What had he given her? Passage back to England, a thing that cost him almost nothing? That night in her cabin? Yes, he had certainly given her something then. Pleasure, followed by humiliation.
Martín dropped his head into his hands. Merde. He couldn’t wait for this endless journey to be over.
Chapter Nineteen
Sarah closed the book she’d been reading, a history of the Roman Empire, and placed it on the pile with the rest of the books she’d borrowed. She needed to return them. Tomorrow they would reach England, and she would be in a homeland she knew nothing about. Terror simmered in her stomach at the thought of leaving the ship.
The thought of leaving Bouchard was even worse.
Sarah closed her eyes and dropped her head back against the wall with a thud. Why could she not love Daniels, who had asked for her hand in marriage two days earlier? Why must she love the only man on this ship who took pleasure in showing her he preferred the company of prostitutes to her?
The thought of him with other women made her entire body tense with fury. Even worse than that was the painful knowledge that she had fallen for him just like every other woman. How she wished she’d thrown him out of her cabin the last time he’d entered it. It was agonizing to recall how easily he’d demonstrated his mastery over her body.
But it was even more agonizing when she realized it would never happen again.
Sarah looked at the pile of books and chewed her lip. She’d used his books, but had had nothing to do with the man himself, outside of lessons, for weeks. She’d ignored every overture and comment he’d made that was not related to reading or writing. Not that he’d appeared to notice any difference in her behavior.
Sarah sighed. Really, what was the point? He barely noticed her existence; why should she expect him to consider her feelings and how he’d hurt them? He behaved like a child, and it was up to her to be the adult. She picked up the books and made her way to his cabin.
She knocked on the door and waited so long she thought he might not be in. She’d just turned away when he answered. He wore only his shirtsleeves and a pair of old, worn breeches. His curly hair stood at odd angles, as if he’d been running his hands through it, and his spectacles were still perched on his nose.
“Mademoiselle?” he asked, distracted. Sarah glanced behind him and saw his desk piled high with ledgers.
“What are you working on?”
For a minute Sarah thought he was going to tell her to mind her own business. Instead, he opened the door wider and stepped back, closing it behind her before going to his desk and staring down at the open books.
“I am trying to follow the bookkeeping and see if we are carrying as effectively as we could.” He scrubbed his hand roughly through his hair and shook his head. “I cannot understand what Beauville means by using all these short words.” He pointed to one of the pages, and Sarah leaned closer to look. “They are on every page. I have searched for them in the dictionary, but they are not there.”
“These are abbreviations.”
“Abbreviations? I do not know that word.” He frowned at the page and leaned closer, the action bringing his shoulder next to hers, close enough that she could smell him. He smelled of soap, sweat, and Martín Bouchard. She took a deep breath and held it.
He glanced at her, his look questioning.
Sarah exhaled. “Oh, yes. Abbreviations are shortened forms of words. For example, this one means gross.” She turned and found the side of his face only inches from hers. He was staring at the page, his brow furrowed in concentration. Small lines bracketed his full lips, and tiny bits of hair glinted on his jaw. He must shave twice daily if his beard grew so quickly.
“And this?” He pointed to something else on the page.
His hair was made up of hundreds of shades of gold, each strand so thick she could see the hairs individually.
He turned when she didn’t answer, and Sarah found herself staring into eyes the color of old gold. She would later tell herself that she leaned closer to get a better look at those eyes and he misunderstood the action.
His arms snaked around her, and he bent her body into an almost painful arch with the force of his embrace. He captured her mouth, parted her lips, and stroked into her in one fluid motion. She sucked his tongue deeper and he moaned before tightening his grip on her body until she gasped.
He pulled away roughly and put her at arm’s length, his grip on her shoulders almost painful. “What do you mean by coming here?” His voice was ragged and husky, but his eyes had gone as hard as two guineas.
It was no use lying; she hadn’t come to return books. She wanted him. She couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again without ever having . . . Well, without ever experiencing at least a physical joining with him. It didn’t matter that it would never go any further than a bed. It didn’t matter that her parents would spin in their graves. She’d fought herself for months, but nothing worked to loosen the hold he had. Each time she came up with a new argument to resist him, her brain offered ways around it. The truth was, she would most likely find a place with a missionary group and return to Africa and live out her days as a spinster. Was it so bad to want one experience to treasure over the decades to come?
“I want to make love with you.”
His mouth hardened. “You don’t know what you are asking, Sarah.” The sound of her name in his mouth made the place between her thighs tighten, which in turn sent waves of pleasure spiraling from her womb. “You have come here without thinking.” He spoke with certitude, rather than smugness. His hands loosened their grip. It was her chance to step away, but she ignored it.
“I know more than you think.”
A slow smile curved his lips, and Sarah realized she’d turned down a road that soon would allow no return. “Are you telling me you wish to give me your virginity?”
His superior smile jarred her into recklessness. “Whatever made you think I was a virgin?” Something flickered across his face at her words: Surprise? Disappointment? Relief?
“Are you saying you aren’t?”
She snorted. “My parents died two years ago, Captain. I’ve had plenty of experiences since then.”
His eyelids dropped low, concealing his thoughts. For a moment Sarah thought he would put her away from him, push her out the door, crush what was left of her pride and her heart. And then his expression shifted. A taut sensuality shaped his lips as his eyes swept up and down her body, making her very aware of her old muslin dress and how thin and worn it was.
“Unbutton my breeches.” The sound of his voice shocked her almost as much as his words.
“What—”
“You may stay, or you may go. If you stay, you will do as I tell you.” He wore the same cool, expectant look she’d seen on his face when he’d given his crew an order and knew it would be obeyed.
Sarah willed her shaking hands to steady. The old buckskins were butter soft and tight, and there was no hiding what was inside them. She fumbled with the catches before the fall opened and exposed a short row of buttons. She worked the first button, and he inhaled sharply at the pressure of her hand against him. The sound gave her strength. He was not as indifferent as he chose to appear.
When the last button had been freed, the breeches slid down his compact hips. He wore no smallclothes.
She stopped breathing, her eyes riveted to the long, hard length of him. She had seen naked bodies—naked penises, even—more than once. But she had never seen one so . . . aroused, so . . . angry.
“Sarah.”
She looked up at the sound of her name.
“Take me in your hand.”
She wrapped her palm around him, and they both gasped.
“Bloody hell.” He slumped back against the wardrobe door with a thump. One of his hands closed around hers, making her fingers into a tight fist, far tighter than she would have believed pleasant. He guided her, demonstrating how to pleasure him. A low growl broke from him when he released her and sh
e continued her stroking, her eyes riveted to the sight of so much masculine arousal in her hand. His breathing became labored, and she looked up to see him watching her, his face slack. His hips pumped with controlled thrusts, and her hand became slick.
Sarah’s body began shaking, odd, sharp tremors that originated at the juncture of her legs and made it hard to stand.
His hand went around hers, holding her motionless. “Enough.” He took her arms and held her away. “Unfasten your dress.”
She looked from her damp, trembling hand to his hard face, dazed by the demanding pulse between her legs.
He raised his brows. “The dress, Sarah.”
Sarah worked the fastenings as if in a trance. Fortunately her old brown dress had buttons that ran from neck to navel. When she’d gone halfway he leaned forward and pushed the shoulders down, exposing the fine muslin of her chemise. She was not wearing stays.
He looked at her for a long moment, then took the chemise straps and pulled them over her shoulders. When her hands went to cover herself, he shook his head. “Show me how you would like me to touch you.”
Her mouth fell open. “You want—”
“I want you to touch yourself.”
She heard the words, but her brain could make no sense of them.
He shrugged and moved as if to pull up his breeches.
“No.”
The sharp word stopped him, and he straightened, crossing his arms.
Sarah tentatively lifted her hands and cupped a breast in each hand, something she’d never done before.
His chest rose and fell faster beneath his linen shirt. “Go on.”
Sarah wanted to run from the cabin at his words, but his eyes held her in place. She let her thumb drift over one nipple, and it hardened instantly. She gasped at the unexpected sensation of pleasure.
He muttered something and closed the distance between them in a blur. His hot, soft mouth covered the stiff peak, his hands replacing hers. He commenced stroking her far more skillfully than she had with her awkward fumbling, using his tongue and fingers to tease, his teeth to nip, his lips to suck, until she was floating somewhere outside her body.
Her eyes were closed when his hands undid her petticoat. The fabric slid to the floor in a soft whoosh, leaving her standing in only her stockings. He held her hand as she stepped out of the clothing and then walked her backward toward the desk.
“Rest your bottom on the desk and spread your legs,” he ordered in French, his voice so ragged she could barely understand him. She gripped the desk with a hand on either side of her hips, her face on fire as his knee nudged apart her legs, pushing her into a wicked position that left her open and exposed. Sarah swallowed hard and closed her eyes. She only realized where he’d gone when she felt his breath on her belly, inches from her sex.
“Wider, Sarah.” His words were hot puffs of air against her skin and his gentle but firm hands rested on her thighs.
The muscles in her legs jumped and twitched, but did not respond to his pressure. “Is this . . . is this . . . normal?”
“Not the way I do it. Open.”
She was suddenly weak, as if she might expire from sheer embarrassment, but she spread her feet. Her sex clenched in anticipation of his touch, but nothing happened.
“You are beautiful.” His voice sounded unlike him—almost reverent. A hand slid up her thigh to her cleft, and a finger nudged between her swollen folds. “Wet,” he whispered, planting an open-mouthed kiss over her hipbone while he stroked, grazing a place that made her cry out. Sarah’s head fell back and her feet slid farther apart.
His throaty laughter feathered against her skin, and gentle, insistent fingers parted her and something indescribably soft touched her and she shivered. When the next probing flick caressed her, she realized it was his tongue. She bucked against him, and he gripped her hips to hold her steady. His tongue was wickedly skillful but oddly . . . elusive. He stroked and stroked but the need she felt, the nagging, demanding, maddening itch, never receded. Instead, it only got worse. Why didn’t he understand? She wanted more, harder, faster, deeper.
Sarah pushed against him, but he held her firm. And then suddenly, the sensations that surged from his touch were overwhelming—blinding. She froze as her body seized with that familiar pleasure, the one that drove all thoughts from her head. Wave after wave after wave battered her body, weakening her until her knees felt ready to buckle.
He stood and caught her in his arms, kissing her temple. “So beautiful,” he murmured in her ear. His arm slid around her waist, and he held her against him while his hand went between them and he guided himself to the entrance to her body. She felt him press against her—hot, slick, and hard—and then he pushed, entering her in one long, smooth thrust.
Sarah bit back a scream. Oh dear God! Could a person die from this?
He froze, motionless but for the exhale of hot, damp breath against the side of her neck.
“You lied to me, Sarah.”
She swallowed and gave a tiny nod.
He made a noise of profound frustration and began to pull away.
“No!” The violence of her command stunned them both. “No. Do not stop.” She felt him hesitate, only part-way inside her as his body and mind engaged in an argument she could almost hear. “Please, don’t stop.”
The initial pain had disappeared quickly, and the feel of his body inside hers was no longer shocking.
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Relax your body.”
Sarah tried, but instead she contracted around him, and a ragged gasp tore from his throat. He bit her shoulder, held her still, and muttered something in French before saying, “Breathe, Sarah.”
Sarah took slow, deep breaths as her body submitted to his invasion. He filled her slowly, but inexorably, not stopping until he was fully seated. Or so she hoped. He held her still, shaking with leashed need as he waited for her body to become accustomed to his.
“Sarah.” It was a sigh, a question.
Her body knew the answer and she tilted her hips and took him deeper. His low groan signaled the end of his already fraying control, and she gasped, somewhere between pleasure and pain as he pulled out and then thrust again and again, each time harder and deeper than the last, his breathing harsh as he worked toward his climax.
“I can’t stop now, Sarah,” he gritted, his hands digging into the flesh of her hips. She pushed herself against him, thrilling at the effect she had on his body.
The raw power of his climax was unlike anything she could have imagined. He held her hips in an unbreakable grip, shouting her name before abruptly leaving her body and spending himself in hot ribbons across her belly.
He finally collapsed, covering her with his heaving body and holding her in his arms as the waves of his receding climax rocked their entwined bodies.
It was the most joyous and the loneliest moment in Sarah’s life.
She had let him inside of her, and now she would never get him out.
* * *
Martín swam toward consciousness with slow, lazy strokes, in no hurry to leave the dark, warm comfort of his release. But when he noticed he still had her pinned to the desk, he stood, giving her slim, sleek, body a last admiring glance.
Martín had never bedded a maiden and had not been sure what to expect. She had bled, but it was not as much as he had feared. He stooped to pick up her clothes, laying them across the chair.
“There is water in the pitcher beside the basin, also a cloth,” he said gruffly, turning his back so that she might have some privacy.
He pulled on his discarded breeches and pushed his arms into his coat. Sounds came from behind him, and when he turned she was composed, if somewhat less neatly attired than before.
He gestured to the chair. “Sit.” To his surprise, she sat. Martín poured them each a glass of brandy. When she demurred he put the glass on the desk beside her and took a seat at the table, grateful to have some distance between himself and the enigma of Sarah
Fisher.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
She shook her head, a flush on her cheeks.
“Perhaps you could explain why you lied to me.”
The look she gave him was surprisingly cool—especially as she was a virgin, or at least had been. “I merely wanted to complete the lesson you started.”
He snorted. “You wanted to complete the task of throwing away your virginity?”
“It is mine to throw. Was mine,” she corrected, not looking nearly so cool.
Martín studied her flushed face and sighed. “So, what do you want from me now, eh?”
Her already flushed face mottled. “Don’t worry! I don’t expect a declaration of everlasting love or marriage from someone like you.”
Someone like him? What did she mean? Had she learned what he’d done in New Orleans? Was that why she’d come to him today?
“Somebody like me,” he repeated, the words like broken glass in his mouth.
“What I meant was—”
He held up one hand. “So, you came to me for a lesson in bed sport. Now you know what somebody like me can do to someone like you.”
“I did not mean it the way it sounded.”
“How did you mean it?”
“I have lived in a jungle my entire life. I wanted to know more about . . . things . . . before I reached England. I am tired of being ignorant in such matters. I will be twenty-five on my next birthday and am no longer a girl.”
“Why didn’t you have Mies teach you about things?”
“Mies is a gentleman. He would never—” She stopped, her eyes widening. “I did not mean that the way it sounded. What I meant was—”
“Please, don’t apologize for something that does not bother me,” he lied. “I know I am no gentleman.” He forced an expression of tolerant amusement onto his face. He’d cut off his own damned head before he’d show how much her words rankled. “How do you think your slave-trading gentleman will feel when he learns what you have let me do to you? Begged me to do to you, in point of fact.”
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