He ran his hand down her stomach, stopping at the damp tangle of hair, dipping a finger into her and drawing a ragged breath at what he found.
“You are so wet for me.” He slid a finger inside. “Do you want me in here?” He pushed deeper before pulling out again, his finger dragging across her most sensitive place.
Sarah spread her legs in answer and he stroked, leading her quickly to that place she was beginning to crave.
“You are greedy,” he said, adding a second finger. The surprise of it drew a gasp from her.
“Shh.” He caressed her neck with his tongue, nibbling the taut column of her throat while his thumb moved in languid circles around the sensitive bud he knew so well. He covered her with his body, stroking yet another wave of pleasure out of her while his knees nudged hers farther apart. “I cannot wait any longer, my sweet,” he whispered, entering her in a slow, hard thrust. He held her in a grip like iron, his body controlled as he worked her deeply and thoroughly.
Sarah rose with him, wrapping her legs around his waist and tightening, the motion drawing a loud groan and several rapid thrusts before he cried out her name.
He froze for one long moment before collapsing on her chest, shuddering while he spent and filled her with heat.
Her hands ranged over his skin, damp from his efforts, the slickness making the exploration of his contours even more exciting, the weight of his big, warm body a pleasure she could not live without. She caressed his back, arms, shoulders, her right hand resting on the brand before moving to his roughened jaw.
He murmured something too soft for her to hear, kissed the palm of her hand, and then fell asleep.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Martín woke with a start; for an instant he thought that he was in the rooms he kept at Venetia’s. He looked through sleep-crusted eyes and saw he was in his cabin.
He’d been having a dream. Sarah . . . He propped himself up and surveyed the cabin, his heart in his mouth until he saw her discarded clothing on the floor.
She was real. She had been here.
But where was she now?
He yanked his banyan from his wardrobe and tied it around his waist before striding to the cabin door. The knob twisted beneath his hand, and the door pushed against him.
Sarah stood in the doorway, her arms burdened with a large tray.
“Here, I will take that.” Martín lifted the tray from her hands and stepped aside to allow her to enter.
“You are most kind, Captain.”
Martín was pleased to see she was wearing feminine garb again. But he would keep her other outfit in his wardrobe for his own viewing pleasure.
He set down the tray and frowned. “You are not to fetch your own food. I have a crew for that purpose.”
She came closer, until they were almost touching, and then placed her hands on his chest, giving him a light push that sent him into the padded booth behind him.
“It just so happens it pleases me to serve you. Besides, I would prefer not to receive your crew in a state of undress. And I wanted to let you rest. I believe you greatly needed it.” She flushed, as if recalling how he’d exerted himself.
He caught her around her slim waist and pulled her into his lap.
“Sit nicely and stop your squirming,” he chided. “I want to kiss you.”
“But your food will get cold.”
“Mm hmm,” he murmured into her neck. He ran his hands over her body to assure himself she was really here. She slipped her arms around his neck and lowered her hot mouth over his. Her clever tongue darted between his lips and teased. Mon Dieu! She was a quick study. He shifted her delicious bottom so she could feel his excitement.
“Oh, Martín,” she whispered against his mouth, their hot breath mingling while they stared into each other’s eyes. “You have the loveliest eyes I have ever seen. They are the color of a falcon’s—gold.”
A strange heat suffused his neck and face at her words.
She gasped and took his face in her hands. “What’s this? Have I made you blush?”
“Nonsense,” he grunted dismissively, and scooped her into his arms before striding the few steps to the bed. She laughed and beat her fists uselessly on his chest.
“Martín! You must eat—you need to keep up your strength.”
“Do I look as if I am lacking strength?” He threw her onto the bed before pulling at the belt that held his robe closed and shrugging it from his shoulders.
Her eyes settled between his legs, and her pupils flared.
“No, you do not look as if you lack strength,” she admitted, sitting up and deftly tucking her knees beneath her before reaching out to wrap her hand around him, the action ripping the breath from his chest. She slid her hand up his shaft, and he closed his eyes. Her touch was inexpert, but the effect was like nothing he’d ever experienced.
“Mmm,” he murmured, thrusting into her tight grasp. “That feels so good, Sarah.”
The amount of stroking it took to bring him to an incredibly powerful climax would have been embarrassing if it hadn’t felt so damn good.
“My God!” He collapsed on the bed beside her, breathing raggedly for several minutes before opening his eyes.
“That was wonderful, Martín.” She was gazing at him as though he were some kind of magician because he had spent himself in her hand.
He laughed weakly. “I’ll wager it was even better for me.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. It has been agonizing knowing I have been the one having all the pleasure.”
“Surely not all the pleasure?” he challenged, recalling the sensation of burying himself deep within her. The flush that crept up her neck told him she knew what he meant.
“Perhaps not all. Now then,” she said, becoming businesslike. “You sit here, and I will bring something to sustain you.” She sprang off the bed before he could stop her and began to bustle around his small cabin. She placed some food on a plate and felt the coffee pot. “Merely warm,” she muttered.
“Ring for another.” He turned onto his side and propped his head in his hand.
She looked at him with eyes that seemed to devour him. “No. I cannot bear that you should need to put on your robe.”
He laughed. Clearly she did not recall the first time he’d had her in his bed, when the meddlesome Daniels had interrupted his pleasure.
She handed him a cup of lukewarm coffee and sat on the bed beside him. “Why are you frowning?”
He plucked at her dress. “I hate that you have covered your magnificent body.”
Her cheeks darkened. “Here, eat.” She pushed a piece of cheese between his lips. Martín chewed and swallowed, his eyes never leaving hers.
“What? Are you tired of me already? Hoping to choke me?”
“I could never tire of you, Martín.”
The fierceness of her words caused him to look away.
“I shouldn’t make such outrageous claims, mademoiselle.”
“Martín.”
He turned back to her. Her brown eyes were soft and dark. “I would not give myself to you if I did not mean it to be forever. I love you. I don’t care if you don’t love me—it is enough that you want to be with me, that you . . . desire me. And if you tire of me—” She shrugged. “Well, I will deal with that if it happens. I give myself to you with no expectations other than we enjoy each other.”
Why did it feel like looking over a steep, dangerous cliff even to contemplate uttering three small words? When had he become so craven?
“I will never tire of you.” His voice was so thick with emotion he could hardly recognize himself. “Dieu aide moi!” He grasped her shoulders. “I love you, Sarah.” He spoke the words quickly, eager to get them out now that he’d made the decision. “Do you hear me? I love you.” The dazed, hungry expression on her face sent a wave of crippling relief through his body. “I will make you my wife at the first opportunity. Until that time, I will not let you out of my sight.”
; She smiled at his harsh words, and he looked away, unable to hold her loving gaze for very long.
“We will marry immediately after we arrive in Paris,” he said. “I shall have gowns made for you by the best dressmaker in the city.” He imagined her swathed in the finest silk. And then he imagined stripping such gowns off her body.
“I should like to see Paris one day.”
“Eh?” he asked absently, her choice of words attracting his attention. He squinted, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something I do not.”
“Because I do.”
“Sarah . . .”
“We are not going to Paris, Martín.”
“What?”
“I said, ‘We are not going to Paris.’”
“Mon Dieu!” He pushed up off his elbow and faced her. “We are not even married and already you want to defy me. Why do you not want to go to Paris? Every woman wishes to go to Paris.”
Her eyes narrowed at the words “every” and “woman” together.
He held up one hand. “Fine. I wish to go to Paris. Besides, it is our first port of call, and we should marry as quickly as possible.”
“Why?” She reached out and circled one of his nipples with a single finger.
Mother of God. He grabbed her hand and stilled it. Where had she learned such teasing tricks? “I am a father now, Sarah. I cannot have my son know we are living in sin. We must marry immediately if we are to set a good example for Gaston.” He strove to say the ridiculous words with his old arrogance, but her laughter told him he’d failed miserably.
“We can go to Paris later, after you’ve delivered your cargo.”
“What cargo?”
She stood and sauntered toward his desk, casting a wicked look over her shoulder. “You’ll just have to live with me in sin until we reach Tenerife. I’ve already notified the DuValle sisters we shall be stopping there. I expect the preparations for our wedding are well under way.”
Martín felt as if he had plunged his head into the eye of a particularly savage storm.
“What do you know of my cargo?” he repeated, leaving aside for the moment the more unnerving issue: that she’d planned their marriage without him. Such behavior exhibited a degree of high-handedness he couldn’t help but admire, as much as it terrified him.
“It is my cargo.”
“What?” He seemed to be saying that a lot.
“I am your employer, Captain Bouchard. Butkins holds the ship’s manifest proving the truth of my words.”
“Butkins?”
“Butkins would tell you, if you asked him, that you are taking me and my cargo to Freetown.” She settled onto the bench at the table and smirked across at him.
Martín scrambled off the bed and went to stand before her.
“What the devil are you talking about, Sarah?” She gazed into his navel, her lips curving into a slow smile. He took her chin and tilted her face. “The hold of my ship is full of cording and other supplies for a warehouse just outside Paris. I arranged the deal myself.”
Sarah shrugged, and her eyes drifted down again. His cock—duplicitous organ that it was—betrayed the true contents of his brain by standing at attention. She looked from his erection to his face, openly grinning now.
“I’m afraid Lord Ramsay offered your merchant more appealing terms, which left you with an empty hold. Fortunately for you, Mr. Beauville knew I was looking for a ship, and he spoke to Butkins. Your first mate made an excellent deal on your behalf. You should be thanking him, rather than scolding him for his silly name.”
Martín gaped.
“That is an attractive expression,” Sarah observed.
Martín closed his mouth. He’d been outmaneuvered in just about every possible way. What was the use in arguing? She had always been diabolically single-minded in her pursuit of what she wanted. It appeared that she now wanted him. He began to smile and froze. It would not be wise to capitulate too quickly to the woman before him.
He assumed a haughty expression. “May I ask what kind of cargo I am transporting?” he asked, not caring if the hold was stuffed with potatoes or unicorns or ladies’ undergarments.
Her hands slid around his waist, and she rested her face against his stomach, her hot breath teasing the head of his cock. Good God.
“Supplies for the orphanage we’re going to build in Freetown.” She spoke the words into his stomach while depositing little kisses on his skin, carefully avoiding the part of his body least able to hide its enthusiasm for her actions.
“We?” He gasped as her tongue probed his navel in a most distracting manner. Martín could not recall any other woman paying such close attention to his navel. Wisely, he did not share that information.
“Mm hmm.” The sound vibrated through him, and she took a mouthful of taut, sensitive skin on his lower abdomen and sucked hard.
Martín swallowed. “That sounds like . . .”—the sucking paused—“a splendid plan,” he continued hastily.
He felt her lips curve into a smile against his skin, just before her tongue resumed its voyage. He buried his hands in her tangled hair and sighed; perhaps an orphanage was not such a bad idea. “Yes, I can see it: Captain Bouchard’s Home for Youths,” he experimented, his voice catching on the last word as her questing tongue reached its ultimate destination.
Her mouth paused. “Wayward youths,” she amended, her next actions very wayward, indeed.
Epilogue
Martín made his way from the docks on foot. He was not surprised Sarah had not met the ship—it was almost dark, and he himself had not believed he would make it back to Freetown today. He gave the soldier who stood sentry duty outside Admiral Keeton’s office a friendly nod. It was not the same man who’d stood there a couple years ago, but then Martín was not the same man, either.
As he walked the short distance to the house he shared with Sarah, Gaston, and a constantly shifting number of orphans, Martín couldn’t help recalling his first walk down this same street.
The bordello where he’d spent such an unfulfilling evening was still in business—not that Martín had been inside it since that night.
No, it would not be worth his life to visit the German madam and her ladies—even if he had wanted such a thing. Martín had a home of his own now; he no longer needed to seek it in a bordello.
The original orphanage he and Sarah had built was filled to bursting, and the expansion was almost completed. Sarah would not be satisfied until every child who needed a home had care and love until he or she was able to find a permanent family.
Martín was proud of what she’d done over the past two years. Even though his name had been cleared—thanks mainly to Ramsay’s tireless work—and he could live anywhere he wanted without fear of his past, Sarah still wanted to stay in Freetown. He did not care where they lived, as long as Sarah and Gaston were there with him.
“Papa!” Gaston’s voice pulled him from his musings. The sight of his handsome son brought a smile to his face. The gangly youth was running toward him at full speed, as if some devil were on his heels.
“Papa!” Gaston repeated, screeching to a halt in front of him and obstructing Martín’s progress.
Martín laid his hand on the boy’s heaving shoulder, yet again overjoyed by what a fine son he had.
“Take a moment and catch your breath,” he advised, looking into eyes that were almost the same color as his own. Gaston, for all his horrible childhood, was a sunny, good-natured boy. He had taken to Sarah like a person deprived of air. While he had clearly loved and respected his mother, Valerie had cared for the boy’s mind and body, but she’d had very little left of herself to give for his soul.
In Sarah, Gaston found a mother who loved him as if he were her very own flesh and blood and was able to show her affection. Sarah, Martín had learned, had endless love in her heart.
The thought made him swallow, his throat dangerously tight al
l of a sudden.
“Well?” he asked when Gaston’s chest stopped heaving.
“It is Sarah . . . the baby . . .” he began.
Martín didn’t wait to hear the rest; he flew past his son and toward the front door of their two-story white-washed house even before Gaston could complete his sentence.
“Sarah!” The word was ripped from his throat as he bounded up the stairs. When he reached the bedroom they shared, it was to find Sarah in bed, her pretty face tired, but her eyes shining with joy. In her arms was a small bundle.
“You’re here,” she said, the relief in her voice clear.
“What is this?” He strode to the bed and dropped down beside her, his heart still pounding. “I leave for only a few weeks, and you take charge of everything without me. I thought we had a month?”
“She was impatient—just like her father.” Sarah held out the bundle, and Martín saw a tiny little face. “Your daughter, Captain Bouchard.”
Martín looked into a pair of big brown eyes just like Sarah’s, and his heart expanded until he thought it would explode. “Mon Dieu, she is a beauty!”
Sarah gave a tired chuckle. “Take her. Hold your daughter, Martín.”
Martín looked at his hands, big, scarred, rough hands that were twice the size of the tiny person his wife held out toward him.
Sarah laughed at whatever she saw on his face. “Take her, my love.”
Martín could not believe how weightless the bundle in his hands was. He looked up and found Sarah staring, tears in her eyes. He frowned. “Why are you crying?”
“Because you look so beautiful holding our daughter.” She looked over his shoulder, toward the door, and smiled, waving her hand in a beckoning motion. “Come in, Gaston—why are you out there in the hall?”
Gaston came to stand beside them, his dark gold eyes on the small being in Martín’s hands.
“Her name is Grace,” he told Martín.
Martín’s eyebrows shot up. “She told you that, eh?”
Gaston smiled. “I held her last night, just after she was born,” he declared proudly, sharing a smile with Sarah.
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