Page 121 of Scandalous

“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 all 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?”