Free The Sandalwood Princess by Loretta Chase

sleep, hadn’t she?
    For Jessup’s sake, Philip had clamped down his own feelings, locked and sealed them away. He hated the cabin. Monty Larchmere was as hard up as everyone suspected, or he’d never have settled for this miserable hole. The place was narrow and dark, and the air was stale at best, but mostly foul. Philip would have slept above on deck, if he dared. He didn’t. He couldn’t leave the cabin unguarded at night, even locked. What was a lock to the sly Indian, curse him. Curse her as well—Pandora, with those deceitful golden eyes. She’d uttered the words and the demon he’d locked away had sprung out to smother him.
    It was early afternoon, but light scarcely reached this place. It was dark, rank, suffocating. Too familiar.
    That was all a lifetime ago, he told himself as he forced his eyes closed. Another life, a child’s, and he was a man. How many times in the last fifteen years had he hastened fearlessly towards certain death? He was no longer a weak, helpless little boy. He was not afraid... of anything.
    All the same, he felt it steal over him in a slow, icy stream: Dread. Groundless, irrational, his adult mind insisted, even as it sank under the cold horror.
    In minutes, Philip was out of the cabin, hurrying blindly through the passage. Then he was into the light at last, into the air, gulping it greedily until his mind rose out of the icy trap and his heart returned to its normal, steady beat. Damn her to hell.
    Jessup’s recovery continued at the same faltering pace, and the ensuing week was slow torture. Of course one must eat and rest and exercise. Philip was not a fool. Yet his appetite dwindled, suffocated, as his reason was, by the endless watching in the hot, tiny cell. The sight of food sickened him, and he grew bone-achingly weary, so that climbing to the upper deck this day was like scaling a thousand-foot cliff.
    Catching sight of him, Miss Cavencourt marched across the deck and commenced another lecture. Philip stared at her, utterly unable to comprehend a syllable. Then something began to buzz very loudly in his ears, his muscles jerked crazily, and Miss Cavencourt and all the world were submerged in a heavy black blanket.
    A child was screaming, sobbing, somewhere. A door, thick and heavy… and oppressive, stifling darkness. He couldn’t breathe. His little hands burned, raw with pounding on the immovable barrier. “Please, I won’t do it again, Papa. Please, Papa. I’m sorry.”
    Something cool and wet touched him then, and a gentle hand brushed his forehead. Philip’s eyes opened to golden light shimmering amid the shadows. Autumn at Felkonwood, sate in the forest. The light fell warm, and the breeze blew sweet with ... patchouli?
    His mind shot back to the world and discovered a woman bent over him. He tried to pull himself up.
    “No, Mr. Brentick, not so quickly,” Miss Cavencourt said softly. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
    Nausea rose in a dizzying wave. He lay back again and took a long, steadying breath. “What happened?” he asked. His voice seemed to come from miles away.
    “You collapsed,” she said, “under the weight of my disapproval.”
    A disconcerting warmth overspread his face. Devil take it! He’d swooned at her feet—he, the Falcon—and now he must be blushing like a schoolboy.
    A faint smile curved her full mouth, but her gaze softened to smoky amber. “You should have listened to me, Mr. Brentick. But that will be my only ‘ I told you so,’ “ she added, the smile fading, “so long as you follow my directions henceforth. Fortunately, there is no fever. You are simply overtired and weak from hunger. I want you to try to sleep. When Bella comes by later to feed your master, she’ll bring you some broth as well. You must try to finish it. Even if you feel a bit queasy at first, it will do you a deal of good, I promise.”
    She rose, and only then did he realise he lay, not in the hammock above Jessup’s cot, but on a narrow mattress