“I have returned a number of people taken by the corsairs,” Martín said, choosing his words cautiously. “Please remember I also make a considerable amount of money taking such vessels. I would never want to misrepresent myself as an angel of mercy.”
Her eyes narrowed to pale gray slits. “Oh, I doubt you’d be mistaken for an angel of any kind, Captain.”
Martín laughed, far more comfortable in the area of flirtation than that of slave emancipation.
* * *
Sarah was beyond grateful Lord Ramsay had claimed her first dance.
“I see you’ve made another conquest, Sarah,” Ramsay teased, glancing at Viscount Danforth, who’d escorted her from the dining room.
Sarah rolled her eyes, eliciting one of his bellows of laughter.
“I know that look. My dear wife uses it on me at least once a day.” He continued undaunted. “Danforth seems a nice young chap.”
“I cannot concentrate on these steps and answer your questions at the same time, my lord.”
“But that is the most important part of dancing, Sarah dear, keeping your partner amused. If you do it well enough, they will not care about their flattened toes.”
“I have not stepped on your feet. Yet.”
“See, you can speak and dance at the same time. Come now, what did that wretch Martín say to upset you so at dinner?”
She was disappointed her tantrum had been noticed. “Oh, he told me where he had spent the previous fortnight.”
Ramsay laughed.
“It is not a laughing matter, my lord. Surely the man can find a more productive use of his time.”
“Perhaps he only wants some guidance?”
“Not from me, he doesn’t. He has made that abundantly clear.”
“My dear Sarah, I believe you do not know how to read men as well as you think you do.”
“I’m sure you are correct. Your wife informs me I should treat you all like children.”
“My wife is as wise as she is lovely. But she neglected to mention you must also dispense with any attempt at kindness.” He was no longer mocking. “Martín has no experience with it, is suspicious of it, and has no clue how to respond to it.”
“But what of you, my lord? You have been kind to him.”
“Yes, but I’m a man. With women it is different.”
“So I see,” she retorted, her eyes lingering balefully on the subject of their discussion: Martín surrounded by at least eight females.
Ramsay laughed.
“You are an absolutely dreadful man.”
“I am laughing because you clearly have nothing to worry about.”
“Are you mad? Look at him!”
“My dear Sarah, haven’t you noticed the careful way he has placed himself?”
“Placed himself?”
“Yes, you silly girl. He is standing just where he may keep watch over you.”
Sarah glanced back at the herd of women around Martín and met his eyes. She scowled, and he grinned in return.
“Martín is a complete stranger to kindness or tenderness. You scare the wits out of him each time you do or say anything nice. He has no idea what it means or how to respond. So he responds like an animal confronted in its den—he attacks. You must treat him badly. At least initially, until you get through his defenses.”
“But that’s—that’s—”
“Childish? Deceptive? Cruel? Deceitful? Flirtation?”
Sarah missed a step, and Ramsay cupped her elbow, smoothly moving her back into formation.
It was all those things, she realized.
As if reading her thoughts, Ramsay gave her a knowing look. “Yes, it is war, my dear, and ‘the rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.’”
Sarah considered his advice in between concentrating on her steps. What was the harm in employing his approach? After all, her previous efforts had proven worse than useless.
“Very well,” she said as Ramsay led her off the floor. “I shall abuse him roundly at every opportunity. I shall mock and taunt him whenever possible.”
“That’s the spirit. You can begin now. He is coming this way.”
“My lord.” Martín gave Ramsay a suspicious look before turning to Sarah. “Mademoiselle Fisher, may I have the honor of this next dance?” His arrogant smile said the honor was all hers.
“What an unexpected pleasure it is to hear you count the quadrille among your myriad achievements, Captain Bouchard. Unfortunately, I am engaged for this next set.”
His arrogant smile faltered, and his eyes slid from her face to her fan, which she’d deployed to cool her heated countenance.
He cocked his head to read her unfurled fan. “Very well, I claim the pleasure of the next set, which I see you still have free, and the first waltz, as the second is taken.” Without waiting for a reply, he bowed abruptly and left.
“Four runs to you, my dear.” The baron smirked, his green eye on Martín’s stiff shoulders.
“I believe you are correct.” Sarah shook her head. Who could have guessed that rudeness and a challenging manner would be so effective in making Martín pursue her?
The anticipation of dancing with him caused Sarah to slaughter the next dance. Luckily, Lord Danforth, her unfortunate partner, was as sunny natured as he was attractive. Why couldn’t Sarah have lost her heart to such a man? Why had she become obsessed with an arrogant, domineering, changeable pig of a man? Why?
“You are frowning most fiercely, Miss Fisher. May I ask the cause of your displeasure?”
Sarah flushed and dragged her attention back to her attractive partner. “I am very sorry for the savage beating you’ve taken at my hands—or feet, rather,” she apologized as he escorted her from the floor.
“Nonsense, I’m sure I’ll be able to walk again properly in a few weeks. A month at the most. Would you like some refreshment? I’m limping in that direction in any case to find a splint and some sticking plaster.”
Sarah laughed. “That would be lovely.” She watched him walk away, grateful to see he was not in fact limping.
“Imagining yourself a viscountess, Mademoiselle Fisher?”
Sarah started and turned. “He’s heir to an earldom,” she corrected, forcing herself to ignore her pounding heart as she looked into Martín’s eyes.
“What? Is poor Mies no longer in the running?”
“Mies is merely a younger son, not the scion,” she pointed out, inwardly cringing at her repulsive words.
Martín’s eyes widened, and he gazed at her with something approaching respect. “This is a side of you I’ve not seen before, Mademoiselle Fisher.”
She sniffed. “I daresay there are many of my sides you haven’t seen—nor are you likely to, Captain Bouchard.”
He burst out laughing, his eyes shining with appreciation. “Oh, but the sides I have seen I have liked so very much.” His words evoked a brief, but searing memory.
Danforth chose that moment to return.
“Thank you, my lord.” Sarah snatched the glass from his hand and gulped it down.
“Are you feeling quite all right, Miss Fisher?”
“Yes, thank you. Have you met Captain Bouchard, my lord?” she asked, desperate to turn his solicitous gaze away from her beet-red face.
“No, I haven’t. But Exley has told me a lot about him. I’m very pleased to meet you, Captain.” Danforth smiled at the other man with genuine enthusiasm.
“The pleasure is mine,” Martín murmured, his eyes narrow with suspicion. He shifted his gaze to Sarah. “As is the next dance.” He offered Sarah his arm and led her away from the surprised-looking viscount.
“That was rude of you.”
He shrugged.
“He was only trying to make pleasant conversation.”
“I am not interested in pleasant conversation.”
Sarah ground her teeth. He was impossible. She was grateful that the first dance she’d committed to did not allow for much conversation.
Naturally,
he was an exquisite dancer. He moved far more fluidly than either Ramsay or Danforth, the arrogant angle at which he held his head making it obvious he was aware of his skill. Sarah refused to compliment him. Why swell his head any further? He was already receiving more attention than was good for him, and his presence was causing a frisson among the young ladies around them.
No other man in the room—not even Baron Ramsay, with his scar and black eye patch—exuded such dangerous, alien allure: Martín Bouchard was in a class of his very own.
Sarah collided with a broad, solid chest, and a pair of powerful arms came up to steady her. She looked up into the grinning face of the man she’d been contemplating.
“Mademoiselle Fisher, are you trying to start the waltz early? Is that why you are throwing yourself into my arms?” He inclined his head apologetically to the couple beside them as they adjusted their steps to accommodate Sarah’s fumbling.
“If only your manners were as polished as your dancing, Captain Bouchard. Don’t you know that criticizing one’s partner is not done?”
Martín laughed, and they didn’t speak again until the dance was finished and he led her back to where Daphne was deeply in conversation with a man sporting a puce silk coat and clocks on his stockings. Words and phrases like rights of man, materialism, and Diderot clouded the air around the two philosophers like a haze of gnats.
“I shall be back to claim my waltz.” Martín sauntered off like a man who’d conquered the world.
Sarah fumed and watched the dancers, trying to ignore the mind-boggling conversation occurring beside her.
She danced the next dance with the frigid Lord Exley and the one after that with his more gregarious stepson, Gabriel.
The redheaded young man had barely escorted her from the dance floor when Martín appeared beside her as if he’d sprung from the intricate parquet flooring. “You are no longer necessary, Jibril.” He turned from the stunned, fuming younger man to Sarah. “I believe this dance is mine, Miss Fisher.”
He led her away from Gabriel Marlington, who stood rooted to the spot, staring at Bouchard with a look that should have reduced him to cinders. Sarah didn’t have the energy to scold Martín, nor would he listen if she did.
To say his hand on her side was distracting was an understatement. It wasn’t merely his hand; it was the memory of the last time his hands had been on her.
“This is much nicer, eh?” His warm breath near her ear made her shiver.
Sarah ignored the comment as well as her body’s annoying reaction and concentrated on the steps.
“Relax, Mademoiselle Fisher,” he whispered. “Let me do the work instead of yanking me about so violently.”
“Yes, you’re quite the expert, aren’t you, Captain Bouchard?” she asked waspishly.
He chuckled.
“I wouldn’t have imagined dancing was a popular pastime at the places you choose to frequent, Captain.”
“Oh,” he said, pulling away slightly so he could look down at her face. “Tell me, what places and activities do you imagine me to enjoy, mademoiselle?”
“You willfully misunderstand me, sir. I don’t spend any time at all imagining what you do. In fact, thoughts of you are something I actively suppress, should they occur.”
“Oh, mademoiselle,” he said, giving her a look of mock lament. “Telling such untruths. Surely your father would be most displeased to find his teachings had so little purchase in his daughter.”
Sarah bristled. “You have no idea of what my father did or did not teach me.”
Again he laughed. “No, you are correct. I know nothing about missionaries and their teachings. I do, however, know something of the daughters of missionaries. Or at least one. I know you have spent a great deal of time thinking about me and what I do when I am not within your sight. I think you would very much like to know where I have been and who I have been with, eh?”
It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to tread on his elegantly shod feet.
“You don’t know the first thing about me, Captain Bouchard. You’re too self-absorbed to know anyone but yourself.”
“Shh, you are so vehement. People are beginning to stare, perhaps believing we are lovers, having a quarrel, eh?” He chuckled at the venomous look she gave him. “Come, let us not fight. Since the subject of my activities is not a topic for polite conversation, why don’t you tell me what you have been doing?”
Sarah pursed her lips and stared at his chin, forcing her eyes away from his full lower lip.
“Very well, it appears you do want to hear what I have been doing, in great detail.” He opened his mouth.
“Oh, shut up. I would prefer talking about anything else to . . . to . . . that.” His shoulder shook beneath her hand. “Unlike some people, I have been visiting museums, galleries, booksellers, and other culturally significant places.”
“Mm hmm, and what else?”
“I have been learning how to dance, ride a horse, and engage in proper dinner conversation.”
“I noticed the first and last this evening. I would like an opportunity to observe the second.”
“Why? So you may mock my efforts?”
“Do you fear my mocking?”
“Not in the least. Show up any morning you like and mock away. I warn you, however, we ride unfashionably early.”
“We? You and Mies?” His light teasing tone fled, and his hand clenched on her side.
“Kindly stop mauling me, Captain. Yes, me, Mies, and my groom.” Was that jealousy she heard in his voice or just the competitive instinct that any mention of the Dutchman seemed to evoke?
“Ah, you have the protection of a groom. Very good. Who knows what the good captain would get up to otherwise. Perhaps he would be overcome by the strength of his emotions and do something rash.”
“Must you be odious every minute of the day?”
“Not without a great deal of effort. You dance much better when you are not thinking about your feet.”
Sarah ignored his condescending observation, and they danced for a few moments in silence.
“You look very beautiful tonight,” he said in her ear, his voice husky, his scent more intoxicating than champagne. “This color suits you, the style also.” His hungry look took in the low neckline, evoking both a desire to fling herself into his arms and a compulsion to box his ears.
She ignored both urges. “Tell me, Captain, where are you staying?”
“I am at a small hotel called Mivart’s. Quite unexceptionable, I assure you. Perhaps you would like to come and have dinner? You could inspect my apartments and make sure they are respectable.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible.”
He grinned at her cool rejection, and Sarah realized the baron had been correct. Martín was much more comfortable with rejection than he’d ever been with any act of kindness. She sighed. How tiresome that she must treat him poorly in order to gain his attention.
“Why the deep sigh, mademoiselle?”
Sarah stared hard into his unusual eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of what went on behind them. But they were as well guarded as the crown jewels.
She changed the subject. “Baron Ramsay said you had a property in the country, Captain.”
“Has Ramsay taken the position of town crier?” He didn’t sound amused.
“Why, is the fact that you own property some sort of secret? I understand it’s quite common in this country.”
“You are pleased to jest, mademoiselle.”
She shrugged rather than answered. Why not give him a little of his own back?
“I have not yet gone to inspect the estate. There are still several issues to talk over with Exley, who has been overseeing some matters for me.”
“That is very kind of him.” Sarah was more than a little surprised to hear the haughty peer would take an interest in an ex-slave’s business.
“One would think him incapable of such kindness from looking at him, eh? But you mustn’t judge by appear
ances, mademoiselle.”
“No, I shouldn’t; you are correct.”
“Why do you sound so surprised? After all, I am correct about so much, eh?”
“If it pleases you to think so.”
“You please me, Sarah.” He spoke her name softly, his eyes darkening. Sarah looked quickly away, terrified she would launch herself into his arms and take whatever he wanted to give, not caring that it wouldn’t be enough.
Thankfully, the music ended, and she was saved from her reckless impulses. They stood for a moment longer than was proper before the shrill laughter of a nearby woman broke the spell.
“Thank you, Captain.”
He released her and stepped back; the moment had passed.
“The pleasure was mine.” He led her back to her friends, bowed, and took his leave. Sarah stared at his broad shoulders as they disappeared from view, the pain in her chest making it difficult to breathe. She knew less about him and his feelings for her than she had the night they’d met. She was beginning to think she never would know him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Martín was laboriously reading Waverley with both English and French dictionaries open before him when Ramsay called. The baron tossed his hat onto a nearby table and looked about the room, his gaze lingering on the cluttered desk.
“You seem to have settled in quite nicely.”
“It lacks the amenities of Venetia’s, but it will do.”
“Daphne has kept your rooms ready for you,” Ramsay said, helping himself to a glass of brandy.
“You meddle like an old woman, Ramsay.”
“Somebody has to, my friend. When are you going to admit to yourself you want the girl?” He didn’t bother to explain which girl he meant.
Martín’s neck and face became hot. Ramsay, for a change, was not smiling.
Why bother with dissimulation? Besides, Ramsay would not stop until he got what he was after. The man was relentless.
“What can I offer her?” Martín asked, staring at the amber liquid in his glass and thinking back to the last time he’d argued with Sarah back on his ship, when she’d told him, in no uncertain terms, her opinion of him.
“Yourself.”
“You have a good sense of humor, Ramsay. Unfortunately, I am not in the mood to be amused.”
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