Mac flatly.

  “Yes,” countered Jon and Dainy.

  Mac dropped his voice. “Have you two no shame? What will Kramerik think? What of his crew?”

  Jon laughed. “Who cares?”

  “I care!” snapped Mac. “My sister is a duchess, Cosmith. Not one of your many whores.”

  A chill coursed through Dainy that had little to do with the breeze. She suddenly found she could look nowhere but down at her shoes.

  Beside her, Jon stiffened. She trembled at the tickle of his breath against her cheek as he whispered, “Excuse me, darling,” and proceeded to pull Mac from the cabin, slamming the door behind them.

  Though secluded, Dainy could clearly overhear their every word. She turned away, knowing it was wrong to eavesdrop, but they were making no effort to conceal their voices.

  “What in hell is the matter with you, Macmillan?”

  “She may be smitten with you, but the fact remains, you are an incurable womanizer.”

  “Do not make me strike you…”

  Mac ignored him. “So, if Dainy means more to you than just another notch in your belt, you will prove it. Which means you’ll keep your over-practiced hands off of her, and respect her for once.”

  “Respect her? Good God, man, I love her. D’you think I’ve ever felt this way for a woman before?”

  “I’d imagine you’d have lost count of all the women before.”

  Dainy leaned against the door, her heart hammering. Why, but could there be some truth to what Mac was saying?

  Indeed, Jon was the only man she’d ever loved. But was she not merely the latest in a lengthy procession of maidens he’d already seduced? The thought made her stomach churn. Exactly how many other women had come before her, anyway? And who was to say that, in time, he would remain satisfied with just her, when—heaven knew—the man could have any girl he desired?

  Mac spoke again, as though reading her thoughts. “So how does the Duchess compare,” he asked scathingly, “to your long line of conquests?”

  Dainy was startled by the emotion in Jon’s tone as he responded, “There is no comparison.”

  Her breathing slowed, and she lowered herself onto the cot. Jon’s hat remained there, and she picked it up, hugging it to her chest. His voice had reduced to a whisper, though she could still make out most of the words. “…A second chance? I am not the man I once was.”

  “All I see is the same arrogant rake who always gets what he wants,” muttered Mac. “And people do not change.”

  Dainy listened to her brother’s departing footfalls until her door bowed open again. Jon took a tentative step inside, looking uncommonly somber. Slowly, she rose to her feet, still clutching his hat.

  “S’pose you heard all that.” Awkwardly, he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Look, Dainy… you are all that matters,” he blurted. “You ought to know. An hour here, an eve there with a complete stranger never meant a thing to me—”

  “Jon,” she interjected, her heart softening even as it thrummed uncomfortably. “Listen. I… I can overlook what has come before me,” she gathered her breath, “so long as none come after.” She eyed him carefully, hoping he understood.

  He came forward, taking her face between his hands. “There is no before or after. For me, there is only you.”

  Dainy remained still but for her lashes, which flickered shut as he leaned in and brought his irresistible lips to hers.

  PIERMA HAD CERTAINLY CHANGED. MONTIMOR could hardly believe it was the same capitol he’d once known. The formerly bright and bustling streets were now filthy and dull, poverty littering every corner. Although, it wasn’t much better back home in Ferro, either.

  At the startling clopping of hooves, he glanced up to spy a mail rider approaching on an old gelding. The rider slowed before a crowd of peasants, brandishing a scroll aloft. “Betine Toustead?”

  Montimor gave a start.

  A curly-headed lad nodded to his fellows. “Oy, he means Bet.” He looked up at the rider. “Try Capitol Square. She’s always reading the bulletins there.”

  The rider turned his horse around, and Montimor hurried after him around the next block to the Square. His jaw nearly dropped to spot the bone-thin, black-clad woman perusing the postings at the wall.

  “Comrade Toustead?”

  Montimor noticed her violet hair looked stringier than ever. “I am she,” she confessed warily.

  “A message for you.”

  “From whom?” Bewildered, Bet reached up and received the scroll.

  “The postage is from Häffstrom. Good day.” The rider steered his gelding back to the road.

  Montimor watched as she tore through the wax seal and unfurled the scroll, lips pursed as she made out the runes. After a moment, she rolled it back into a cylinder and gazed into the street, a faraway look on her narrow face.

  Montimor stepped out of the shadows. “Who do you know in Häffstrom, Bet?”

  She startled. “Do I know you?”

  “You mean, you do not recognize me?” He stroked his moustache.

  Bet Toustead squinted at him, her features contorting in shock. “You,” she gasped. “But how—” She pressed a hand over her mouth. “Where the devil have you been?”

  “It’s a long story.” Montimor frowned. “Where is she?”

  Bet glanced down at the scroll in her hands. “Oh dear,” she breathed, eyes wide.

  THE S. S. EVANGELA CROSSED the sprightly waters of East Halvea the following week, the first quarter of their journey to Jophlin, Jano complete. It was a humid evening when Hans Kramerik spotted the pretty maiden standing alone at the stern, watching the dark waves disappearing behind them. She smiled politely as he approached, a simple white dress hugging her shapely figure and reflecting the lantern light.

  “Do you fare well, Miss Macmillan?” Kramerik joined her at the rail. “Is your cabin comfortable?”

  “All is well, Captain. I’m still amazed at how fast your freighter travels. I’ve never sailed on a col-fueled vessel before.”

  “And on what sorts of vessels have you sailed, my dear?”

  She shrugged sheepishly. “Just an old fishing boat.”

  The captain surveyed her. “May I ask what brings you all the way to Asiotica?”

  She hesitated, and Kramerik instantly regretted his question. Of course, it was none of his business. “Oh, just some family affairs,” she replied.

  He nodded, glad she did not seem to take offense at his prying. “Well, at any rate, I’m delighted to have you aboard,” he said softly.

  But he was unsure whether she’d heard this last utterance, for she abruptly changed the topic. “The Evangela.” She repeated the ship’s name. “That is lovely. Did you come up with it?”

  “Aye, she’s named for my late wife.”

  Miss Macmillan frowned, plainly embarrassed by her gaffe.

  “It’s been a long time,” Kramerik assured her, “and my grief is well behind me.”

  She did not speak again, and Kramerik rued her silence, until he raised a weathered palm to his brow, suddenly remembering. “But I’ve neglected to show you my maps! Would you like to come to my study and review them? I can show you our route, and the countries of the Great Continent—”

  Her green eyes brightened and she nodded, proceeding behind him to his study. Upon the desk before her, the captain outspread his parchments, tracing their route and explaining the diverse nations of the Continent. All the while, she listened intently, poring over his scrolls and drilling him with clever questions. He admired her, wishing for the company of a damsel so curious and lively on his every voyage.

  And yet, Kramerik reminded himself, he was no longer a young man anymore, despite how this girl had begun to make him feel. Surely, she’d only consider him in a fatherly way. For his features were aging, his beard graying, and his lifetime of sorrow and experience had likely surpassed her young reckoning. But could a man not hope?

  Carefully, he set aside the map they’d been studying. “How old are you, Miss Macmillan, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I have seen eighteen springs,” was her earnest reply.

  “Ah.” He heaved a wistful sigh, gazing through the glass-paned door. “My daughter would’ve been close to your age by now.” He reached for the water pitcher and poured a glass. “Had she survived her birth, that is.” He handed her the glass, and she took it, looking sympathetic.

  “That’s how I lost Evangela, my wife.” Kramerik seldom spoke of these matters, but for some reason, he wished to share his heart that night. “She died in childbirth, as did the babe.”

  “I’m so sorry, Captain.”

  “Please, just Hans.” He stepped closer as she sipped her drink. “Eludaine,” he intoned, the name having been absent from his tongue those many years.

  She choked on her water, gripping her throat with a sputtering cough. Alarmed, Kramerik thumped her on the back until she nodded, eyes streaming. “Beg pardon?” she gasped.

  “My daughter. Her name was Eludaine.” Kramerik removed the glass from her hand. “I christened her after the little Duchess of Jordinia. Although, perhaps you’re too young to remember the Ducelles?”

  She cleared her throat, her cheeks pink.

  “Brutal, what those Jordinian rebels did,” he muttered, scratching his beard. “Executing a three-year-old child…”

  She swallowed. “Well, Hans,” she said his name rather uneasily, though Kramerik reveled in the sound, “it is getting rather late.”

  He helped her to her feet. “But of course. It’s been a pleasure, dear.” He took the liberty to pat her shoulder before opening the door. “Would you like me to escort you to your cabin?” he dared offer.

  She blinked. “Oh, I’m sure I can make my own way.”

  Perhaps he’d been too forward, thought Kramerik, watching her depart his quarters under the evening sky. There was still a long journey ahead, however, and plenty of time to get to know each other. He’d simply have to overcome his doubts and seize what opportunities he could, hopefully earning more than just her friendship in turn.

  The man gripped his desk, sighing. Then again, she’d only seen eighteen springs. Why, he’d lived her entire lifetime nearly thrice over! And yet, he couldn’t help his blossoming affections for her. Perhaps, it was fate that had brought her to the café in Pikosta. It might’ve even been Evangela’s spirit at work, wishing companionship for her former husband at last.

  HER CABIN DOOR WAS CURIOUSLY ajar and a lantern lit when she returned. Dainy smiled with surprise to greet Jon seated on her cot, toying with his belt as he awaited her. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Cosmith?” she asked fondly, lingering in the doorway.

  His alluring grin weakened her knees. “Speaking of pleasure, Miss Macmillan,” he purred, “why not step inside, and close that door behind you?”

  She giggled. “Where’s Mac?”

  “The boy has been at the drink with the crew all evening.” Jon smirked. “He’ll remember nothing of tonight, I assure you.”

  Pulse pounding, Dainy closed the door as Jon held out his arms to her. With a tremor of anticipation, she stepped into his embrace, pressing her face into his sweet-smelling hair.

  “Besides,” he murmured, running his hands down the length of her back. “Did you not notice? We’ve sailed past East Halvea.” He planted his mouth hungrily at her neck. “No longer must our dear brother speak for you.”

  Dainy watched as he dimmed the lantern and turned down the linens. He helped her out of her frock with ease, then unfastened his own clothing. With a deep moan, he lay her down, and shared love with her once again. Dainy closed her eyes, savoring his every exhalation, her heart fluttering with each tender brush of his lips across her body. The cot groaned beneath their weight, the sea around her disappeared; there was only him.

  After, the man collapsed at her side, their bodies damp with perspiration. Dainy curled into his hold, resting her head upon his chest and inhaling with the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. “Please do not leave before I rise this time,” she requested quietly.

  “Never again,” he promised, nuzzling his bristling cheeks into her hair. The two were lulled by the gentle sway of the sea.

  THE URGE TO VOMIT AWOKE Macmillan early. He glanced around to find himself lying sideways in his cot, but had no recollection of getting there. Groaning, he stood, then covered his mouth and raced to the nearest railing.

  He was sick for several minutes, emptying his stomach into the sea below. Why had he indulged in so much drink the night before? He grabbed his throbbing head, pitying the hung-over sailors who had no choice but to return to their duties. Thank God he was only a passenger.

  Footfalls issued from the captain’s quarters. Macmillan looked up to see Hans Kramerik approaching, fully uniformed, his graying hair and beard neatly combed. He paused just outside of Dainy’s door. Macmillan wiped his mouth and held up a weak hand in greeting.

  “Good morrow,” Kramerik greeted him, sounding somewhat nervous. “Has—has your sister arisen yet?”

  Macmillan shrugged. “I’ve not seen her.”

  “I was… hoping she might join me for breakfast. Perhaps it would be more appropriate if you asked for me?”

  Macmillan cocked an eyebrow. Had he heard the old man correctly, or was he still drunk? “Um. I’ll ask.” He gave Kramerik a strange look before stepping up to Dainy’s door and giving it a light knock. There came no answer. “Er… sister? You awake?”

  “M-Mac?” she stammered, her voice muffled. “I’m dressing!”