“Merde,” he muttered, his face heating with shame.
Bettina was waiting beside the soldier from Keeton’s office, who was holding a cup of coffee. Martín took the coffee from the man’s unresisting fingers and swallowed the scalding beverage in one long gulp.
“Excellent coffee, madam.” He gave her a pained smile along with the empty cup. “You will remember the conversation we had last night?” Martín was surprised he remembered it after three bottles.
Her businesslike smile bore no resemblance to the ones she’d lavished on him the previous day and night. “I thought you wanted me to forget that conversation, Captain Bouchard.”
He rolled his eyes—which hurt—and reached for his purse, then placed what remained into her outstretched hand.
Her broad, pretty face creased into a sly smile. “Danke. This will help us all forget.” She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek before turning away.
Martín turned to the gawking sailor. “Come, let us go see what the admiral wants of me.” The man’s bulging eyes were on the voluptuous madam. “Or perhaps you would like to stay here, Kettle?”
“What? Oh, no, Captain, I’d best come with you,” he said with obvious regret.
“You are a frequent visitor of Madam Bettina’s?” Martín asked as they began the short journey to Admiral Keeton’s chambers-cum-office.
“A bit above my touch, sir. But there’s no shortage of much cheaper places. Every day more and more of them. Some come here because they ain’t got any other place to go. But a fair number, like Madam Bettina, come all the way from back home to ply their trade.”
Martín knew it was the same the world over, yet somehow he felt depressed by what the soldier said. Freetown was the creation of idealistic people who’d believed they could offer freed slaves a new and better life. As he looked around at the ragged town and desperate people, he realized it wasn’t the kind of life most people would desire.
It certainly wasn’t the life he wanted. Last night had been a dismal affair, no matter how much he’d tried to tell himself otherwise. Martín had needed to drown himself in wine just to get through the evening. For the first time in his life, he’d felt a twinge of shame at bedding whores. It didn’t matter that the women were free agents and not slaves; he would never go to someone who was compelled to service him. Still, the evening had felt sordid. Maybe that was why he’d not been able to . . . perform.
He scrubbed one hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Perhaps it had been because of all the wine he’d consumed. It had been a long time since he’d been the worse for drink. That must have been why . . .
Martín pushed the entire dreadful ordeal from his mind. He could only hope the whores would keep his secret.
He found not only the admiral, but also Captain Graaf and Sarah Fisher waiting for him in the rickety building. Martín groaned out loud, not realizing until that moment just how much he’d wanted to leave without seeing either one of them ever again.
Keeton’s smile looked rather strained. “Captain Bouchard, thank you for coming so quickly.”
Martín squinted at the man, wondering if he was making some kind of jest. He’d sent a damned soldier for him—what else was Martín supposed to have done?
“Please, have a seat, Captain.” The admiral gestured to the remaining chair, refusing to meet Martín’s eyes.
A cold sweat began to build on his forehead, in spite of the warmness of the morning. He put a hand on the chair back to prop himself up. “Thank you, Admiral, but I’m afraid I cannot stay too long. My crew is even now making my ship ready for departure.” Martín had no idea what either his crew or his ship were doing.
“Actually, they are awaiting my permission before they do anything. Please take a seat and enjoy some coffee, the best—from Java, one of ours now.” He was referring to the 1811 British capture of the Dutch possession. Martín shot a quick look at the captive Dutchman to see how he viewed the admiral’s comment. As usual, Graaf looked ill more than anything else. In fact, he looked worse than yesterday. He appeared to have found Freetown as exhausting as Martín had, albeit probably for other reasons.
Martín took the cup of coffee and sat.
“I’m afraid I am going to have to impose on you on behalf of His Majesty’s government, Captain.” Keeton stopped, as if to gauge the effect of his words so far. Whatever he saw on Martín’s face caused him to continue somewhat hastily. “I need you to transport, er, Captain Graaf back to England. I conferred with our Chief Justice, who is in charge of such matters at the Vice-Admiralty Court, and we both agree that we simply do not have the authority to dispose of this matter here.”
Martín stared, blood pulsing louder and louder in his ears like insistent pounding from a club. It took a long, excruciating moment to find enough spit in his mouth to squeeze out the words.
“Excuse me, Admiral, but am I to understand you want me to take Graaf to England because you lack the authority to prosecute him for trading in slaves?”
The older man fiddled with the handle of his cup.
It was the woman who answered. Naturally.
“It would seem Captain Graaf is related to some rather important people, Captain Bouchard. So important, the admiral does not feel he is the person to determine the outcome of this matter.” Martín could hear something in her voice that sounded like anger. He met her eyes and saw that he was right. She was angry. At the slaving Dutch captain? The pounding in his skull seemed to ease up.
“And the Blue Bird?” Martín turned from the woman to the admiral, his heart sinking even before he heard the answer.
“I’m afraid I cannot make any firm decision on that right now, either. I will hold her, of course, and await word from London.”
Martín resisted the urge to hurl his cup at the man’s head. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked at the other two people in the room. Only the woman met his eyes, her face an unreadable mask.
The admiral cleared his throat, and Martín turned back to him.
“Miss Fisher has explained her circumstances to me. I have informed her that we can offer her no assistance at this time regarding her village. I have also informed her that I cannot, in good conscience, allow her to leave Freetown by herself.” Martín could feel the woman’s anger without even looking. “We have agreed England is the best place for her right now. Your ship is returning to England, Captain. Surely there is no good reason you cannot accommodate her?” For the first time Martín heard steel in the man’s voice. Keeton might feel shame for caving under the pressure of foreign dignitaries, but he wasn’t bending when it came to what was due an English gentlewoman.
Martín squeezed the cup as he worked his mouth, biting his tongue both literally and figuratively.
“I’m sure you will receive recompense for her passage,” Keeton added, knowing nothing of the sort.
Martín jerked out a nod and stood. “When can we depart?”
“You are free to shove off as soon as the captain and Miss Fisher are ready. I’ve taken the liberty of having their personal items transferred to your ship.”
Martín turned on the pair, who’d also risen. “May I have your permission to depart?” His voice was raw with the strain of not yelling.
“I am ready,” the woman said.
Captain Graaf inclined his head.
“Excellent!” The admiral rubbed his hands together as if he were looking forward to a journey himself. “Let me escort you to the door.”
The trip back to the ship was quick and silent, both the woman and the sick man too busy keeping up with Martín’s savage pace to attempt any conversation.
Beauville met him as soon as he stepped off the gangplank, his silent stare and compressed lips proof he already knew the reason for the presence of the two people behind him.
Martín turned to his unwanted passengers. “Captain, please retire to the sick bay; it is the only spare cabin. Mademoiselle Fisher, you might as well tell
Daniels to remove his possessions from his cabin.” He turned on his heel before she could open her mouth. “Beauville, with me.”
Martín found Jenkins in his cabin. “A bath and breakfast, in that order.” Once the little man had left, he turned to Beauville. “Speak,” he said, taking off his wrinkled coat and waistcoat and throwing them over a chair.
“I was told the disposition of the ship was a matter to be determined in England. I was given the opportunity to make a complete inventory of the Blue Bird. By my calculations we are owed a great deal. The ship is in excellent shape and appointed with nothing but the best. The admiral’s factotum would tell me nothing other than that all crew members were to be released, mutineers included, and the ship was to be held indefinitely.”
Martín collapsed onto the padded bench as Jenkins came into the room bearing a pot of coffee.
“I have nothing to add,” Martín said, raising one foot so Jenkins could remove his boot. “Except that we must bring Graaf back to England. I would hazard a guess the good captain has some rather powerful connections and is too valuable to squander out here in the middle of nowhere. I would not be at all surprised if we end up with empty hands at the end of all this.” He shot his first mate a hard look. “Keep that to yourself, Beauville.”
The laconic Frenchman nodded. Beauville knew Martín could afford to pay his men out of his own pocket and would do so if necessary.
The money Martín had earned working for Captain Standish—or Lord Ramsay, as he was now known—had been equal to the wealth of kings. Martín had plenty of money, more than he could ever spend. He’d learned his methods from Standish and had been wise about choosing and keeping his men. The division of property on his ship was much more equitable than on any other privateer. As a result, sailors fought to crew his ship.
That didn’t mean Martín planned to let the Dutch ship go without a struggle. He boiled to think Graaf might escape all punishment. Martín stripped off his breeches and tossed them to Jenkins before shrugging into the robe he held open.
“Get us the hell out of here, Beauville. I want to be gone before Keeton comes up with something else for me to do.”
Beauville left without another word.
Martín absently watched as Jenkins dragged in the hip-bath and then assembled his shaving equipment. He drank two mugs of coffee before allowing Jenkins to wrap a steaming strip of linen around his face and neck. For some reason Martín felt desperate for his bath, even more so than usual. He’d always been an obsessive bather, something else he’d learned from the whores who’d raised him. Martín closed his eyes and relaxed as Jenkins shaved him.
He knew what he felt about Graaf’s presence on his ship, but he couldn’t say the same about the woman. He couldn’t tell if the feelings that stirred in his stomach when he thought about her were ones of anger, annoyance, or anticipation. What he did know was that it would be next to impossible to avoid her in the coming months.
Chapter Ten
Sarah was disappointed, but not surprised when Daniels delivered a meal to her cabin that evening. She’d seen by Bouchard’s expression how displeased he was to be saddled with her—perhaps even angrier than he was about being stuck with Graaf.
She’d passed the prior twenty-four hours in a daze. Graaf, a Dutch aristocrat? A member of the House of Orange-Nassau and in line to inherit the throne, albeit quite a way down the list?
Even though he behaved toward her as he had from the beginning, Sarah felt different around the young captain. She could see Captain Bouchard regarded him differently, as well. She’d seen the wheels turning in the handsome captain’s head as he realized what Graaf’s connections meant to him and his rights to the Blue Bird. She could imagine Bouchard deciding sometime during the long journey that the aristocrat wouldn’t recover from his sickness. The Dutchman’s death would be viewed as just another tragic outcome of an ill-fated journey to deepest Africa.
Sarah frowned at the thought. She would need to make sure that didn’t happen. Her frown deepened as she thought back to this morning. Admiral Keeton had tried to keep the conversation with his man quiet, but Sarah had heard enough to know Bouchard had spent the previous day and evening in a bordello.
The feelings this information evoked had discountenanced her. She’d tried to examine her emotions honestly. Disgust wasn’t the only, or even strongest, one she felt. She’d also been hit by a breathtaking wave of jealousy. That had led her to a disappointing, but not wholly surprising, revelation: she was infatuated with Captain Bouchard. Indeed, how could she not be attracted to him? She’d known very few men in her life who’d evinced any curiosity about her at all and certainly none who looked like him. Sarah doubted there were many men who were as handsome or virile as Bouchard. It was natural, albeit unfortunate, that she’d quickly succumbed to him.
It was also no secret how he felt about her after she’d held him at gunpoint. She told herself it was all to the good. After all, what had she hoped for? A tempestuous liaison resulting in love, marriage, and children? There was no future with a man like him. The fact that he sought prostitutes at the first opportunity only proved what he was and what he wanted. She fumed. It was clear he was willing to take satisfaction from any woman available. Except her, of course.
Sarah groaned and pushed away her half-eaten tray of food. She looked at the heavy book Bouchard had given her. It was tragic he had such a wonderful collection of books and would never know what they contained.
She smoothed the serviceable brown cloth of the gown the admiral had procured for her and considered her position on the ship and the long weeks ahead. It was unlikely Captain Bouchard would ever receive payment for her passage. The thought caused her cheeks to burn. It was charity. She’d accepted the admiral’s charity—a few items of clothing that had belonged to his deceased wife—with gratitude, rather than anger. So why did she feel so hostile when thinking of Bouchard’s charity?
Because he despised her. So much so that he didn’t even want to touch her.
She recalled how she’d offered herself to him and reveled in his touch. And then she thought of his cool rejection. No, Sarah would not be a charitable case where he was concerned.
She needed to pay him for her cabin and food if it was the last thing she did. She chewed her lip. There was only one way she could pay him. Well, only one other way. She would teach him to read. If he refused her offer, which was likely given his arrogance, then she would find a way to force him, even if she had to threaten him.
She stood. It was best to take action before she lost heart. She returned her dinner tray to a surprised galley hand and then rapped on Bouchard’s door.
There was no answer. She knocked louder. Again there was no answer. Before she could change her mind, she turned the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed open the door and peered inside. The bed was empty, as was the chair in front of his desk. She peeked around the door to the small dining area. It, too, was unoccupied. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
Stop it! Are you insane? Get out of here now.
Sarah ignored the voice of caution and looked at the books on the shelf, slowly dragging her finger across their spines, the simple act of touching them enough to make her happy.
You are courting disaster. You will be thrown from the ship, made to walk the plank.
She ignored the hysterical babbling and pulled a book from the shelf, Gargantua by Rabelais.
Leave now. Leave now! Now! Before it’s too late!
Sarah had read Pantagruel in French several years ago. It had taken her weeks to finish the book, but it had been most rewarding. She would need to ask the captain if she could borrow this volume. She was replacing the book on the shelf when the door swung open.
Bouchard’s eyebrows shot up. “Mademoiselle Fisher, what a surprise. Are you looking for my pistols? They are behind you in my wardrobe. Would you like me to load one for you?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, his expression mocking rather
than shocked, almost as if he’d expected to find her riffling his possessions.
Sarah’s face flamed. “I came looking for you, and when you didn’t answer I couldn’t resist looking at your library. I shouldn’t have. I apologize.”
“You are a prodigious reader to have already finished the book I gave you.”
“I have not finished Clarissa. I just wanted to see what you had.”
He pushed away from the door and closed the distance between them, stopping a fraction of an inch away from her. He was only a few inches taller than she, but his heavily muscled body was very broad. His aggressive personality made him seem even larger.
“Now that you have seen what I have perhaps you can tell me how I can be of service to you?” He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Sarah jumped and took a step back. His mocking smile grew, but he did not pursue her.
Her throat had constricted at his touch, and she gave a slight cough to clear it. “I came to offer you payment for my passage.”
He cocked one eyebrow.
“Not that kind of payment,” she snapped. “Besides, I should think you would be well and good in that department after last night.” Sarah instantly wished she could retract the words.
“Ah, mademoiselle, how little you know of men. We are never so ‘well and good’—as you so charmingly put it— to decline further offers in that department. If the offer is attractive enough.”
Her hand itched to slap the smug, insulting smirk from his face. “Do not worry, Captain; I am not offering my body in payment. I am repeating my offer to teach you to read and write.”
The amusement drained from his face, and he raked her with a hostile look that took her breath away. “Thank you, mademoiselle, but no thank you. The only payment I require from you is that you stay out of my business. And my cabin.” He turned and marched to the door.
“I, however, am not satisfied to be in your debt. You will agree to my form of payment or I will tell every member of your crew that you are illiterate.”
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