Her face heated at the thought, but she shrugged it away. What did she care if he found her attractive or not?
“I don’t believe Graaf knew anything about it.”
His expression remained skeptical.
“Besides, I’m not even sure he paid for me. The slavers seemed to think my presence was something of a jest.”
His eyebrows shot up. “They are not the kind of men who like to jest—they are the type of men who like to rape, enslave, or kill.”
Sarah’s face was hot, and she knew it would be glowing like a coal. “Yes, well, two of them tried the first of those things on the long journey from my village. But one of the slavers, a Dutchman, was apparently a very devout Christian, and he saw me with my father’s Bible.” She shrugged, not wishing to tell Bouchard just how terrified she had been the night the big slaver fought the two other men until they were bloody pulps. But neither they—nor any other man—had bothered her again.
Bouchard gave an ugly laugh, and Sarah looked up.
“So, this Dutch slaver was a religious man—but he could still buy and sell human beings, eh?”
“Sheath your claws, Captain. You’ll get no argument from me on the subject.”
His eyes went wide at her sarcasm, and she thought, for an instant, that perhaps she had gone too far. But then he threw his head back and laughed.
He grinned at her when he could finally stop, his beautiful face robbing her of breath. “Go on with your story, Miss Fisher. I have not been so diverted in ages.”
“When we arrived in Ouidah—” She shuddered, memories of that nightmarish day coming back vividly.
“I know what you found in Ouidah,” he said grimly. “The slave market.”
She nodded. “In the middle of all the agony and chaos, a young woman went into labor. I was the only one in our small group who had medical knowledge so I—”
“How is it that you have medical knowledge?”
He looked so interested that Sarah forgave him his rude interruption. “My father was a doctor and my closest friend in the village was the healer. Unlike my father, Abena knew of many remedies that could be made from local plants. She taught me only a fraction of what she knew before she died.” Sarah blinked rapidly, ashamed that she mourned the loss of Abena more than her parents. But the clever, quiet, and loving woman had been Sarah’s best friend since the two could barely toddle. Abena had learned medicine at the knee of her grandmother, and then had generously shared that gift with Sarah.
Sarah looked up to find his expression had turned embarrassed. She wiped the tears from her eyes and went on. “I think Graaf’s crew was content to leave me alone as long as I was seeing to the birth of the child. No doubt they did not wish to lose a valuable piece of cargo.”
Bouchard met her eyes, and she flinched at the raw fury she saw on his face.
“I knew they would come for me once the girl gave birth, and they did. But when I was finally brought before Graaf, he wanted medical help and not . . . well, not the other,” she finished lamely.
Bouchard snorted. “No, he does not look like a man too interested in the other right now.”
“Where is Captain Graaf?” Her face had heated at having to mention such a scandalous topic, and she wished to change the subject.
Bouchard’s smile was wry, as if he was aware of her discomfort and enjoyed it. “He is receiving the best treatment available, which is to say not much other than rest and food. He is not, I think, very happy about your tales of choking fever and promises of a cure.” He laughed and took a big drink of wine. “I, on the other hand, have not been so entertained in years. The fool actually believed you would lead him to some secret remedy for a jungle fever?”
“I deeply regret lying to him, but—”
“He also says you held him at the end of his own pistol and threatened to shoot him if he did not release the slaves? His own pistol,” Bouchard repeated gleefully. “I would shoot myself before admitting that to another man.”
Sarah had deliberately left that part out of the story she’d told to Bouchard. It seemed she needn’t have bothered.
“I would never have shot him, but it was important he believe I would. He was not so difficult to convince because I think he wanted to turn back. He said the cargo he was supposed to collect in Ouidah hadn’t shown up and that his first mate was the one who arranged for the purchase of people while Graaf was too ill with fever to know what de Heeckeren was doing. Graaf did not want to traffic in slaves.”
Bouchard’s expression shifted from amused to ice-cold in a heartbeat. “The Dutchman is a man full grown, mademoiselle. And he is either a liar or a fool—what other cargo had he expected from such a port?” He shook his head, his mouth twisted with disgust. “Even if what he said is the truth, he went along with his first mate’s decision because he is a coward and would rather buy and sell people than stand up for himself. He will certainly get the opportunity to stand up for himself once I turn him over to the English.” He looked through her, as if he were imagining Graaf’s trial.
Sarah was spared responding by a knock on the door.
Two men entered, both laden with platters and covered bowls. They placed the food on the table under the watchful eye of Captain Bouchard before he dismissed them and turned to a platter that held a large cooked fish stuffed with something amazingly fragrant.
Sarah’s stomach rumbled audibly and she cringed.
Oh, please, don’t let Bouchard have heard that.
A slow grin spread across his face. “I hope we have made enough for you, mademoiselle.”
He cut off a large portion of fish and placed it on a plate, adding a healthy serving from each of the other bowls. “Flame blackened whitefish stuffed with rice and herbs. Potatoes cooked with butter and shallots, and a ground corn dish favored by the Italians, called polenta. Please”—he inclined his head—“enjoy.”
Sarah speared a piece of fish and popped it into her mouth. It was delicious and flaky and melted on her tongue. She bit back a moan. She’d never tasted anything so delicious in her entire life. “The polenta is from Italy; are the other dishes French?”
“These dishes are from the mind of my cook, whom I pay more than I should so that I may eat like this even at the outskirts of civilization.”
“Am I mistaken in thinking you are from France, Captain?”
“I am from the United States, mademoiselle. From New Orleans, to be precise. You have heard of it?” He took a mouthful of food and chewed, an odd glitter in his eyes.
“That is in the portion purchased some years back by your President Jefferson. I have not met an American before.” She put a forkful of potatoes in her mouth and froze as the flavor exploded. She closed her eyes at the sheer bliss of it.
“I do not call myself an American.” His knife clattered against his plate, and she opened her eyes.
“Oh, why is that?”
“Let’s just say I would not be welcomed with open arms should I ever wish to return to that country.” His frigid tone told her the subject was closed.
Sarah busied herself with her meal while she considered his response. She could only suppose his inability to read and his hostile attitude toward his origins were the result of an unpleasant past.
She chose another topic. “Where do you live when you are not at sea?”
“I have spent some time in England, but mainly I live at sea. Now that Napoleon is safely restrained, I may settle in France.”
“Did you live in London?”
“The south coast. A friend of mine has a house there and I have stayed with him from time to time. But country living is too parochial for my taste.” He pushed aside his half-eaten plate of food.
Sarah’s own plate was almost empty. She’d been eating like a starving baboon. She grimaced and put down her fork before lowering her hands to her lap. Looking at the lovely robe brought another topic to mind. “Thank you for the beautiful garments you sent, Captain.”
His eyes
dropped to her chest and Sarah instantly wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
“While you look delightful in it, I must say I am disappointed you made the most prosaic choice from my offerings.”
Sarah stared at his darkening eyes. Was it possible he was imagining her in the black lace confection? She saw his lips twitch, and heat surged up her neck. No, he was merely tormenting her. How could a man who looked like him respond otherwise to a woman who looked like her? She glared, thrusting out her chin. What did it matter if he made his disparaging thoughts so obvious?
“Tell me, Mademoiselle Fisher, what are your plans after I return you to Freetown?”
Sarah frowned at the unexpected change of subject. “I suppose I will see if any of the others wish to return to our village.”
“There are many others on Graaf’s ship from your village?”
“No, but there are people from nearby villages.”
“How many?”
“There are two men, well, boys, really. And there is also one older woman—”
“Bah! Four people? Two children and two women? You would do best to stay in Freetown and forget about returning to the jungle, mademoiselle.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged, the movement sinuous yet controlled. He reminded Sarah of one of the large snakes that lay in wait in the trees around the village. His body was pure muscle, coiled and dangerous.
“What is there for them in Freetown?” she asked, annoyed by his certainty.
“Safety from slavers, for one. They would be fools to return to their village. So would you. Why would you go back to burned-out ruins? You said all your people had fled. How would you live there all alone? Do you know how to grow your own food? Hunt your own meat?”
“Have you any suggestions, Captain, as you appear to find my own ideas so diverting? Where else should I go? Perhaps there’s a position on board your ship you would like to offer?” She regretted her words even as they left her mouth.
He ignored her suggestion and eyed her lazily, as if her fate were of little concern to him. “My second mate has it in his mind that you should return to England.”
Sarah hesitated before answering. Was he offering her passage? She yearned for guidance as to what she should do, but hated that she must seek it from such an obnoxious source.
“I have considered approaching the missionary society in Freetown—if there is one. Perhaps they would send me to England so that I might seek help to rebuild our village.”
The captain watched from beneath lowered lids, the thick fringe of lashes hiding whatever was in his eyes. “You have no family you can go to in England?”
Sarah thought back to the small, yellowed scrap of paper she’d found in her father’s possessions that had held a single name and address. “My father broke away from his family after becoming a Nonconformist. His family was Lutheran and never forgave him. My mother was the only daughter of a vicar. I suppose my grandparents might still be alive.” She shrugged. “All this is pointless speculation as I have no money to purchase passage to England.”
When Sarah raised the glass of wine to her lips, she was surprised to find it empty.
* * *
Martín refilled the woman’s empty glass. Was she becoming drunk? She was obviously unused to wine; he should give her no more. He blinked at the solicitous thought. So what if she was unaccustomed to wine? Since when did he worry about a woman he meant to bed and how much she’d had to drink?
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. And that was all she was to him: a night’s entertainment, a tumble in his bed. This meal was about getting her into his bed. Not that he needed to exert any effort to do so. She’d made a bargain with him, and he could see she was a woman with a most stringent—and probably uncomfortable—moral code.
No, he did not need to court her to get what she had already promised. Yet here he was, wasting time over food and pointless talk. He frowned; he must be bored to want to bed such a skinny wench. Although he had to admit she looked far more appealing after a bath. Her features were chiseled and spare, but he thought a month of plentiful food would take the sharpness from them. She had thick, honey-brown hair and eyes that changed color with her moods—from a tranquil green to a snapping golden-brown.
Not only that, but she was charming and interesting to talk to, which he found more than a little surprising. He rarely spoke to women; he’d never really seen the point. His closest friend, Hugh Ramsay, had argued more than once that a smart woman was the very best company. Martín had always believed the big Englishman was crazy. Yet here he sat: talking.
He suspected Sarah Fisher was a clever woman—perhaps too clever. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she’d given him an odd look when they’d discussed his book collection.
He looked at her body and smiled. She’d wrapped the robe almost twice around her, vainly attempting to hide herself. If there was one thing Martín knew well, it was women. Or at least women’s bodies.
She flushed under his scrutiny and lurched to her feet, taking slow, careful steps toward his desk. Her slim form shifted enticingly beneath the heavy silk, and he began to harden. His body’s response both surprised and pleased him. Perhaps the evening would be more interesting than he’d hoped.
“What a lovely chessboard.” She was stroking the inlaid ivory board on the desk in a distracting fashion. “Do you play, Captain?”
It was a struggle to wrench his eyes off her long slim hand and its caressing motions. His body had begun to heat and pulse. Sexual anticipation was something to be savored and enjoyed. He was in no hurry.
“Do you wish for a game?” he asked.
Her brown eyes sparkled with mischief, and her delicate lips curved in a way that made his breath catch.
“That would be lovely. I have not played since well before my father died. Are you very good?”
Martín saw no reason to tell her he’d won very few games against Ramsay, the man who’d taught him. He also saw no reason to tell her how he had dashed many a piece against the wall when the big man had beaten him. Why bother telling her those things? He had no intention of losing to her. And there would be plenty of time for bedding her after he’d mastered her at chess. He looked into her smiling face and felt his own lips curve in response.
“Let us have a game.”
He brought the board and pieces to their table and pushed aside the food. She took a pawn of each color and placed her hands behind her back. Martín gestured to her left arm, and she produced the white pawn.
“First move to you, Captain.” She moved the board until the correct corner was before him. They set up their pieces in silence, but before they began to play she looked up at him.
“What are the stakes?” she asked.
Something about the glint in her eyes made his groin tighten. “Stakes? You wish to play for money?”
“I have no money. We must play for something else.” She paused. “I know. Whoever wins can ask anything of the other that is within their power to give.”
Martín laughed. “I have already won everything you have to give.”
Her eyes narrowed at his ungentlemanly reminder. “Very well, I have already traded that, so we will play for something else—the truth. One question to be answered honestly.”
Martín squinted, confused. The truth? The truth about what? What could she possibly wish to ask him? When had anyone ever wanted to know something about him enough to make it a stake in a game? Martín looked at her smiling face and frowned. Why did he feel as if he were stepping into a snare? He hesitated, and then was annoyed by his hesitation. This was what came of speaking to smart women.
“Done,” he snapped, irked that she might mistake his hesitation for fear.
The play was quick and quiet, neither of them speaking during the first tense minutes. He’d just taken one of her bishops and was feeling quite confident when her queen swept across the board and he became aware of her knights. He looked fr
om the board to her, but her face was unreadable. He studied the board, mentally playing out the game.
Bloody hell.
He played out the game again, and again came up with the same result: checkmate in five moves, no matter what he did. He looked down at his hand and saw he still held her bishop and was squeezing it. Hard. He set the piece down, unwilling to look at her. His hands clenched and unclenched with the urge to break something. He hated to lose. And losing to a woman?
He reached out and set his king on its side with exaggerated care. “I concede.” He refused to give her the satisfaction of a slow slaughter. He snatched his pieces off the side of the table and began to reset the board. “I want another game.”
She laughed. “Not so hasty, Captain. I thought you were a man of your word.”
“Word? What word?”
“We had a wager.”
Martín gritted his teeth. “What the devil do you want?”
“Just one question.”
He crossed his arms to keep from grabbing the board and throwing it out the small cabin window. “Get on with it.”
Her smile dimmed as the seconds crawled past. “How is it that you cannot read?”
Martín’s jaw dropped. “Read?”
“The book I showed you earlier was not written in Greek, yet you did not recognize that. You cannot read,” she explained carefully, just in case he was stupid as well as illiterate.
A scorching sensation caused the edges of his vision to tinge with red, as if his eyes were cooking. He could not make his jaws form words; he could only stare, watching as her expression turned from curiosity to something else.... Pity?
“You needn’t answer.” She turned away to place the pieces back on the board, the dull red flush on her face telling him that she felt his humiliation keenly.
Something inside him cracked and released a reservoir of rage. He only realized what he’d done when he saw pieces of delicate ivory bouncing against the wall and the girl jumping to her feet at the sudden explosion. Martín was on her in an instant. He pressed her long, slim body against the door of his cabin, not stopping until his face was less than an inch from hers.
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