Page 22 of Scandalous

Martín looked around at the silent faces watching their interaction.

“You’ve done well tonight, and I will see you are rewarded for your help,” he said to a huge young man who held a large, bloody sword and appeared to be the leader.

The man merely blinked at him.

“The only one who understands and speaks a little French is Ubu, the man with the infant. I have tried French, English, Portuguese, and Dutch on the others to no avail. They speak a number of dialects, but the only one who can speak Yoruba is the woman.”

Martín grimaced. Of course it would be the woman. He glanced at what was left of de Heeckeren’s men. They were a sorry-looking bunch, several of them wounded so badly they would not make it through the night. He considered putting them all to the sword, but he’d given the woman his word. “Shackle and tie them all and then lock them in the hold. And keep them in there this time, Mr. Beauville.”

The Frenchman flushed and nodded.

“Set up enough lanterns to begin mending the damaged sails. I am sick of waiting.”

* * *

By the time Martín returned to his ship it was almost daylight. He halted for a moment outside of Daniels’s cabin, toying with the idea of confronting the missionary woman. He decided he was too tired to deal with an infuriating female. In fact, he would steer clear of her until they reached Freetown and he’d gotten her off his ship. He’d be glad to be rid of the whole damned mess: the irritating woman, the sick, ineffectual captain, and the troublesome Dutch crew.

He pushed it all from his mind and marched to his cabin, where he slammed the door. He was pleased to see Jenkins had cleared away all signs of the evening. He’d also had the foresight to have a basin of hot water waiting for Martín.

After washing and changing into his dressing gown, Martín collapsed onto his bed and massaged his aching temples. He could not stop his mind from going back to the last time he’d lain on this bed, with the woman beneath him, half-naked and ready. The memory of her body caused his cock to harden. There was no denying she had a deliciously responsive body and he should have buried himself inside it when he’d had the opportunity.

He dismissed the thought with a muttered curse. She was a menace. He would release her from their ridiculous bargain and do so happily. She’d been in his cabin less than an hour before she’d discerned he was illiterate. Who knew what she would weasel out of him if he spent any more time in her company?

No, the longer she stayed on his ship, the greater the chances she might end up its damned captain. He laughed grudgingly as he recalled the sight of her with his gun pointed at his chest. For the second time in one day she had held a captain at the point of his own pistol on his own ship. The poor dumb Dutch bastard had lost his command, his ship, and might even lose his life as a result of her work. Martín would be damned if he’d join the man.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Sleep. He just needed some sleep. It would all be over and done with soon. They would take care of their business in Freetown and journey back to England. He could forget the entire unfortunate incident.

Chapter Seven

Martín slept only a few hours before bright sunlight slanted through the porthole windows and woke him. He’d come awake for a moment earlier in the morning when the ship began moving, the subtle creaking alerting him to the fact that they were again on their way.

He was lounging comfortably in his robe and enjoying a hearty breakfast a short time later when somebody rapped on his door.

“Come,” he said, slathering a thick slice of bread with preserves. He had a bottomless craving for sweets and often consumed an entire jar at one sitting. He took an enormous mouthful of the still hot bread.

Daniels opened the door just wide enough to slip inside, his pale face even paler than usual.

Martín chewed at his own damn pace before he swallowed and said, “What?”

“Er, Captain, the uh, that is—”

The door flew open, and Mademoiselle Fisher stepped inside.

Martín rolled his eyes. It should be no surprise that Daniels couldn’t control her; Martín could not control her, either.

Still, he refused to let the woman annoy him this morning. The weather was clear, the ships were moving along at a goodly clip, and he had a delicious cup of coffee and fresh bread and jam.

“Mademoiselle, what a delightful surprise,” he lied, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Won’t you join me?” He gestured to the opposite seat. Martín could see his pleasant demeanor was not what she’d expected. He would swear she was disappointed that he hadn’t begun yelling at or threatening her.

“Er, no thank you, Captain Bouchard. I have already eaten breakfast. Hours ago,” she added, as if in criticism of his late breakfasting habits.

Martín felt a twinge of annoyance, but refused to offer any explanation for his late morning—as if it were any business of hers what he did or when he did it. He raised an eyebrow at his hovering second mate. “It would seem you are no longer necessary, Daniels. Close the door behind you.” Martín waited until she’d seated herself before resuming his breakfast.

She was again wearing Graaf’s clothing. He gave a mental shrug. What did he care that she’d rather take clothing from a degenerate slaver than from him? Her eyes went from his face to his bare chest, and he could see by her deepening flush and averted eyes that she realized he was naked beneath his dressing gown and it made her uncomfortable. Good, he hoped it made her so uncomfortable she would leave.

“What can I do for you, mademoiselle?” he asked, not that he had any intention of doing anything for her other than depositing her in Freetown. He buttered another slice of bread.

“Mr. Daniels just informed me the ships are headed toward Freetown even though Ouidah is far closer. Is that true?”