Page 10 of Scandalous

“Mercy is bad for business, mademoiselle.”

“Is business all you think about?” Her voice broke on the last word.

The question made him smile. “Now and then I think of other things,” he admitted, sweeping her body with a lingering, suggestive look. “I might be persuaded to show mercy if I received something in return.”

“Something from me?” Her sandy brows arched.

Martín closed the distance between them, standing close enough to see the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. “Yes, mademoiselle, something from you.”

“I . . . I don’t understand. What could you want from me?”

Martín chuckled, and she flushed, dropping her gaze. “Oh.”

He took her chin and tilted her face until she could not avoid his eyes. “Oh, indeed, mademoiselle. Something for something, eh?”

The moment stretched. Just when Martín believed she would back down, she surprised him.

“Very well, I offer my . . . my . . . person in exchange for your mercy.” Her voice was firm, but so quiet only he could hear her.

His mouth twisted with contempt—contempt for himself. When had he become the kind of man who extorted favors from women?

He ignored the irritating thought. “We have a bargain,” he agreed, running his thumb lightly across her jaw before turning back to the mutineer.

“Today is not your last day, after all, de Heeckeren. This lady has bought you a reprieve—”

“And the other mutineers, too,” she broke in.

Martín smiled, but inclined his head. “And your cohorts, as well. Every moment until we reach Freetown is a gift from Mademoiselle Fisher. Perhaps you would like to thank her?”

The hostile Dutchman gave the woman who’d just saved his life a look of pure hate, curled his tongue, and spat. Martín stepped quickly in front of the projectile, stopping it from reaching its intended target with his foot.

“Merde!” He looked from his phlegm-spattered boot to the woman. “There.” He flung a hand toward his soiled footwear. “You see the kind of man you saved with your sacrifice?”

For once, she appeared speechless.

Martín glared at Daniels, who hurried up beside her. “Take her below and see that she cleans herself up. You, mademoiselle”—he fixed her with a hard look—“will prepare for dinner in my cabin.” He eyed her outfit. “I will have appropriate clothing brought to you. Now go,” he barked.

Once the two had fled, Martín turned to Beauville. “Put the Dutchman in the hold and make sure he is secure. We wouldn’t want him running amok and spitting on any more of my footwear, eh?” Martín’s men laughed appreciatively before dispersing.

He leaned against the railing and stared at the Blue Bird. Hundreds of dark heads milled about on her deck—the captives. If they were lucky, this brief incarceration would be the closest they came to slavery. Martín had not been so lucky. He’d been born a slave, answering to the name of “boy” until the man who owned him—the same man who’d fathered him, he suspected—fell on hard times and sold all his possessions, including his own son.

The brand on his arm itched, and Martín scratched at it, annoyed to be thinking of such long-ago things. He was a wealthy, powerful man now, not a runaway slave at the wrong end of a branding iron. He shook away the unpleasant memories and thought instead of the woman awaiting him below. Had she realized yet the full extent of the bargain she’d made? He recalled the virtuous expression she’d worn as she’d pleaded for the mutineers’ lives and doubted it. She was an innocent. A better man would release her from the ill-conceived bargain and dine alone tonight.

Martín snorted. It was too bad for her that she’d made her bargain with him.

Chapter Four

Sarah followed the kind-faced Englishman below deck, numbed by what she had just done—what she had just promised.

“This way, miss.” Daniels led her toward a door at the end of the corridor. “It’s small, but it’s clean and private.” He ushered her into a room the size of Captain Graaf’s wardrobe.

“Am I putting somebody out?” she asked.

He flushed. “It’s no bother, miss. I’ve bunked with the lads before. Anyhow, you being the only lady on board, you’ll need space for your . . . er . . . business.”

Her eyes blurred with tears at the unexpected kindness—and from exhaustion. “You are very kind, Mr. Daniels,” she said, a wobble in her voice.

“It’s no bother, miss.” He turned away and began pointing out the features of her cabin, his reddened face and abrupt manner proclaiming his discomfort louder than words.