Page 84 of Scandalous

Exley had undertaken several major repairs when he’d won the property, and he’d also begun construction of a new stable before he’d given the property to Martín.

Martín had funded the various repairs over the past four years but had left the key decisions to Exley. Until two weeks ago.

“My tenure as your factor is at an end, Bouchard,” Exley had said. “You may keep it, sell it, rent it, or hire an agent to run it. What you may not do, however, is expect me to continue managing it.”

This was Martín’s first visit here in two years. Thankfully, the house proved more comfortable than it appeared. The old couple had been in the habit of keeping a room prepared in case Exley should visit, and Martín had enjoyed a comfortable night’s sleep. He’d also enjoyed a simple but delicious breakfast of fresh eggs, meats, and homemade pastries the following morning. After eating his fill he’d summoned his two servants to the library.

The room was much smaller than the library at Lessing Hall, and the shelves were only half-filled. Even so, an excitement built in his stomach when he realized all these books were his and he could read them whenever he wished—albeit very slowly.

“I would like you to make the house habitable,” he told the old couple, who’d shuffled into the room not long after breakfast. “Hire whomever you need to do the immediate cleaning, and I will consider suggestions for footmen, grooms, what have you. I shall see to the hiring of a cook and steward.”

Mrs. Brownlee’s steely gaze marked her as the leader of the pair. “Our eldest is a fine one with horses, Captain. Seeing as you’ll have a grand new stable, you’ll need a master and some grooms.”

“Have your son come and speak to me this afternoon as I shall be leaving for London two mornings hence. If you should think of anything else that requires my attention, tell me before then.”

“Leaving, my, uh, lor . . . Captain?” The old man repeated.

Martín frowned. Was the man still capable of functioning as butler, or was that another position he needed to fill?

“Very good, Captain,” Mrs. Brownlee said, answering for her spouse as if reading Martín’s thoughts. She dropped a curtsy and dragged her still gaping husband from the room.

Martín could not blame the old man for his confusion. It had been madness to ride such a distance for a stay of only a few days. He shrugged. What did he care if his servants thought him mad?

A set of double doors opened onto a flagstone court that overlooked extensive gardens. The prospect caught Martín by surprise, and he stopped, leaning against the stone balustrade to admire the view.

Exley had told him the house was an excellent example of an Elizabethan manor. As usual, Martín knew nothing of such matters. Apparently the house had once boasted one of the largest and most intricate knot gardens in England. What remained was only a wild tangle, barely recognizable but for the unruly box shrubs that enclosed it.

He made a note to find a gardener or groundskeeper who could deal with such matters. He’d be damned if he would own the best of anything and have it lying around in disrepair. He might be an ex-slave, murderer, whore, but he was as rich as a lord—richer. The wealth of several nations had flowed through Ramsay’s hands during the war, and Martín had collected his share of it. This was not his only house. He owned two others, one on the coast of Italy and another in Shanghai. The baron had been adamant that property was the only thing that endured. So Martín had bought houses. Houses he’d never lived in and frankly had no desire to. But this house felt different. As he looked around at the lush, overgrown garden, Martín felt an odd sense of peace. Perhaps he could live here?

He closed his eyes to block out the ridiculous vision of himself as a country squire. What in God’s name would he do in an Elizabethan manor house?

The annoying little voice in his head—strident today—had suggestions. Marry Sarah and bring her here, have children, build a life. Stop running from his past, from his fears.

He clenched his jaw against the hope that grew in his breast. It was best never to hope. The image in his mind was nothing but a fantasy—the kind of dreams that had kept him sane during his years as a slave.

As usual, the brand on his arm itched, an incessant reminder of the day the red-hot iron had burned not just his flesh, but something else inside of him.

Like the other slaves on the small plantation where he’d been born, Martín had been tattooed around his forearm when he was still young. He’d tattooed over that mark at the first opportunity, but, if you looked closely, you could still see the word “Bannock” beneath the newer ink. Bannock: the name of the man who’d owned him. His father, by all accounts.

Martín had run away when he’d learned he was soon to be sold. He’d been twelve or so, terrified at the thought of leaving the only home he’d ever known. He’d run without thinking and been caught before he’d even crossed the boundary of the plantation.

The beating that had followed had left him with a cracked rib and some bruises, but he soon learned that was nothing.

The second time he’d run, there had been no beating. Instead, his own people, the people who had raised him and cared for him, had been forced to restrain him as the Scottish overseer, a man named Clark, had lifted the large red iron from the fire. His arm had been too small a canvas for the brand, and part of the R was missing.

Martín turned away from both the memory of burning flesh and the sight of the ruined garden. He slammed the door behind him, as if he could shut his past in the ancient garden with the rest of the wreckage.

He drifted toward the big desk and absently opened the drawers. He found nothing but old papers, broken quills, and the odds and ends of someone else’s life. He closed the drawer and dropped into the chair, lacing his hands over his stomach. Ramsay had been correct. Martín wanted Sarah, and the only way to have her was marriage. Her wealthy uncles would most likely fight it, and he couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t want himself as a husband for a daughter or niece if he had one. Nobody’s reputation had ever benefited by association with him.

Dread weaved its way from his stomach to his chest at the thought of approaching the two old bankers with his suit. Over and over he’d imagined simply carrying Sarah to his ship and sailing away. He could do it before anyone was the wiser. He pictured her sleek, long body and warm brown eyes, the drowsy, satisfied way she looked when he brought her to climax. Her petal-soft skin and how she responded to his intimate touches.

His groin ached at the memory of their few moments together. He tried to shift his pounding cock to a more comfortable position, but it proved impossible given his tight buckskins.

“Merde.” He drummed his fingers on the scarred surface of the desk. He was tired of relieving his needs with his fist like some green boy. His health—his very sanity—required she accept his suit.

Martín would take Ramsay’s advice and leave his past behind. He would begin his life anew, and he would court her. While he did so, he would have Oak Park restored to some semblance of its former beauty so he would have something to offer her besides himself.

And if that wasn’t enough to tempt her? His fingers stopped in mid drum.