Her face tightened, but she was honest enough not to argue with his assessment. “How would Mies ever find out about this?”
“Husbands usually learn such things on their wedding night.”
She gave an unladylike snort. “Mies has not asked me to marry him.”
“What will you tell him if he does?”
“That is hardly your affair, is it?” She stood and looked down her nose at him, smoothing her hideous dress across her hips. “I daresay I shan’t see you again after tomorrow.”
Martín felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. He lunged to his feet. “Well then, I am very pleased I could be of service to you before we parted ways. It was the least I could do after you answered my bookkeeping questions.” He flung a hand toward the cabin door. “I would like to return to what I was doing before you interrupted me.”
Her eyes widened in shock, and Martín could only hope he’d hurt her. He could only hope that she felt cheapened by the fact that she’d used him as a stud service since Graaf was too much of a bloody gentleman.
She touched his sleeve, and he jerked his arm away. “What is it now, Miss Fisher?”
“This is all a mistake. I’ve made a dreadful hash of things.”
“What? You regret begging me to take your virginity? Don’t worry, I will not tell Mies, or Daniels either,” he sneered.
She stamped her foot. “Why do you keep bringing Mies into this? Or Daniels? Are you jealous of my relationships with them? Why can’t you see that—”
Martín’s head buzzed at the word “jealous,” and he raised one hand, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say. “One last piece of advice, mademoiselle. When it comes to bed sport, men are not interested in exhaustive discussion after they’ve had their fuck.”
She recoiled at the vulgar word, her mouth a shocked O and her face as pale as the sheets of paper scattered across his desk. Martín flung open the cabin door and turned his back on her.
She left without a sound.
* * *
Sarah stumbled to her cabin, grateful nobody was in the corridor to witness the tears streaming down her face. She locked the door and collapsed on the narrow bunk, her body shaking with silent sobs.
Why had she done it? It was as though she’d been seized by some insane tempest when she’d knocked on his door. She’d thought that the weeks since Tenerife had served to eradicate the hold he had over her. Why had she suffered such a horrifying relapse just as freedom was within her sights?
Why had she thought that giving herself to him would make anything between them any different? He might lie with her, but he was not the kind of man to offer more. Why would he? He was beautiful, rich, and coveted. She was penniless and plain and had begged him to take her virginity. He’d never even claimed his rights to her body from the bargain they’d made so many weeks ago. She’d needed to throw herself at him before he had taken her.
He’d made love to countless women. Sarah knew that—she’d heard stories about his conquests during their months at sea. Even so, some part of her, some hopeful little ember, had continued to burn. She’d hoped his behavior at Tenerife, inexcusable though it was, had shown he had some feelings for her. Feelings he was too emotionally stunted to understand. She hadn’t wanted to believe his feelings were only thwarted pride, but now she knew she’d been fooling herself. Not for a moment after their lovemaking had he shown even a shred of affection for her. He’d been far more interested in taunting her about Mies than in examining whatever might be between them. He’d made love to her—the most emotionally and physically powerful experience of Sarah’s life—and then had gone back to his ledgers.
Sarah lowered her head onto her bunk and cried.
Chapter Twenty
A surprising number of ships dotted the waters off Eastbourne. Although Napoleon had been vanquished, Martín had still been forced to show his papers more times than seemed necessary. He was left with the distinct impression that the coastal authorities merely wished to speak to him. He knew he should have been flattered, but he was far too irritated for such an emotion.
Sarah and Graaf were leaning against the railing, chatting to each other with the ease of longtime companions. Martín realized it was too late to shove the man overboard now.
“Beauville!” He didn’t know what he wanted to say; he just felt the need to yell.
“Aye, Captain?” The man popped up behind him so soundlessly, Martín almost leapt out of his skin.
“Good God, man, must you lurk so?”
“I’m sorry, Captain.” Beauville’s gaze drifted toward the couple at the rail and back to Martín.
Martín narrowed his eyes at the gesture. “I’d like you to acquire suitable transportation to take our guests to Baron Ramsay’s hall. Send word to the baron letting him know of our arrival. We shall have something to eat at the Pig and Whistle while we wait. You will join us when you’ve carried out my orders.”
“Aye, Captain.” Beauville had an annoying gleam in his eyes as he turned away to do Martín’s bidding. Martín had noticed the first mate’s sly looks often over the past weeks.
He realized Sarah and the Dutchman had stopped chattering and were looking at him.
“What?” he demanded nastily.
Sarah shrugged. “Nothing.”
“What are you two discussing so earnestly? Plans for your new mission?”
Rather than look offended, she gave him a sweet smile. “Yes, we thought we’d leave the plans for a bordello in your capable hands.”
Her unorthodox reply drew a shocked gasp from Graaf.
Martín laughed, genuinely amused by her display of fire. “Yes, mademoiselle, you had best leave things neither of you understand in wiser, less gentlemanly hands.” He smirked at Graaf. “We will be reaching Eastbourne shortly. Are you both ready to disembark?”
“Mr. Daniels has kindly given me a box for my possessions and brought it up on deck.”
Martín rolled his eyes and turned to Graaf, gesturing to two small trunks. “Is this all there is for you, Your Highness?”
“Yes, Mr. Daniels has brought all my possessions up for me, as well.”
“It would appear Mr. Daniels is better suited to the position of stevedore than second mate,” Martín snapped, turning on his heel.
Daniels had been getting on his nerves more with every passing day, and Martín would be glad to have some time away from him and the rest of his crew—many of whom seemed suddenly disapproving of him and overprotective of Sarah Fisher. It was time they all recalled who paid them, especially when that payment was likely to come from Martín’s own pocket.
* * *
As Martín led his guests toward the Pig, he saw several people he knew from his time at Lessing Hall, Baron Ramsay’s ancestral seat. He received few welcoming smiles, and those only from women. Most of the townspeople turned away or pointedly ignored him.
One man hustled out of his shop and snatched a girl—his daughter?—out of Martín’s path and dragged her inside.
“It seems you are well-known here, Captain Bouchard,” Sarah commented.
“Perhaps it is not me, but Captain Graaf’s fearsome reputation that precedes him.” Martín chuckled at his ludicrous suggestion.
Sarah ignored him, and the Dutchman glared.
Martín had sent ahead for a private parlor. “Some tea for the lady, porter for me, and whatever you serve to visiting royalty for the prince here.” Martín gestured to Graaf.
“Porter will be fine,” the Dutchman assured the gaping innkeeper. He turned to Martín after the man had gone. “Tell me, Captain, do you intend to mock me all the way to London?”
Martín shrugged, his eyes on Sarah rather than the blond man and his too pretty looks. “I will if it pleases me, Captain. And I will not consult you before doing so, either.”
What was Sarah thinking behind her well-shuttered eyes? About yesterday? Did she wonder if her Dutch gentleman would be able to do the things to her
that the barbaric ex-slave had done? Did it even matter to her that the man she’d chosen to ally herself with would sell other humans if told to do so?
The entrance of his first mate checked Martín’s building fury. “Ah, Mr. Beauville, welcome. A porter for my first mate, innkeeper.”
“Very good, Captain. And will Mr. Beauville be joining your party?” the innkeeper asked, his eyes sliding nervously toward Graaf. He was clearly uncomfortable with the presence of silent royalty.
“Yes, he will. Bring us your best for four.” The man hastened away, and Martín turned back to Beauville. “Has Mr. Wilson arrived?”
Beauville opened his mouth, but then paused when the door opened and a dark-haired wench entered with a serving tray. The Frenchman’s eyes were riveted to the chit until the door closed behind her and he turned to Martín, as if waking from a daze.
Martín’s eyebrows rose. Beauville reddened, but ignored Martín’s inquiring look.
“Wilson is certain we can dispose of most of the items quickly and at a good profit.”
“What items?” Sarah asked.
“Do you work for English customs, mademoiselle?” Martín teased. “Don’t worry,” he said, giving Graaf a mocking smile. “We aren’t hiding anything illegal in our hold.”
Sarah clamped her lips shut, and the Dutchman gnawed the inside of his cheek, as if he’d very much like to say something. Martín wished to God he would dare.
The innkeeper returned shortly with the little wench, and Martín amused himself by scrutinizing the young woman, his attention creating a charming flush on her plump cheeks. He was equally pleased by the daggers he saw in Beauville’s eyes. So, his first mate fancied the wench? She was a pretty little thing.... Martín realized three sets of eyes were regarding him with varying degrees of hostility and grinned back at his guests.
The meal passed largely in silence, moved along only by his occasional comments and observations.
As much as he enjoyed baiting his companions, he was impatient to be off once he’d finished eating. He stood as the serving girl entered the room, catching her hand and pressing a coin into her small palm, keeping it longer than was proper.
“This is for your excellent service, mademoiselle.” She’d frozen at his touch, her large blue eyes wide. Martín reached out on instinct to stroke the slight down on the curve of her jaw. “Enchanté.”
Beauville’s chair scraped noisily beside him. “The coach is waiting for you, Captain. I shall report to you later this evening,” he said harshly, regarding Martín with a grimness that made him release the young girl’s hand. Once freed, she moved away like a frightened deer.
* * *
Sarah had long believed Martín Bouchard to be the most trying and obnoxious person she’d ever met, but today he was outdoing even himself.
For a moment she’d thought Mr. Beauville, a man who was usually a pillar of calm, might strike his captain. Even a fool could see he was deeply in love with the young serving girl. And any fool, other than Bouchard apparently, could see she was not the kind of girl to sell her favors.
Sarah’s hand itched to slap his snidely handsome face. What was wrong with the man? What on earth drove him to behave in such a universally insulting and reprehensible manner?
Once seated in the coach, Sarah fumed and stared across the short distance at him. He appeared oblivious, gazing out the window with a slight smile on his face as if contemplating something amusing. No doubt imagining himself bedding the serving wench.
The swine!
Graaf, who was seated beside her, must have sensed her anger. He patted her hand as it lay on her knee.
The intimate action drew a scowl from Bouchard, and Sarah extracted her hand, using it to point out the window. “Is that Lessing Hall?”
Mies leaned across her to look out the window toward the enormous white manor house that lay at the end of the long drive. “Hmmm, I should guess the bulk of it is fourteenth, perhaps fifteenth century.”
Bouchard’s eyes narrowed even further, and he leaned toward the Dutchman, his hands clenched, as if he were about to begin pounding the slighter man.
Thankfully, the carriage drew to a halt before fisticuffs broke out. A host of elegantly clad servants swarmed down the steps toward them. Sarah was so desperate to escape the hostile environment inside the carriage that she pushed open the door. She would have stumbled if not for Bouchard’s steadying hand on her arm.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt him,” he muttered in her ear before passing her hand to one of the footmen.
Before Sarah could respond, her attention was captured by the enormous man coming down the steps. He was the tallest person she’d ever seen, well over six feet. Not only was he physically imposing, but he was also incredibly handsome. He was dressed less formally than Captain Bouchard, his clothing immaculate but more suited to the pursuits of a country gentleman. All that marred his perfection was a scar that cut across his attractive face and a black patch over one eye.
“Welcome to Lessing Hall, Miss Fisher. I am Hugh Redvers.” The giant took Sarah’s hand in his enormous one and bowed over it, pressing his lips to her fingers.
Sarah grew hot at the old-fashioned yet somehow sensual gesture. She could tell by the amused glint in his single eye, he knew what he was doing. Up close she could see he was older than she’d first thought, closer to forty than thirty. He turned from her toward the carriage.
“Ah, Martín! Greetings, brother.” He dwarfed Captain Bouchard as they embraced in a way she’d seen the men use on the ship: a handshake that included the entire forearm while they gripped each other’s shoulders.
Bouchard grinned, looking like a boy happy to see his father or elder brother. It was the first time she’d seen any sign of affection on his face. Naturally it made him even more gorgeous.
“It is always good to see you, Lord Ramsay,” Martín answered, his use of the honorific another sign of his esteem.
The baron turned to Mies. “Welcome to Lessing Hall, Captain Graaf.” He made Mies look like a child as he towered above him. “Come inside. My wife is very eager to meet you.”
“What a lovely house you have, my lord,” Sarah said, gazing about the enormous hall in wonder.
“It’s an imposing old pile, but it is home.” He waited until they’d given their various possessions to a servant before leading them up a sweeping stone staircase and halfway down a long hallway. The door he opened led to the room of Sarah’s dreams. Books, books, and more books. She stood just inside the doorway, her jaw hanging open in wonder.
The baron recoiled. “Oh no, not another bookish woman.”
“Don’t be such a beast, Hugh.” The soft voice came from the corner of the large room. Sarah had been too busy staring at the books to notice the person in the room.
If the room was beautiful, then the woman who walked toward her was its perfect complement. Like Sarah she was tall, but that was where the resemblance ended.
Sarah felt a combination of awe and envy as she took in the Baroness Ramsay. No matter what kind of frock she wore, Sarah would never look half as lovely as this woman did dressed in a simple dress of yellow muslin.
She shared the same coloring as the Dutch nobleman, her pale skin and golden hair a perfect foil for a pair of blue eyes so perfect they looked as if they belonged on a canvas. Her manner, however, was warm and welcoming. “Don’t listen to my husband, Miss Fisher. He is teasing me. I am the reason you are being received in a library rather than the drawing room, as is proper.”
“I cannot imagine any room more welcoming than this, Lady Ramsay.”
The blond woman smiled and turned to her other two guests. “Captain Graaf, what a pleasure. I understand you are from Amsterdam? I am currently reading a work by one of your master philosophers, Mr. Spinoza.” She paused.
Everyone looked at the Dutchman, who flushed darkly under so much attention. “Er, Spinoza. Why, yes, I’ve heard of him.”
“Perhaps you will help me with
some of the translation? My grasp of Dutch is quite rudimentary.”
Mies gaped.
“Darling! Let the poor man catch his breath before you start tampering with his brain,” the baron chided, his pride showing through his teasing.
“You are correct, of course. I daresay we shall have plenty of time to discuss the matter later,” Lady Ramsay promised the goggling Dutchman. She turned to the third member of their party and her mouth tightened. “Captain Bouchard.”
“Lady Ramsay, it is always a pleasure.” The handsome captain bowed mockingly over her hand before she pulled it away.
“Martín, still charming the ladies, I see,” the baron said, laughing. He turned to Sarah and Mies after they’d seated themselves. “I understand we are all going to make a trip to London?”
“I would not want to put you out, my lord,” Mies said. “I give you my word I would take myself to London without supervision.”
“I’m sure nobody doubts your honor, Captain.” Ramsay cut Bouchard an amused glance. “Besides, a trip to London will not be an inconvenience. We shall be in good time to catch a part of the Season, and I had already decided to take Lady Ramsay. She’s looking a bit hagged, and I’m hoping to give her a little town polish.”
Lady Ramsay was clearly accustomed to her husband’s teasing ways and ignored his levity. “I understand you have relatives in London, Miss Fisher?” She saw Sarah’s confused look. “Captain Bouchard explained your circumstances in the letter he sent with the messenger.”
Bouchard had written a letter? Sarah grinned at him; what a fine student he’d turned out to be!
He responded to her smug look with a scowl.
“We’ll give you a few days to rest while we organize our trip,” Ramsay said, his sharp eye on their interaction.
Just then the door to the library flew open, and three bodies hurtled into the room. One of them, a boy of perhaps fourteen, stopped in front of Lady Ramsay. “Mama, you must make Antonia stop following us.” The other boy stood silent, and Sarah saw he was absolutely identical to the first.
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