“You are behaving like a fool, Martín, a blind fool who cannot see what is right in front of him. The girl cares for you. She is sensible and makes up her own mind. Tell her the truth—she would not care about your past.”
“But I care. Do you think I want her to know I was a whore? Do you think she would ever look at me the same way again? Even if she did, what would her family say? Eh? Do you think they will welcome an ex-slave, murderer, whore into their family with open arms?”
“Nobody will ever know about the murder, Martín.”
“So you say, Hugh. But you don’t have to build your life on lies and wonder how long such a foundation will last.”
“So, tell me, then, what are you going to do, Martín? Keep running away, always afraid the past will catch you?”
Martín was so angry he was shaking. “It is easy for you to offer advice, my lord,” he said, sneering the two words. “You are a bloody peer. Wealthy and connected to a family that goes back to the beginning of time. You were a slave for a few years but you were not born a slave because of the very blood that runs in your veins—because of who you are. You do not need to constantly worry you could become a slave again if the right people clapped hands on you. And, lastly, you were never sold to be some old man’s whore.”
“You know what the sultan’s men did to me.” The words were so quiet Martín hardly heard them. He looked at Ramsay and saw a chill in his usually warm eye. Yes, he knew what had happened to Ramsay in Hassan’s palace.
The pause between them grew pregnant with a decade’s worth of unspoken words and secrets.
It was Ramsay who broke it. “You cannot let what happened with d’Armand ruin your life, Martín.”
Martín’s head jerked up at the sound of the hated name.
“Your path has never been easy, my friend, but you’ve survived much worse than becoming an object of gossip. The people who matter—your crew, me, Daphne, Sarah, Mia, Exley—they know your worth. If people judge you because of what was done to you, they are not worth knowing. You care deeply for somebody who cares for you. Do not leave her behind because you are in a hurry to run from your past.”
“She doesn’t want me. She wants the Dutchman.”
Ramsay made a scoffing noise. “She does not want Graaf.”
“Then why does she spend so much time with him?” Martín demanded, his gut clenching with fury at the thought of Sarah and the slaver.
“Because he puts himself before her? Because she pities him? Because she is bored?” Ramsay shrugged. “Who knows why a woman does anything?”
“Pity? Are you insane, Ramsay? The man is a peer on calling terms with the bloody king.”
“You need stronger spectacles, Martín, because you appear to be blind when it comes to Sarah. She was raised by Christian missionaries, for God’s sake. They believe in forgiveness above all else; at least the good ones do. Just because she has forgiven Graaf does not mean she doesn’t pity him. And he is an object of pity—something you would realize if your vision were not so clouded. She was born and raised in Africa—do you think she could ever respect a man who would buy and sell the people she considers her own?”
“Then why does she defend him like a hen with a chick if I make even the smallest comment? Does a woman do such a thing for a man she despises?”
Ramsay shook his head and set his empty glass down with a thump. “I cannot stay and listen to such claptrap, Martín. Only an idiot would think she wanted anyone but you.”
Martín stared at Ramsay’s back as he stalked from the room. His former captain knew Martín better than any other person in the world. Could he be right? Would she be able to live with the truth if he told her? If the truth became public and the rest of the world found out?
Martín knew he could not outrun his past forever. With the war over, there would be more and more contact with his country of birth. One way or another the truth always came out. Would she be able to overlook what he’d once been? The things he’d done?
There was only one person in the entire world who could answer those questions. But he wasn’t sure he could ask her.
* * *
Sarah was disappointed when Martín did not show up at her next riding lesson, or for the six after that. She’d been certain he would appear if only to display his own skill and mock her and Mies. By the time he finally did appear, she had given up looking for him.
She was fastening up her habit when Martín, seated on an enormous bay, cantered up. He stopped by Mies on his way toward her and muttered something she could not hear. While Sarah was no judge of horseflesh, she could see Bouchard’s mount was something out of the ordinary.
“What a lovely animal,” she said, when he came to a halt not far from her.
“Yes, he is one of a kind.” Martín stroked the huge animal’s neck, and the horse leaned into his touch and rubbed against his hand like a friendly dog. “His name is Pasha. He belongs to Ramsay, but today he gets a holiday from carrying such a giant brute on his back, eh?” The animal seemed to gaze at him with adoration. Martín gestured toward Sarah’s horse. “Where did you get that sack of bones?”
“Not all of us require a mount fit for a king, Martín.” She bit her lip, annoyed she’d let slip his Christian name. She was also unreasonably irritated by how perfect he looked in his riding clothes, from his highly polished boots to his fashionable high-crowned hat. Must he always look so irresistible?
She tore her eyes off his broad shoulders and powerful chest, only to find Mies had approached and was looking at her with narrowed eyes.
“Bouchard says you invited him to come and make sure I was offering adequate instruction.” His face was as stiff as his words.
Sarah scowled at the grinning Bouchard before turning back to Mies.
“That is not how I put it at all. But now that he is here, why don’t we all take a ride together?”
Martín tossed his reins to Mies, who caught them on reflex. He dismounted gracefully and closed the distance between them, waving away her groom. “Are you ready?”
Sarah nodded, and two big hands picked her up and placed her in the saddle with shocking ease. Her waist tingled as if his powerful hands still encircled it, and an exquisite tightness pulsed between her thighs.
Sarah couldn’t escape the truth: she was a wanton. And the fact that such a realization did not upset her only served to underscore she was irredeemable.
He adjusted her stirrups and checked the girth, and Sarah couldn’t take her eyes from his powerful leather-clad hands as they competently checked the saddle and straps. Hands that had been over her naked body. Inside her body. Hands that had brought her more pleasure than she’d known before or since.
“There. Are you comfortable?” He glanced up at her with a casual, inquiring look, oblivious of his effect on her.
She nodded, unable to speak.
As he mounted his monster of a horse, Sarah looked at Mies. His face was a mask of fury. This had been a very bad idea. Few men could associate with Martín and come away looking good, and Mies had already proven he was not one of them. She felt a surge of pity for the Dutchman.
“Are you ready, mademoiselle?” Bouchard asked her. He sat his horse as if he’d been born to it, his body graceful for all its size. He held the reins lightly in one hand, his other hand resting casually on a buckskin-clad thigh. A very muscular thigh.
She awkwardly guided her horse between the two men.
“Have you ridden in Hyde Park before, Captain?” she asked when it was clear neither man felt compelled to break the awkward silence.
“Not often. In general I have not had much opportunity to ride for pleasure. What of you, Captain Graaf?” Martín smirked across Sarah toward the smaller man. “You appear to have a decent seat. Do you hunt?”
The Dutchman’s eyes were wary. “Yes, I hunt, although not so much these past few years while I have been at university. Why, do you hunt, Captain?” His skeptical tone said he already knew the answer.
>
“I take no pleasure in hunting defenseless animals. I prefer bigger game.”
Mies’s pale cheeks flushed a dull, angry red.
Sarah searched her mind frantically for a topic that wouldn’t lead to open hostilities.
“What have you been doing for the past six days, Captain?” She gnawed her lower lip. Could she have demonstrated her infatuation any more clearly?
Martín’s slow, lazy smile made her blush just as darkly as Graaf. “How nice of you to notice my absence with such exactitude, Sarah.”
“It is common courtesy, Captain. Some of us are interested in people other than ourselves.”
He grinned at her shrewish tone. “I went to my property.”
“Oh. You went there and back so quickly?”
“It was only a quick trip. I wanted to see the state of the house and what would be needed to make it habitable.”
“You are planning to live there?”
“Perhaps,” he drawled.
“I thought you were going to Paris?” Mies broke in, making Sarah realize she’d forgotten his presence.
“I am flattered by your interest in my future plans, Captain. But perhaps you are asking because you are concerned the payment you have promised will not find me? Do not worry, my man of business will forward any compensation he receives.”
Judging by the way the color drained from Mies’s face, the payment would not be forthcoming.
“Do you have to behave like such a toad?” she whispered angrily.
“No, I don’t have to.”
“If you have no objection, Sarah, I believe I will attend to some business that has been awaiting my attention,” Mies said, not waiting for her reply before yanking his horse around and thundering back to the main path.
“I rejoice to hear he is attending to any business at all,” Martín commented mildly.
Sarah stunned herself by laughing.
“There, that is much better.”
“I am laughing because the alternative is to cry in frustration at your abominable behavior.”
“Why? Because I ask Graaf to pay what he owes? Ask Ramsay if you do not believe me. He will tell you the code among gentlemen. By evading payment the Dutchman shames himself without any help from me. But, come, he is gone. Now we may talk of more interesting matters.”
“Such as?”
“Me, you, my estate, your visit to my estate—to name only a few.”
“Oh? Are you planning to entertain?”
He sighed. “Not for some time, I’m afraid. Oak Park is in need of a good deal of work before it is ready for guests.”
“Oak Park. What a lovely name.”
“Yes, lovely,” he murmured, his eyes drifting to her mouth and then down her body and back. “Oak Park is not so far from Lessing Hall. I will invite Ramsay and his wife. They can bring their brats. I have an excellent trout pond and stream on the property, perfect for young boys looking for trouble. I would like you to see my house, Sarah.”
Sarah looked away from his caressing gaze. What did such an invitation mean after weeks of ignoring her? Why must he be so awkward and unknowable? She realized he was waiting for a response.
“Naturally I would be pleased to see your house.”
“Naturally.” His smile was lazy and confident.
* * *
Martín considered his morning’s work as he cantered away from Hyde Park. His feelings after seeing Sarah and Graaf were a mixture of relief and annoyance.
He was relieved to see that Sarah treated the Dutch nobleman with nothing other than friendly tolerance and annoyed that she treated Martín much the same way.
It had killed him to stay away from her after he’d learned she rode in the park almost daily with the Dutchman.
“You must go to Oak Park for a few days,” Ramsay had ordered the day following the Exleys’ ball, not that Martín had solicited his opinion. They’d been at Tattersalls, where the baron had just paid an outrageous amount for a pair of grays.
Martín ignored the suggestion, but that did not matter to the older man.
“You can see to the estate and also consider Sarah and how you will approach her.”
“What makes you think I need to do either, old man?”
“Take Jenkins with you,” Ramsay said, dismissing Martín’s rude question.
“Jenkins is a fool. I can see to myself.”
“A gentleman always travels with his manservant.”
“I am no gentleman.”
“You are to the people whose lives you now control. Oak Park is an impressive estate, Martín. Strive to live up to it.”
He’d gritted his teeth at Ramsay’s chiding tone.
“Take my curricle. It will be an excellent opportunity to put Zeus and Hades through their paces.”
“Who?”
“My new horses.” He gestured to the frisky grays, who looked as if they were ready to chew the arm off Ramsay’s groom. “That is what I have named them.” His smirk told Martín the names meant something. Something clever, no doubt. Martín refused to humor him by asking.
Instead, he’d humored him by leaving the following morning, taking the curricle, the horses, and Jenkins. He told himself he was going to escape Ramsay’s nagging, but really he was going so he could figure out what he would do, once and for all. Or at least think about it.
Contrary to Ramsay’s claim, Oak Park had looked less than impressive. Martín had arrived at twilight, and the old manor had looked dreary and ramshackle in the crepuscular light. He’d briefly considered turning around, but the late hour made such an impulse unwise.
The only servants in residence were an old man and his wife, remnants of a time when the house had been the country seat of a lord, the same man who’d lost it to the Marquess of Exley in a card game. Exley, in turn, had given Martín the estate several years back as a reward for risking his life and ship to save Lady Exley’s son from his homicidal half-brother.
Exley had undertaken several major repairs when he’d won the property, and he’d also begun construction of a new stable before he’d given the property to Martín.
Martín had funded the various repairs over the past four years but had left the key decisions to Exley. Until two weeks ago.
“My tenure as your factor is at an end, Bouchard,” Exley had said. “You may keep it, sell it, rent it, or hire an agent to run it. What you may not do, however, is expect me to continue managing it.”
This was Martín’s first visit here in two years. Thankfully, the house proved more comfortable than it appeared. The old couple had been in the habit of keeping a room prepared in case Exley should visit, and Martín had enjoyed a comfortable night’s sleep. He’d also enjoyed a simple but delicious breakfast of fresh eggs, meats, and homemade pastries the following morning. After eating his fill he’d summoned his two servants to the library.
The room was much smaller than the library at Lessing Hall, and the shelves were only half-filled. Even so, an excitement built in his stomach when he realized all these books were his and he could read them whenever he wished—albeit very slowly.
“I would like you to make the house habitable,” he told the old couple, who’d shuffled into the room not long after breakfast. “Hire whomever you need to do the immediate cleaning, and I will consider suggestions for footmen, grooms, what have you. I shall see to the hiring of a cook and steward.”
Mrs. Brownlee’s steely gaze marked her as the leader of the pair. “Our eldest is a fine one with horses, Captain. Seeing as you’ll have a grand new stable, you’ll need a master and some grooms.”
“Have your son come and speak to me this afternoon as I shall be leaving for London two mornings hence. If you should think of anything else that requires my attention, tell me before then.”
“Leaving, my, uh, lor . . . Captain?” The old man repeated.
Martín frowned. Was the man still capable of functioning as butler, or was that another position he needed to fill?
“Very good, Captain,” Mrs. Brownlee said, answering for her spouse as if reading Martín’s thoughts. She dropped a curtsy and dragged her still gaping husband from the room.
Martín could not blame the old man for his confusion. It had been madness to ride such a distance for a stay of only a few days. He shrugged. What did he care if his servants thought him mad?
A set of double doors opened onto a flagstone court that overlooked extensive gardens. The prospect caught Martín by surprise, and he stopped, leaning against the stone balustrade to admire the view.
Exley had told him the house was an excellent example of an Elizabethan manor. As usual, Martín knew nothing of such matters. Apparently the house had once boasted one of the largest and most intricate knot gardens in England. What remained was only a wild tangle, barely recognizable but for the unruly box shrubs that enclosed it.
He made a note to find a gardener or groundskeeper who could deal with such matters. He’d be damned if he would own the best of anything and have it lying around in disrepair. He might be an ex-slave, murderer, whore, but he was as rich as a lord—richer. The wealth of several nations had flowed through Ramsay’s hands during the war, and Martín had collected his share of it. This was not his only house. He owned two others, one on the coast of Italy and another in Shanghai. The baron had been adamant that property was the only thing that endured. So Martín had bought houses. Houses he’d never lived in and frankly had no desire to. But this house felt different. As he looked around at the lush, overgrown garden, Martín felt an odd sense of peace. Perhaps he could live here?
He closed his eyes to block out the ridiculous vision of himself as a country squire. What in God’s name would he do in an Elizabethan manor house?
The annoying little voice in his head—strident today—had suggestions. Marry Sarah and bring her here, have children, build a life. Stop running from his past, from his fears.
He clenched his jaw against the hope that grew in his breast. It was best never to hope. The image in his mind was nothing but a fantasy—the kind of dreams that had kept him sane during his years as a slave.
Scandalous Page 24