“We will work like women possessed and send the other gowns to the ship before it departs.”
“Are you sure I can’t—”
Arlette made a firm chopping motion with one hand. “I’m sure you can hem a straight seam, but you will not do so on these dresses. You are only here for a short while. You must see the island and enjoy yourself.”
“You can join us for tea tomorrow if you find yourself with some time.”
“But your evenings you should reserve for the delicious Bouchard.” Arlette placed the back of her hand on her forehead and feigned a swoon.
Sarah had quickly made her first adult female friends since leaving her village and would just as quickly have to leave them.
* * *
Sarah was in her cabin unpacking several other items the French women had pressed upon her as well as a small leather-bound dictionary she’d found at the tiny island bookstore, when the door to the cabin flew open. Bouchard swept inside without asking permission and slammed the door behind him.
“What is it?” she asked, alarmed.
“What is it? What is it?” Scornful disbelief disfigured his handsome face. “Did Daniels buy you that dress?”
If not the last thing she’d expected him to say, it was a close second. “What?”
“That dress you are wearing—those pearls, did Daniels buy them for you?”
“No, he did not,” she stammered before she could help it.
“Where did you get the money?”
She frowned. “Not that it is any of your business, but Mies—”
“Mies? Mies!” His voice shook the room, and his eyes went wide like those of a crazy person.
Sarah held up her hands. “Goodness, Captain Bouchard, would you please lower your voice before the entire ship discovers you are in my cabin.”
His eyes narrowed until they were yellow slits. “Oh, and that would concern you, would it? Who do you want in here, eh? Mies, perhaps?”
She gasped. “Are you demented?”
He was on her in an instant, moving in the quick, silent manner she’d seen several times before. He pinned her in the narrow space between the cot and wardrobe. “So, you are thinking to capture yourself a nobleman?”
She had to replay the words several times before she understood. “You . . . you . . . odious, arrogant—”
His mouth crushed, and his tongue stabbed. It was not a kiss, but rather a declaration of war, an all-out offensive with one objective: domination.
Her body rejoiced at his touch.
But her mind was still stunned by his anger. What had he meant? Why had he been so furious? Something told her she needed to find out.
She somehow dredged up the will to resist; she clamped her lips shut and pushed as hard as she could on his chest. His body didn’t budge, but his head jerked back, an odd look in his eyes. His breaths came in short blasts, and his jaw worked, as if he were chewing something indigestible. Before Sarah could think of something to say or do, his lids dropped, and he lowered his mouth again.
She assumed the same defensive posture, but the onslaught never came. Instead, her traitorous body swayed toward him and met his halfway, as if pulled by an invisible string.
His lips were soft and teasing, the light flick of his tongue on the seam of her mouth tantalizing rather than assaulting. His body was heavy and hard against her, but his hands—oh, they held her head so very lightly, as if she were breakable.
She opened to him, unable to resist the invitation in his kisses. Her entire body began to melt, a slow, warm collapse of resistance that left her too weak to move.
Don’t do this, her mind shrieked. But the warning voice faded without any echo as his tongue slid between her lips. Sarah sighed at the gentle, inexorable invasion and pressed her body against his, opening her mouth to take him deeper. She stroked the side of his face, marveling at the flexing of muscles beneath smooth, warm skin as he angled his head and delved deeper. He murmured at her stroking and pressed his hips against her stomach. Sarah shivered against his hardness. He was aroused for her—only her. She slid her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, rubbing against him as if she could merge their bodies by pressing hard enough.
His hands roamed the sides of her torso, hot even through the fabric of her gown. He grazed the tops of her exposed breasts with a maddeningly light touch. She pushed herself into his hands and grew bolder, exploring the wet heat of his mouth more deeply, her tongue tangling with his before she captured him and sucked.
A low, animal growl rumbled in his chest, the sound primitive and intense. Her body responded with a hot pounding need that turned her bones to water.
A hand grazed the bare skin of her thighs, and Sarah startled. The voice that had been muffled by desire rose again to the surface. He’d managed to insinuate himself beneath her skirts without her even noticing.
“Captain—”
“Martín,” he murmured, taking her lower lip in his mouth and gently sucking it before running a path of kisses across her cheek, stopping at her ear. “Say it,” he ordered softly.
The name fit him perfectly—exotic and beautiful. “Martín.” Her voice was so throaty and low she wasn’t sure it was really her speaking.
“I want to give you pleasure, Sarah, and your body needs release. Tell me, do you want me to stop? You only need to say stop, and I will.” His hands drifted up and down her thighs, as light as a feather.
“Martín,” she said again, as if it were the only word she knew any longer.
“Yes, chérie? Tell me what you want—I am yours to command.” His hands swept over the front of her shaking legs, perilously close to the spot that had been tormenting her for weeks. His fingers brushed over her chemise, his touch softer than silk.
Her hips jerked against his hand. “Please don’t stop.”
He cupped her sex over the fine fabric, the touch of his hand shocking yet somehow right. Sarah dropped her forehead on his shoulder, a sob of pleasure breaking from her.
“Shh, ma belle, I will give you what you need.” He gently stroked a single finger into her.
Sarah bucked violently and bit his shoulder to keep from crying out.
“You are drenched.” His voice was hoarse, as if he were having trouble speaking.
Sarah felt the same, incapable of saying anything, incapable of thinking anything, incapable of doing anything other than shuddering each time he stroked. Her hips jerked, and her legs shook, and she wanted.
He stroked harder, this time parting the slick, swollen folds and touching something exquisitely sensitive. “I will not hurt you.” The words were a low, hot rumble against her neck while his thumb circled and circled, coming close to the center of her pleasure but never touching it.
“Sarah, I want to give you an orgasm.” He spoke the words into the base of her throat as his hand drove her toward madness. “Tell me you want it. I want to hear you say it—please give me an orgasm, Martín.” Smiling lips curved against her skin, and his hand stopped. “Tell me what you want and you can have it.” A quick flick of his finger illustrated the pleasure he could bestow so easily.
Sarah squirmed against his elusive hand, unable to form the mortifying word he demanded. He pulled away so he could look at her, his flushed skin and enormous pupils proof he was far from unmoved.
“Sarah,” he whispered, his eyes almost black.
The sight of his passion made her brave. “I want you to give me an . . . an . . . orgasm. Please, Martín.” The last word was only a sigh as his hand resumed its magic, his expression a mixture of hunger and triumph and something else she was too distracted to identify.
She watched his beautiful, intent face until an almost suffocating surge of pleasure forced her eyes shut, and every particle of her being focused on one tiny, demanding spot. The intense—almost excruciating—pleasure began to unfurl slowly, and her body stiffened, as if to protect itself against something too powerful to endure. She distantly heard her own voice cry out as
another, even more powerful, wave engulfed the first, and another. Until she lost track, shuddering in his arms.
He held her tight while she came apart, murmuring sweet words in her ear. She wrapped her arms around his narrow waist and collapsed against the broad expanse of his chest, sighing with a contentment so deep it must have come from her bones.
A soft laugh rumbled through her. “That was good, eh?” He stroked her hair gently before pulling away to look at her face. His smile was oddly twisted as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, brushing the curve of her cheek with the back of his hand as he studied her, his fingers running up and down her jaw. “It is the least I can give you since you won’t take a dress or anything else from me. Consider it my contribution to your bride’s dowry, something you can bring to the marriage bed. If he cannot make you climax, it will be no fault of your responsive body.” He smiled mockingly and chucked her under the chin as if she were a child.
Sarah flinched back as if he’d struck her, her arms slipping from around his body as she sagged back against the wall.
He straightened his cuffs and cravat while giving her a slight smile and bowing. “I hope you will excuse me, mademoiselle, but I have some business I must attend to on shore.”
Sarah watched him leave without saying a word. What could she say? She stared at the door. Surely he would come back through it and say it had been a jest, or explain what had happened, or why he had done it, or say anything.
She slid down the wall to the floor. He wasn’t coming back. Her temples pounded, and her eyes hurt. What in God’s name had just happened? She flushed. She knew what had happened, but she had no reason why. Because she wouldn’t take a dress from him? Because she wouldn’t take his charity?
The memory of what he’d done—how he’d made her beg—was like a spike through her chest. She couldn’t face the words head on; they were too bright, too painful.
What else had he said? She couldn’t recall everything, but she knew it made no sense. He’d yelled accusations about both Daniels and Graaf, his eyes almost insane with anger—or something else. If Sarah didn’t know better, she would have called it jealousy.
But she did know better. He wasn’t jealous; he was insulted—or rather his pride was insulted. He couldn’t bear the thought she might prefer to rely on some other man, even to borrow money. She laughed, but it came out a sob. How could he be so stupid? And so cruel. He acted like a vicious, vindictive child, lashing out and inflicting pain whenever he felt threatened.
Sarah swallowed back another sob. She refused to cry over him. There was something very wrong with him, and she would not feel shame about what she’d allowed him to do to her. It was clear that making her feel bad—and cheap—had been his object. Sarah refused to grant him that satisfaction. He was hateful. The most hateful person she’d ever known. She’d not felt this much hate since the day she’d been packed in the hold of Graaf’s ship.
A wave of fury coursed through her, almost as strong as the passion she’d felt only moments before. Bouchard hadn’t hurt her; she wouldn’t give him that much power.
Chapter Sixteen
Martín thought he might have to shoot any member of his crew who either approached him or spoke to him. Perhaps they sensed as much from his face, because he left the ship unmolested. He headed toward the north end of town, toward the only place he could think to go when his mind was disordered: a whorehouse.
He snorted. Once a whore, always a whore, apparently. Sarah’s shocked face rose up in his mind, and he stumbled like a drunk, drawing looks from the few people still out and about. He paused by a sturdy hitching post, taking several deep breaths, refusing to think of what he’d just done. Not that he could think in his current state. His brain was not functioning properly, the result of his persistent state of arousal. It was enough to drive him mad. He’d been hard for days—weeks! He became aroused every time she stood close to him while explaining some concept or other. In fact, he found himself frequently pretending ignorance so she would be forced to come closer—to spend more time with him. He thirsted to hear her voice, to smell her, to feel the heat of her body beside his, to—he groaned and snatched his hat from his head, staring blindly at it as he turned it round and round.
It was a well-known fact: a man could not think straight with a hard cock. His brain was permanently befogged. She had turned him into a pitiful wreck of a man, and he would put a stop to it right now. He would take care of his scattered wits the only way he knew how, at the fine brothel he knew was nearby. It was imperative he achieve release with a woman. He jammed his hat on his head and was about to turn down the side street he wanted when he heard his name. He turned to find two small, identical women approaching.
“Did you hail me?” he asked, struggling to keep the impatience out of his voice.
“I daresay we are shockingly forward, but we couldn’t help introducing ourselves to you. After all, we feel as if we know you.” The woman spoke French with the accent of the islands. The other woman, obviously her twin, smiled and nodded her head.
Martín was struck speechless, his mind racing over the possibilities. They were unusual looking to say the least, garbed in colorful dresses that seemed to have been designed with whimsy, rather than fashion, in mind. He couldn’t imagine they were whores; he certainly would not have forgotten them. The one who’d spoken had sounded far too well-bred to work in a bordello.
“We met Miss Fisher today,” the second one explained after enjoying his look of confusion for a moment. “She came to us for new dresses.”
“Ah.” Martín nodded his understanding, clear as to who they were but not what they wanted. “I am pleased to meet you.” He looked inquiringly at the woman who stood nearest.
“Oh, how silly. Yes, I am Arlette DuValle, and this is my sister, Adele.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Martín said again, taking each lady’s hand and bowing, still perplexed.
“Miss Fisher told us all about you, Captain,” said one of the sisters, he’d already forgotten which one. She was eying him with a look he could only call provocative—a look he was accustomed to receiving, although not from such elderly women.
“Oh, er, is that so, Mademoiselle DuValle?” Her smile told him he had judged correctly that she was a spinster.
“We were quite taken with Sarah. We were so happy to do what we could for her, even though she argued fiercely against taking charity.”
Martín felt a strange falling sensation in his stomach. “She did not pay for her dress?”
“Oh, goodness, no. We told her it was not charity, but a loan, and she could send us payment when she returned to her family.”
“I see.”
The two women regarded him with their sharp dark eyes, like two small birds.
“You will see that she is safely returned to her family, Captain?” The woman’s words were pleasant, but her eyes hard.
He nodded, unable to speak.
“We have several more frocks to send with her. Our girls are working late into the evening, but we’ll have them to your ship before you depart.”
Martín blinked, uncertain which woman had just spoken. “Please excuse me. I have an appointment.” He lurched away without waiting for a response. He could feel their eyes on his back, no doubt guessing where he was headed. He turned the corner and then slumped against the nearest shop front, staring at the ground before him. She had not taken gifts from Graaf or Daniels. And for that Martín had treated her like a whore. Worse than a whore. He had never behaved so disrespectfully—so cruelly—to any woman he’d paid.
He stood against the cool stone wall, his mind racing.
“Can I help you, monsieur?”
Martín looked up to find a man—a shopkeeper, Martín guessed—staring at him. He waved the man away and continued down the street. He needed to be someplace where he could think. Or not think.
The two-story pitch pine house looked almost uninhabited from the st
reet. He knew from experience that large windows overlooked the back courtyard, a delightful, hidden garden that was protected from prying eyes.
The door opened before he knocked. “Captain Bouchard,” a tiny woman with almond-shaped eyes said. “I’d heard you’d returned to our little island. Welcome back.” She ushered him inside, and Martín entered the cool dimness of the house, leaving the hot chaos of his thoughts behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
Beauville watched without comment as Bouchard stalked across the deck of the Scythe. Judging by his stiff gait, the Captain had spent the prior two nights—and days—with more than one bottle. And probably with more than one woman.
He shook his head as the captain descended to his cabin. Beauville had known two days ago that the captain would not be back for the tide. He hadn’t been surprised when the time to leave had come and gone. And he most certainly had not been foolish enough to send somebody ashore to find him.
Bouchard’s whoring had always been legendary, even among sailors, a group who were notorious for their sexual appetites. That said, Beauville could not recall the last time he had seen his captain so deep inside the bottle, and certainly not twice in one journey. It was as if Bouchard needed to ply himself with drink before he could engage in his usual pursuits.
Beauville was not entirely without thoughts on the matter. He’d seen the way the captain stared at Miss Fisher when he thought nobody was watching. A smile pulled at his mouth. As smart as Bouchard was in most matters, he certainly seemed to be stupid when it came to his own heart. That didn’t surprise Beauville. He would never deny Martín Bouchard was a loyal friend and generous master, but he’d long suspected the man didn’t have a heart when it came to the fairer sex. No, Bouchard was a true menace to a woman’s peace of mind and virtue.
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