“I think of you constantly.” He took her hand and lowered it over the hard ridge straining against the front of his breeches.
Sarah thrilled at the proof of his desire for her, and her hand tightened around him. Her body ached for him.
“God that feels good,” he groaned into her throat. “No other woman can make me so hard, Sarah. I can think of nobody but you—even when I am with another woman.”
She jerked her hand away from him as though she’d been burned. “What?”
He reached up to stroke her face, his eyelids heavy and drowsy, but she slapped him away.
“Are you telling me that I’m interfering with your . . . your . . .” Sarah couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
Undeterred, he lightly bit her chin. “It is true that my amorous activities have suffered,” he admitted, kissing her lower lip.
Sarah gasped and pulled away. “How dare you?”
A small line formed between his hooded eyes. “What? I am telling you other women no longer arouse me, no matter how skillful they are with their bodies or what they do to pleasure me. I can only think of you. What is so bad in speaking the truth?”
Sarah felt as if her corset had been drawn too tight; but she wasn’t wearing a corset. The words “other,” “women,” “skillful,” and “pleasure” whirled in her head. He had been with other women? Women who had tried to pleasure him with their skillful bodies? Her mind exploded.
“Let me go this instant!” She put her hands against his chest and pushed, but it was like trying to shove a block of stone. A warm, infuriating block of stone. She shoved harder. “Let. Go. Of. Me.”
“Eh?” Dazed golden eyes looked back at her.
His obliviousness enraged her. “How dare you handle me so in public?” She ignored the nagging voice inside her that said she’d been perfectly happy to grope him in public before he’d mentioned other women. “What if somebody saw us?”
His shoulders rubbed against her as he shrugged. “So what if they did? You care so much for the opinions of others?” His eyes, which had been dark with desire, narrowed, and his expression shifted from amorous to . . . annoyed? Hurt? Angry?
Good!
“How could I not care? I have a family—people who will be harmed by my actions. What would they think if they heard about us? What would any decent person think if he or she learned I was behaving no better than a common whore?”
* * *
The words “common” and “whore” were like a sharp stick to his groin. Martín shoved her off his lap, and she landed with a soft thump on the seat beside him. The expression of fury and horror in her eyes was a damning judgment of everything he was—everything he’d done. He must have been mad to think he could ever tell her the truth!
He met her furious stare and laughed unpleasantly. “How could such a lowly one as me ever hope to understand what goes on in the minds of decent people? Decent like Graaf, I suppose, or perhaps d’Armand, eh? He has been sniffing about you, too, has he not? A slave trader and a slave owner—what elevated suitors you have.” He raked her with a nasty look. “I humbly beg your forgiveness for touching your person and heaping shame on both your family and the great banking house of Fisher. I can only hope your decent family and friends never learn of this disgusting tussle. I, for one, wish I could forget the entire episode.” He snapped the reins, and the curricle bolted forward. “I will take you back to where you belong. To Graaf, eh? You are two of a kind—two decent people. I wish you a happy life—you deserve each other.”
She hit him in the shoulder. Hard. He wasn’t prepared and the reins slipped, causing the curricle to jerk wildly and the skittish horses to bolt across the narrow carriage path.
“Are you mad?” he roared. It took all his strength to pull the horses up in time to avoid running down a man on horseback. Martín tipped his head apologetically at the man’s raised fist.
“Don’t ever raise your voice to me,” she yelled back.
“You almost got us both killed.” The curricle shot between the massive pillars, scattering pedestrians and generating a hail of furious looks and angry voices. Martín ignored them all and aimed the horses toward the Fisher mansion. He glanced at Sarah. She’d drawn herself up so close to the end of the bench, she was in danger of falling off.
She met his look with a sneer. “You are an insensitive pig who treats women like objects. Graaf is worth a dozen of you. At least he behaves like a gentleman and considers the effect of his actions on those around him.”
Martín let out a string of curse words harsh enough to strip barnacles off a ship’s hull. Had the woman forgotten how she’d met the Dutchman and what he’d been doing?
“If you esteem him so much, perhaps you should marry him.”
“Perhaps I will accept him the next time he asks,” she flung back.
Martín gripped the reins so tightly, the horses danced nervously to the side. The curricle swerved in front of an oncoming phaeton, causing the other driver’s mouth to form a terrified O. Martín twitched the reins, and the skittish grays darted out of the way at the last minute. Even so, the wheels of both vehicles brushed against each other with a high-pitched squeal.
“He has asked you to marry him?”
Her eyes narrowed to vicious slits, and he barely recognized her.
“Twice. Unlike you, he does not treat all women as though they are common tarts. Have you ever, for even one second, thought of anyone but yourself? Have you ever given any thought at all to how your actions—your carousing in brothels—might hurt those around you?”
“My actions?” he shouted, too stunned to think of anything more articulate.
“How dare you raise your voice to me?”
Her yell caused the horses to shy and jump, and Martín adjusted the reins and bit down on his tongue. Hard. They traveled in hostile silence as he struggled to gain control of his behavior, if not his emotions. The streets passed in a blur. It wasn’t until he neared the turn to her uncles’ house that he felt calm enough to resume the argument.
“My actions? What about your actions? You didn’t object to me when you came to my cabin and begged me to take you.” Martín pulled up sharply in front of her uncles’ house. “Nor did you complain back there when you had my cock in your hand.”
“You swine!” She launched herself at him in front of two stunned footmen.
Martín grabbed her flailing hands as she beat them against his chest, holding them easily while he looked down at the two gaping servants.
“There is nothing to be alarmed about. Miss Fisher is not herself. Perhaps if one of—”
“Unhand me,” Sarah snarled, yanking her arms from his grasp and flinging herself from the curricle. Her skirt caught in some part of the carriage mechanism and yanked her back when she tried to storm up the stairs. The two footmen hastened to assist her, but she slapped away their hands and then, enraged beyond bearing, pulled on the garment so viciously a loud ripping noise split the air.
She looked from her shredded dress to Martín. “Now look what you made me do. I could never love a man like you! Go back to all your skilled women—I never want to see you again! I hate you!” She flung a tattered scrap of skirt at him before sprinting up the steps and disappearing into the house.
Martín realized he was standing and lowered himself back onto his seat. He stared at the closed door at the top of the stairs. Should he go after her? But no, it would be a disaster to pursue her. Besides, what would he say?
He drove the team slowly away from the house, his head a bit dizzy. How had a day that started with such promise turned so quickly into a nightmare? He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She hated him?
Relief vied with despair that he’d not poured out the truth about his past. He should be grateful to have learned her true feelings before he’d pathetically laid his past and heart at her feet. Whom had he been fooling? He was no country squire; he was a privateer, a sailor who belonged on his ship. He had greatly enjoye
d his life before she had come along. He would enjoy it again. He would forget her, even if he had to visit every whore in existence. He was healthy, wealthy, and free—what was there not to like about his life?
Thinking of freedom made him recall the meeting he had today with the Frenchman.
Ah, yes, d’Armand. Martín’s savage grin startled a passing coachman so badly, he jerked the reins to his team and would have scraped the side of the curricle had Martín not quickly guided the grays to safety.
D’Armand could only be here for one reason: revenge. Did he think, foolishly, to reestablish his father’s claim of ownership and drag Martín back to New Orleans? Or perhaps he thought to blackmail him? To threaten to expose Martín’s past to Sarah or her uncles unless Martín did his bidding?
Martín smiled grimly. Whatever he planned, it wouldn’t matter. Martín could no longer be threatened or blackmailed with anything because he no longer had anything to lose.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
D’Armand’s town house was a four-story stone monstrosity. A footman wearing lavish burgundy and black livery answered the door and made Martín wait in a small anteroom. Threadbare carpets, dusty green silk wallpaper, and three battered fan-backed chairs filled the small chamber. D’Armand must have rented the rooms and not been able to afford anything better. Martín smiled at the thought.
He was examining the only painting in the room—a rather dark landscape that took up most of one wall—when the footman returned.
“The marquis will see you now.” He led Martín up another flight of stairs to an ornate set of double doors at the end of the hall. An enormous, brawny man stood on either side of the double doors—d’Armand’s protection, no doubt. Martín ignored them both and flung open one of the doors without waiting for the footman.
The furnishings in this room were far superior to the one he’d just left. Rich brocades draped the windows and gilt bergère chairs; delicate settees and tables crowded the plush Aubusson carpet that spanned the room. The walls were crammed with paintings, and yet more were propped up in stacks around the edges of the room. A full-length picture of a man dressed in court clothing hung above a console table heavy with crystal decanters.
“You recognize him?” D’Armand’s voice called from the other side of the room.
Martín looked into the face of the dead marquis, a face that had haunted him for years. He was just a man in rather silly clothing. A vain, self-indulgent man.
“He was not so young and prosperous looking when I knew him.”
The marquis chuckled. “No, he was in a rather bad way after my grandfather banished him to the savage hinterlands.”
Martín turned away from the image of the long-dead marquis.
D’Armand sat behind a large desk. A tall, thin, black woman and a young boy stood beside his chair.
The room shifted and began to darken from the edges inward. Martín blinked his eyes to sharpen his hazy vision, but the woman and boy shimmered and receded. He steadied himself against the wall with one hand.
“Valerie?” His voice was the ghost of a whisper.
The marquis’s laugh was rich yet unpleasant, like a lavish banquet that had begun to spoil and decay. “Ah, I see introductions are not entirely necessary.” D’Armand gestured toward Valerie, a woman Martín had not seen in over a decade. “Why don’t you introduce your son to his father, my dear?”
Martín didn’t need an introduction. The boy’s eyes alone would have told him whose child he was. He was the very image of Martín at that age. Valerie murmured something to the boy, and he came forward and executed a graceful bow.
“Bonjour, monsieur.” He spoke with d’Armand’s more proper French accent.
“Comment t’appelles-tu?” Martín asked his son.
“Je m’appelle Gaston, monsieur.”
Martín couldn’t tear his eyes from the boy. He was slighter and darker than Martín, and he had his mother’s impassive expression and air of calm. Martín looked from his son to the man who claimed title to him. He strode toward the marquis, his vision red. He distantly heard d’Armand yell something, and the two brawny men entered the room, armed with pistols.
“They will kill the boy, Bouchard.”
Martín stopped, his breathing like thunder in his ears. Good God, how could this be?
“Step back, Bouchard.”
Martín shook off his shock; now was not the time to give in to emotion.
He turned to d’Armand. “The boy does not have to hear any of this. We can discuss the rest in private.” Martín knew it was probably pointless to try to protect the child; d’Armand had no doubt gone to great lengths to educate him as to his place in the world. Even so, Martín would be damned if he’d play the Frenchman’s game in front of his own son.
D’Armand shrugged and spoke to the boy in French. “Go back to your quarters, Gaston.” When the woman moved to follow, he shook his head. “Not you, Valerie. You will stay here.”
Her expression remained unchanged, and she made no attempt to demur.
Martín waited for the door to click shut behind the boy and the two guards before he spoke. “How much?”
D’Armand laughed. “Oh yes, you are a rich man, now. I have heard much of the great Captain Bouchard. Tales of your daring deeds and how you are driven to free slaves.” He flicked an impatient look at Valerie. “Sit.”
The woman sat, not taking her eyes from the floor. She’d not looked at Martín since he’d first entered the room.
D’Armand poured himself something from a fine crystal decanter on his desk, not bothering to offer any to the two humans over whom he claimed legal title.
Martín looked at Valerie while he waited for the man to get to the point. She was even lovelier than she’d been a decade ago. Judging by her expression, she was just as unknowable. Martín had made love to her—had sex with her, really—dozens of times, but had never had a conversation with her. He had never even heard her speak, although he assumed she spoke one of the many West African dialects. Perhaps Sarah might know her language and be able to talk to her.
Oh God. Sarah. Martín briefly closed his eyes, as if he could shut the door between Sarah and what was happening in this room. When he opened his eyes, he said to d’Armand, “This is the last time I ask—what do you want?”
“Very well, I will get to the point.” D’Armand stood and walked around to the front of his desk, hitching up a hip and sitting on it, his glass dangling from long, white fingers.
“You have nothing to offer me that is not mine already, Bouchard. Under the law, everything belongs to me, including your body and your life.” The Frenchman’s voice was conversational, but Martín heard the steel beneath it. D’Armand took a sip from his glass and then strolled forward, not stopping until he was a mere foot from Martín.
Martín thought about reminding him that he referred to American law and they were now on British soil, but he was sure the man already knew as much. He remained quiet, letting things unfold. If d’Armand thought to goad him, he would fail. Martín had been goaded by the best. Ramsay himself was enough to drive the average man mad; Martín could listen to the Frenchman without losing his temper.
D’Armand’s dark eyes glowed with contempt and pride and . . . anger. Yes, he was angry. Whether he was angry because Martín had known his degenerate father or angry because Martín had escaped, he could not say. Perhaps it was some of both. Perhaps it was something else entirely.
“I already have your son, and soon I will have your possessions and the woman you love.”
Martín’s startled gaze flickered from d’Armand to the woman who still had not spoken. D’Armand saw the look and smiled, the action doing nothing to soften his cruel expression.
“No, not her, you fool. I already have her. I’m speaking of Sarah. Sweet, sweet Sarah.” He looked at Martín’s expression and gave a laugh of genuine amusement. “Oh yes, I can see you love her; so can everyone else. Everyone except you and her, it would seem.
How cruel and blind love is, eh?” He enjoyed whatever it was he saw on Martín’s face. “Tell me, how do you think your beloved will respond when I tell her about your son and how he was begotten?” The smile slid from his face.
Martín refused to give this man what he wanted.
“Don’t worry,” d’Armand taunted. “You will not lose her completely. I will make her my wife—her uncles will see to that. Already our men of business meet to discuss the details of our union. In spite of her humble origins, I will do her the honor of making her my marquise.” He began to pace in circles around Martín, each circle smaller in circumference, each circle bringing him closer.
“You will be able to see her after we have married, provided you continue to produce more healthy offspring like fine young Gaston. You will have the privilege of watching Sarah flower as I initiate her into the pleasures of the flesh.”
Martín began to unravel, and visions of the Frenchman’s head, disconnected from his body, filled his mind. He repressed his fury and took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the red haze of rage already clouding his vision. Killing the man where he stood would only create more problems.
As if reading Martín’s mind, d’Armand turned away abruptly, sauntered to the decanter, and refilled his glass.
“I understand you and Valerie used to put on quite a show. I can’t blame you for that.” He turned and cast a look at the woman, who appeared as distant as the moon. “She is quite magnificent when it comes to pleasuring a man . . . or a woman.”
“What do you want?” Martín once again forced the words from between clenched teeth.
D’Armand stepped close enough that Martín could feel his hot breath and smell the brandy. His pupils were tiny black specks. “I want what belongs to me. I want what you stole from me. I could seize you right now, throw you in a sack, take you back to New Orleans, and mete out whatever punishment I deem fit.” His words came out a flat, dangerous hiss. “I would be within my rights to do anything I wish, and you know it. The laws of this country might forbid me from taking any of you back where you belong, but laws are brittle and easily broken, and they serve those in power. The blood of kings runs in my veins, Bouchard, and you are a runaway slave whore.”
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