“Uh—” He cleared his throat, his eyes already on the next button. “I have realized that.”
“Good. Then you should know I like to make up my own mind, just like an adult. So, I want you to ask me a question.”
“A question?” Martín couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from the button—the third to last. Her hand came beneath his chin and tilted his face up.
“Martín?”
He blinked. “You want me to ask a question?”
“Ask me if I want to stay with you.”
He groaned. “Oh, Sarah. I don’t think—”
“Ask me, Martín.” Her face became stern—it was her Egyptian queen expression.
He gazed into her beautiful brown and gold and green eyes. “Do you want to stay with me, Sarah?”
Her features shifted from serious to shy and girlish, her cheeks tinting a rosy pink. And then her fingers resumed their journey.
“Yes, Martín, I do.”
She released the last button and gave a slight shrug. The movement pulled the jacket open and exposed what she wore beneath: nothing.
Martín’s hands did what his brain would have told them to do if it hadn’t stopped functioning some time back. They slid around her waist, the feel of silken skin beneath his fingers causing his cock to throb.
“My God, Sarah,” he groaned, kissing the gentle swell of her stomach, thrilling at the quivering muscles beneath his lips. Her hands wove into his hair, pulling him closer.
He tongued her navel while his hands traveled the distance from her slim waist to cup a small breast in each hand. Her gasp of pleasure was enough to drive him insane, but he forced himself to explore her as slowly and thoroughly as he had done in his mind many times beyond counting. He stood and took a step back to admire the beauty of her.
“By God, you look good in those breeches. It seems almost a pity to take them off.” He drank in the sight of her long neck, erect nipples, and narrow waist and the way her slim hips stretched the male garment, making it more seductive than all the black lace he’d ever seen.
He gave her a gentle push and then sat back in his seat to admire her. He stroked a hand over his straining erection and smiled at her wide-eyed fascination. The sudden slackening of her lips made him even harder.
“You like to watch me touch myself?”
She nodded.
“Then you will strip for my pleasure.”
She gasped and flushed a charming shade of pink.
Martín smirked and spread his thighs to shift his pounding organ. “Remove the coat and then unbutton your breeches,” he ordered, “slowly.”
Her eyes remained fastened on his hand as he languidly stroked his aching groin. She lifted a hand to remove the coat, and it brushed against an erect nipple.
Martín stopped breathing, his eyes riveted to her hand as it drifted from her breast to her stomach, finally stopping at the top of her breeches. She ran one finger beneath the loose waistband of the garment, back and forth. Back and forth.
The hand stopped, and he looked up. Her lips were curved in a way that told him she was beginning to take pleasure in teasing him. He thrilled at her wicked expression, a look he’d never dreamed of seeing on her face.
She began the agonizing process of freeing each button, and the strain of watching her and waiting was a divine torture. When she reached the last button the flap parted, exposing a curly tangle of light brown hair: she wore no smallclothes beneath.
Martín lunged, picked her up by her hips, and tossed her onto his bed.
She gave a girlish laugh, her face flushed, her eyes alight with the joy of what she was doing to him.
“You like to make me hard, to make me suffer?”
Her brown eyes darkened, and he pulled off her heavy shoes, rolled down her stockings, and yanked off her breeches, pushing her thighs wide as he dropped to his knees. He stroked the long, smooth planes of her legs, holding them steady as she tried to squeeze them together. He gazed at what lay open before him.
“Oh, Sarah,” he breathed, “I am going to make you scream.”
* * *
The groan that burst from her when Martín took her into his mouth was the most primal noise she’d ever made. A low chuckle rumbled up her body while his lips and tongue began to do things that made rational thought impossible.
The sight of his sun-bleached curls between her thighs was almost more arousing than what he was doing down there.
Almost.
The fine navy coat he still wore stretched across his powerful shoulders as he leaned closer. His wicked tongue touched a part of her so sensitive she fell back on the bed, powerless against the sensation rippling through every part of her body. Several times he brought her to the brink of something immense, but each time he shied away, leaving her oddly frustrated and increasingly angry.
She reached down and grabbed two fists of hair, gripping his head tightly so he couldn’t move away again. “Martín . . . please.”
He laughed softly, triumphantly. In the minutes that followed, she suddenly understood why.
* * *
Her words begged, but her strong hands commanded. Her need for him, for release, pulsed against his tongue, and he used every bit of skill he possessed to make the experience last. Her uncontrolled shuddering caused a fierce surge of possession inside of him. She was his. At long, bloody last, she was his.
He stroked her thighs and looked up the length of her sated body, the long, white lines of her once again reminding him of that ancient Egyptian queen.
She made a small noise. “Martín?”
“Yes, my love?”
She opened sleepy, sated eyes. “You’re still wearing your clothing,” she accused. “I want you to take it off. All of it.”
Her words caused a strange sensation in his stomach. Was it possible he was nervous to disrobe before her? He’d never before felt a twinge of nervousness or embarrassment when it came to showing his body or bedding a woman. He’d exhibited himself in every possible position to more strangers than he cared to remember. How could he be shy, now?
“Martín.”
“As you wish.” His words were husky at the need he saw on her face. He began to unbutton his coat.
“Do it slowly.” She propped herself up against some cushions and made herself comfortable.
He slowed his movements to a crawl, removing first his jacket, then his waistcoat, and finally his neckcloth, tossing all three over the chair.
She raised her eyebrows when he stopped. “You are still wearing far too many clothes, Captain Bouchard.”
“I see I’ve created a monster.” He sat down and lifted his booted leg. “If you would have me naked, you must serve as my boot jack. Unless you want me to call Jenkins.”
She scrambled off the bed and then hesitated.
“You won’t be able to do it from over there.” He waved the tip of his boot beckoningly. “Come closer. Closer still,” he encouraged, until she stood beside his leather-clad ankle. “Bien. Now, straddle my leg.”
Her mouth fell open, and he couldn’t help laughing. “Perhaps we are moving too quickly,” he said, lowering his leg.
“No!” She lifted one foot over his leg, facing him, squirming at the odd position.
He shook his head with mock sadness. “Oh, Sarah. I despair of ever shedding these troublesome breeches. You must turn the other way.” He twirled his fingers in the air to illustrate.
“You mean turn my bottom to you?”
He nodded slowly. For a moment he did not think she would do it. But she took a deep breath and turned quicker than he would have thought possible.
Amusement, triumph, and other emotions better left unidentified surged through him at the sight of her rounded bottom. He raised his leg until the soft leather of his boot gently bumped her mound.
“Oh.” She gave a little hop.
Martín laughed. “Pardon, chérie.”
“If you insist on being odious, I will let you remove your own
wretched boots,” she threatened, not bothering to turn around.
“Grip the boot with both hands, one under my heel, and then pull.” He raised his other boot and placed it on her surprisingly fleshy bottom. Martín did not believe he had ever seen a prettier picture. He gave a slight push.
“Oof.” She stumbled forward, dropping the boot to catch her balance on the side of the bed.
“Come, come,” he chided. “There are two of them, remember?”
The second boot came off without any struggle or commentary. She flung it to one side and leapt onto the bed, grabbing a large cushion and wrapping her arms around it, clasping it to her middle.
She noticed his measuring look and squinted back at him, aping his severe expression.
“You shan’t see any more of me until I see all of you.”
Martín resumed his disrobing, making the performance as dramatic as she seemed to want.
Her expression when he pulled off his smallclothes was comical.
She stared at his erection. “It’s just as I remembered it.”
Martín laughed. “What? Did you think I might have changed it for another?”
“Why are you still wearing your shirt? Off,” she commanded, making an imperious gesture.
He pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on top of his other clothes. Her eyes ran up and down him in a way that made his stomach clench. And then they stopped on his arm.
Her smile drained away, and her eyes brightened with unshed tears.
“What is this?” he asked, cupping her smooth cheek in his hand, stroking away a tear with his thumb. “Why are you crying, Sarah?”
She reached out and traced the burned ridges of the brand with a slim, sensitive finger, her touch searing him. He grabbed her wrist and held it, forcing her to meet his eyes.
“It happened a long time ago, Sarah. There is no need to weep for me.”
“Foolish man. I’m not crying for you—I’m crying for the little boy who endured this.” She kissed his chin. “Now tell me about the duel.”
* * *
“I understand why she killed d’Armand, but why did she kill herself?” Sarah asked sometime later, shaking her head.
“I have thought about that a thousand times since.” He shrugged. “All I can think is that she had no desire to live. I think her life—the harsh, unrelenting servitude—had simply driven her mad.” His expression was beyond bleak. “I should have seen what she planned to do—I should have guessed from the deadness in her eyes.”
Sarah did not know what to say. How could she ever guess what had been between the two?
“How is Gaston?”
“It is difficult to say. He is a very quiet boy who has been taught to hide his emotions. He is behaving as if nothing has happened.”
“He must miss her terribly.”
Martín nodded, his beautiful eyes unreadable and distant.
Sarah didn’t want to ask, but the words came unbidden. “Did you love her, Martín?”
The question seemed to pull him back to the present. He smiled at her and took her hand. “No, chérie, we were never in love. How could we be? Both of us were forced to do those things with each other. We never even spoke until the day I went to d’Armand’s. I didn’t know of Gaston’s existence until that day. Her life must have been one of constant terror. I think she only had enough love left in her to free Gaston from d’Armand’s grasp.”
“We will have to be gentle with him, Martín. He is just a little boy—our little boy, now.”
Martín gave her a look that made her stomach fall out and then lowered his mouth over hers, kissing her with a ferocity that made her gasp.
He suddenly stopped. “You know I cannot live in England? At least not until I can address the issue of d’Armand’s accusation against me?”
She nodded.
“That might never happen. You understand, Sarah? I might live the rest of my life with the threat of arrest over my head.”
Again she nodded. “I didn’t want to live in England, anyway.”
He pulled away in surprise. “You didn’t?”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “How could you think that kind of life would satisfy me?”
He grinned.
“What?” she demanded.
“Oh, nothing.”
She crossed her arms. “Martín—”
“Oh, very well. I was just going to say that I should have remembered you are a woman who needs a cause in her life, whether it is trading your virtue to an unscrupulous captain to save the lives of mutineers or teaching a man to read.”
She looked at him uncertainly. “Is that a bad thing?”
He shook his head, suddenly serious. “I don’t know, but I am the same. I wanted to settle and live the life of a country squire, but I think that deep down I knew I would not be happy. I can never stop what I do, Sarah. It is almost like I must do it.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “You do not need to explain, Martín. I think your calling is a noble one. It is a big part of why I love you. Besides, it will fit well with my own plans.”
“What did you say?”
“I said your plans would—”
“No, before that.”
“You mean when I said ‘I love you’?” She caressed the mark on his arm that was as much a part of him as his beautiful eyes or muscular body.
He grabbed her so tightly that he squeezed all the air from her lungs.
“Yes, that was it,” he muttered.
“Martín?” she gasped.
“Oui?”
“I think perhaps I should breathe for a few moments.”
He released her abruptly. “Mon Dieu! I have hurt you?”
“Don’t be silly. You merely squeezed me a little. That doesn’t mean you should stop holding me.”
He slipped one arm around her and pulled her down on the bed beside him, and she rested her head on his chest.
“When I saw you in my cabin I believed that meddler Ramsay was responsible,” he said, his voice rumbling beneath her.
She laughed. “It was Mr. Beauville who actually arranged most of it. Lord Ramsay knew about my plans, of course. After reading your letter I went to find Daphne. She told me Hugh had taken a quick trip to Eastbourne, ostensibly on some ship-related business. Once I told her what had happened, she was furious and came with me to find him. She gave Hugh a very bad time, I’m afraid.”
Martín crowed with laughter. “Ramsay deserves all the abuse he gets. I’m stunned he was able to keep his mouth shut about everything. He is terrible at keeping secrets. As for Beauville . . . That rascal. I never would have thought he had it in him.”
“I think Mary may have changed him.”
“Eh?”
“Mary, his wife.”
“Oh. Is that her name?”
She slapped his arm. “How could you forget? They are living in your house, Martín.”
He grunted again. “Perhaps not for long. He has saddled me with that idiot Butkins. He may need to be punished.”
She sat up and glared at him. “You wouldn’t.”
“I might,” he demurred, regarding her from beneath heavy lids.
She shoved him in the chest, which did nothing except elicit a tiny smile. “Perhaps you will need to persuade me to show mercy. I think you know how.”
“You are incorrigible. Has anyone ever told you that?”
He rolled his eyes. “People seem to tell me almost nothing else.”
“I did. I told you that I love you,” she argued, staring at his mouth—which had given her so much pleasure a short time ago. Her inner thighs heated, and she couldn’t look away.
His eyes opened a crack. “What did you say? I could not hear you.”
“You heard me,” she said, still distracted by thoughts of his wicked mouth.
“Remind me.”
“I said I love you.”
A smug smile curved his lips, and his eyes opened infinitesimally wider. “That’s what I thou
ght you said.” He frowned. “Why are you coloring?”
When she didn’t answer, he took her face in his hands.
“Sarah?”
She jerked her chin from his hand. “I am not coloring.”
He laughed and pushed her back on the bed. “I believe we’ve discussed this problem once before.” He rubbed her stomach as he spoke, and Sarah resisted the urge to purr at his touch.
“What subject?” she asked, not really caring. His wicked, knowing hand stroked her pelvis in the most distracting manner.
“About the daughters of preachers and how they should not lie.” His hand slid up her stomach and cupped a breast. His lips curved into an oddly possessive smile as he took her breast into his mouth.
She gasped and arched against him.
He released her nipple and studied it. “You have beautiful breasts.” He spoke with the authority of an expert.
“You’ve seen many, I collect.”
“Yes,” he agreed absently, switching to the other breast and thumbing her nipple.
Sarah laughed even as jealousy seared her. “You aren’t supposed to admit that.”
He pulled his eyes away from her hardened nipple with visible effort. “Admit what?”
“That you’ve seen many women’s breasts.”
“Oh.” He turned back to her breast, clearly finding it more stimulating than her conversation.
Sarah sighed.
“Why do you sigh like that?” The words were muffled by the nipple obstructing his mouth.
“Shut up.” She dragged her hand over the ridged muscles that ran down the side of his rib cage, stopping when she reached his compact hips.
“Mmm.” He pushed against her, pressing his fascinating hardness on her leg.
Sarah stroked his hip, her hand inching around to the front, until she could feel springy hair at the base of his sex.
“Touch me, Sarah,” he murmured, reaching between them and taking her hand, guiding it to his satiny hardness and curling her fingers around him. He pushed into her fist and then drew out again, repeating the motion slowly and rhythmically.
“Yes, just like that,” he praised, groaning as she tightened her hand around him. She could feel the tightly controlled passion in his thrusts, each one harder than the last.
“You will make me spend before I even get inside of you.” His lips moved against her neck, the words creating an unbearable tightness between her legs.
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