“I am relieved to hear it. The mount you had in Hyde Park was a sorry excuse for an animal.”
“You are too unkind to poor old Blossom. He was a lovely horse to learn with, but Banker is absolutely perfect.”
Martín threw back his head and laughed. “Banker?”
“Yes, Banker. But enough of me, how are you enjoying the evening?”
“Very much. Now.”
She flushed, and he could see his words pleased her.
“I—I wanted very much to be seated next to you at dinner.”
“Oh?” he said, too surprised to say more.
“Unfortunately, I left the seating arrangements to my aunt, and she is very rigid in her adherence to precedence.”
“You can hardly blame her for not wanting to seat an ex-slave at the head of the table.”
Her hand tensed in his. “I wish you would not refer to yourself in such a manner.”
“I speak the truth, and you should not forget that, mademoiselle. Don’t tell yourself I am anything other than what I am.” His words were harsher than he’d intended, but something about her trusting brown eyes made him impatient that she see him for what he was. And also afraid of what would happen when she finally did.
“You could just as truthfully describe yourself as a very successful sea captain who has saved thousands of lives.”
Martín laughed at her vehemence, but was secretly pleased by her defense. “You misunderstand me, mademoiselle. I do what I do for money, just as your family engages in banking. But, come, let us speak of more interesting matters. Soon this dance will be over, and it will be unseemly of me to ask you for another. Perhaps we can argue more when we go for a ride in Hyde Park? I have the use of Ramsay’s curricle, and I am told there is nothing exceptionable about such an activity. You will rest tomorrow, no doubt, but perhaps you are free the day after?”
Her smile was radiant. “I should like that very much.”
“Bien,” he said, too pleased to say more.
They completed the dance in silence, as if neither of them wanted to inadvertently disturb the delicate spirit of détente that had grown between them. When he escorted her back to where Lady Ramsay stood, he was displeased, but not entirely surprised, to see the Marquis d’Armand approaching.
“I am here to collect my dance, mademoiselle.” He spoke to Sarah, but fixed his cool, amused stare on Martín.
“My lord, I would like to introduce you to Captain Bouchard,” Sarah said.
Martín gave him an abrupt nod. “D’Armand.”
“Captain Bouchard, I have heard so much about you. I believe you knew my father . . . intimately.” The Frenchman’s eyes flickered over Martín in a way that made Martín’s hands tighten into fists. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance, but right now is not the time.” He glanced from Martín to Sarah, his eyes narrow and reptilian.
Martín watched him lead Sarah away to the dance floor, feeling as though he’d just engaged in something particularly unclean.
“I don’t like that man.” Lady Ramsay’s quiet words startled Martín out of his trance.
“Oh? And why is that, my lady?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted bluntly, never taking her clear blue gaze off the pair as they took their places for the dance. “Call it female intuition.”
The suave Frenchman said something that made Sarah laugh. He took her hand, and it made Martín’s skin crawl.
“I understand he is only recently arrived from America. Why do you think he has come to England, Captain?”
Martín shook his head slowly, unable to pull his gaze from the elegant nobleman.
“I could not say, Lady Ramsay.” And he couldn’t. The only thing he knew for certain was that no good would come of it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sarah was stunned by the number of gifts that awaited her the morning after the ball. She knew that it was to curry favor with her uncles, rather than to celebrate her birthday, that most people sent presents.
After writing thank-you cards, she divided the gifts up into two groups: the few she would keep, and those she would give to the Manton sisters for dispersal at their home for women.
The only gifts she kept were those from her family and friends. As well as a ridiculously expensive brush and comb set she received from the Marquis d’Armand. The set was silver and set with stones that could only be sapphires. Sarah was going to talk to Daphne about the best way to return the gift without giving offense.
Her uncles seemed very interested in pursuing their acquaintance with the sophisticated peer, but Sarah was uneasy about the suave Frenchman’s intentions. When he’d heard she’d received a new horse for her birthday, he’d been persistent about riding with her, until she finally told him that she rode in the park most days.
For once, she hoped Martín did not make an appearance at her usual morning ride. Martín’s expression when she’d introduced them had looked almost murderous. More competitive instinct? For months she’d wished he’d showed some sign of jealousy with Mies, but d’Armand was a different matter entirely. She’d be happier if the two men never met again.
However, when Sarah arrived at the park the next morning, it was to find Martín already waiting for her—along with Daphne and Hugh.
“What a delightful surprise!”
“I had to see how your riding was progressing, Sarah,” the baron said, smiling at her before turning coyly to his wife. “Naturally Daphne wanted to tag along when she heard I was coming. And then Martín insisted he come to chaperone the two of us.”
Martín snorted. “I invited Lady Ramsay to ride with me, and her husband attached himself like a big burr,” he clarified. “I am pleased you are here, Sarah. I thought you would be resting today.”
“I told him you’d be here,” Hugh said to Sarah. He grinned at Martín. “You should know I’m always right, my friend.”
Martín rolled his eyes.
They’d just set off when a voice called out from behind them. “Miss Fisher!”
Sarah closed her eyes briefly before turning.
“I hoped I would find you here.” D’Armand was mounted on a magnificent black horse that he rode with breathtaking grace.
“What the devil is he doing here?” Hugh muttered loudly. For once, Daphne did not chastise her husband for his bad manners.
“I’m afraid I may have mentioned I rode in the park most mornings,” Sarah said beneath her breath before welcoming the man. “My lord, how nice to see you again. Have you come to ride with us?” She winced at the stupid comment. Why else would he be here?
His lips curled, and his dark eyes flashed her a warm, intimate look. “I should love to,” he said, either unaware of or unconcerned by her friends’ disapproving stares.
“You have met Lady and Lord Ramsay?”
“Enchanté.” His eyes swept the blond woman in a bold, almost provocative manner.
Daphne gave the man a look that could have frozen water.
The baron rode his giant horse between the Frenchman and his wife. “D’Armand.” The usually amiable man radiated barely suppressed violence and—for the first time—Sarah caught a glimpse of the dangerous pirate who’d been so feared by corsairs and the French navy.
D’Armand looked amused by Ramsay’s obvious hostility. He turned to Martín.
“Ah, Bouchard,” he said, as though he’d only just then noticed him. He eyed Martín’s red mare. “That is a particularly fine mount.” His tone suggested it was too good for the likes of Martín.
“As is yours, d’Armand.”
The Frenchman’s smile grew. “The men of my family are excellent judges of cattle. My father, in particular, owned only the best animals. He was well known as a superlative breeder of livestock.”
The silence was deafening. Martín’s eyes had gone flat, and his face looked as though it had been chiseled from stone. Sarah looked at the faces of her friends. Just what was going on?
“Shall we lead
the way, d’Armand?” Ramsay asked.
After what seemed like forever, the Frenchman spurred his mount forward.
Martín and Daphne waited beside Sarah until the other two men had gone ahead.
“Your ball was a fabulous crush, Sarah. Its success must have pleased your uncles very much. Are you quite recovered?” Daphne asked.
Sarah blinked. The baroness never engaged in idle chit-chat. Sarah would have sworn Daphne didn’t actually know how. Just who the devil was the marquis and what was he to Martín? And why would nobody tell her?
They spoke of the ball and other unimportant matters, all the while watching the backs of the two men who rode ahead of them.
* * *
Martín listened to the women’s chatter, his eyes fixed on the slim, straight shoulders of the French peer. D’Armand sat his exquisite mount like a man born to it, as he had been. Why was he lingering around Sarah? Was it her money? Her connection to a powerful banking family? Revenge against Martín? Or all three? It would not be for Sarah herself. Such a man—a proud member of the French aristocracy—would consider Sarah’s lineage far beneath him. Unless he could gain something from it, like money or revenge or both.
Ramsay and the marquis had reached a shady spot not far from the serpentine and pulled up.
“It looks like Ramsay wishes to talk for a while,” Lady Ramsay said. “I would like a bit of a gallop. Would you care to join me, Sarah?”
Sarah looked from Lady Ramsay to where the marquis was in conversation with the baron to Martín.
“Go with Lady Ramsay,” Martín urged, ignoring her questioning look. “I will join you soon.”
“But—”
“Our business will not take long. Ramsay and I will find you.” He could see she wanted to argue with him but did not wish to offend Lady Ramsay.
Martín waited until the women had cantered away before guiding his horse over to the two men. The tension between them was palpable. He turned to his friend. “You should go and see to the ladies, my lord. I will handle this.”
Ramsay opened his mouth, as if to disagree, but then closed it. He gave Martín an abrupt nod and turned his horse.
“What elevated company you keep, Bouchard.” The Frenchman smirked as Ramsay rode off. “I know Ramsay realizes you were a whore, but does Miss Fisher? Her uncles? The people who dined and danced with you at her ball?”
“What do you want, d’Armand?”
The marquis’s thin lips curled unpleasantly, as if it irked him to speak to a man he considered no better than chattel. His chattel.
“Were we standing on different soil, I could have you stripped, whipped, and hung by the neck until dead, and nobody would stop me.”
“But we are standing here, d’Armand, and on this soil, slavery is not legal.”
D’Armand chuckled. “Are you a barrister now? How . . . quaint.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want?” One black brow arched. “That is simple. I want my property back. All of it.”
“Do you think to take me by force?”
The nobleman laughed. “You rate your worth highly, Bouchard, too highly. To me you are just another of my father’s breeding stock.” His eyes flickered up and down Martín’s body, a darkly amused glint in them. “I would hardly have sailed halfway round the world to collect a bull.”
“Then what do you want?” Martín repeated.
D’Armand saw Martín’s clenched fists, and his smile grew into a grin. “I have something that might interest you—two things, as a matter of fact. One of them looks remarkably like you.” He withdrew a slim silver case from his exquisitely cut riding jacket and extracted a rectangle of white paper. “I will be at home to you tomorrow at three o’clock. That will be the only time I will ever receive you through the front door.” He held out the card. When Martín reached out to take it, d’Armand let it flutter to the ground.
Martín watched the Frenchman disappear before dismounting and picking up the card. It listed an address not far from Davenport House.
He stared at the card without seeing it. D’Armand had something that would interest him? Two somethings? What could he possibly have that would interest him? Most likely the man thought it necessary to lie to him in order to lure him to his house for the purpose of killing or capturing him. Martín could have told the nobleman he didn’t have to resort to subterfuge to get him alone; he would gladly meet him anywhere, anytime.
He’d not wanted to face his past and all the humiliations associated with it, but now—now that his past had come for him—he felt nothing but relief.
Tomorrow he would take Sarah for a curricle ride. He had worried it was too soon to press his suit with her, especially as she was now a rich, independent woman. But d’Armand’s presence had taken the difficult decision of what and when to tell Sarah completely out of his hands.
Martín tucked the card into his coat pocket and mounted his horse. He felt a hundred times stronger than he’d felt in months, as if a crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt . . . liberated. Laughing out loud like a madman, he turned his mount in the direction of his friends and urged it into a gallop.
Tomorrow afternoon, years of worrying, wondering, and waiting would be over.
* * *
Sarah was ready a full quarter of an hour before Martín arrived in Ramsay’s elegant curricle with two magnificent grays in harness.
He smiled down at her. “Please forgive me for not helping you into the carriage, but I’m afraid these frisky devils require all my attention,” he apologized, while a groom assisted her into the stylish vehicle. There was no avoiding his big body on the narrow bench, and their legs pressed against each other from hip to knee.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his face close enough to hers that she could smell his intoxicating cologne.
Sarah nodded and gave a strangled yelp as the vehicle leapt forward, hurtling toward the busy intersection.
“They’re fabulous!” She clutched her hat, which was threatening to fly away even though it was secured under her chin.
“Ramsay is a fine judge of horseflesh. Zeus and Hades are his most recent pair.”
Sarah laughed. “Named after feuding gods? How like him.”
“Named for gods, are they? I could see he was proud of his cleverness and wanted me to ask, but I refused to give him the satisfaction. You must tell me, who are Hades and Zeus and why were they feuding?”
Sarah entertained Martín with whatever tales of Greek mythology she could recall as they wove their way through the busy streets.
“Those fellows sound more like sailors than gods,” Martín commented, tooling the carriage through the park gates and turning off the congested carriage path. “In fact, some of those stories sound remarkably like Ramsay.”
“Yes, he would make an excellent Zeus. And you—” Sarah broke off when she realized what she was about to say.
“Yes?” He slowed the horses and turned to face her, giving her a quizzical glance.
“Oh, nothing.”
He laughed. “Sarah, you must know by now that I will have it from you no matter what the cost.”
“It is nothing, really. I was merely going to say you would make an excellent Ares to Lord Ramsay’s Zeus.”
“And who is he?”
“He is Zeus’s son, the god of war.”
“Why do I remind you of him?”
She bit her lip. Why had she begun this ridiculous conversation?
“Sarah . . .”
“Fine. You look remarkably like Lord Ramsay’s painting of Ares.”
“Have I seen this painting?”
“It hangs in the lower gallery at Lessing Hall, just beside the enormous sculpture of Artemis.”
“You mean the naked woman with the bird?”
How like him to recall a naked female, even when she was made from marble. “Yes, her.”
Martín was quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he tried to recall th
e painting. He suddenly snorted. “The naked man with the serpent?”
Sarah flushed, looking away from his diverted expression. “Yes. That one.”
His body shook. “That is the one which has a leaf covering—”
“Yes.” Her cheeks burned.
“Hmm. No, I do not think there is a resemblance,” he concluded.
She cut him a sidelong look. “He is your height and build, your noses are almost identical, and even his hair is the same color.”
“Yes, that much is true, but I would need a much larger leaf.”
Sarah’s mouth fell open. “Captain Bouchard!”
He laughed. “Oh, come, can you not call me Martín? After all, we have spent months together on board my ship, danced together, ridden together, and now . . . discussed leaves together. Besides, you have used my name before.”
She heated all over at the memory. “Very well, but you must stop talking of . . . leaves.” Not that it would stop her from recalling the last time she’d seen him naked and aroused. She had to agree about the leaf.
He guided the grays onto a small pull-off that was separated from the main path by a cluster of trees. He turned to her, his body pinning her against the bench seat’s low back. His chest blocked the carriage path from view.
“I have wanted to talk to you alone for quite some time, Sarah.”
“Oh?” she said, her voice breathy.
“You sound surprised?”
“I am.”
“Then you are not as clever as you seem. Come, look at me.” He stripped his glove from his hand and took her chin, holding her so she could not avoid looking at him. His Ares-like features softened, and his full lower lip curved into a gentle smile as his thumb stroked her chin.
“I want you, Sarah.” He pulled her close and feathered a kiss over her lips, his wicked mouth teasing and licking and nipping until Sarah’s head was empty of any thought but wanting him. It had been so long since he’d touched her. His thigh was a hot, hard barrier between them, and she was vaguely aware of a hand sliding around her waist.
A low moan broke the silence, and she realized with a shock that it had come from her. His answer was to lift her onto his lap and pull her tight against his chest while massaging her back.
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