Page 99 of Scandalous

Martín shook off his shock; now was not the time to give in to emotion.

He turned to d’Armand. “The boy does not have to hear any of this. We can discuss the rest in private.” Martín knew it was probably pointless to try to protect the child; d’Armand had no doubt gone to great lengths to educate him as to his place in the world. Even so, Martín would be damned if he’d play the Frenchman’s game in front of his own son.

D’Armand shrugged and spoke to the boy in French. “Go back to your quarters, Gaston.” When the woman moved to follow, he shook his head. “Not you, Valerie. You will stay here.”

Her expression remained unchanged, and she made no attempt to demur.

Martín waited for the door to click shut behind the boy and the two guards before he spoke. “How much?”

D’Armand laughed. “Oh yes, you are a rich man, now. I have heard much of the great Captain Bouchard. Tales of your daring deeds and how you are driven to free slaves.” He flicked an impatient look at Valerie. “Sit.”

The woman sat, not taking her eyes from the floor. She’d not looked at Martín since he’d first entered the room.

D’Armand poured himself something from a fine crystal decanter on his desk, not bothering to offer any to the two humans over whom he claimed legal title.

Martín looked at Valerie while he waited for the man to get to the point. She was even lovelier than she’d been a decade ago. Judging by her expression, she was just as unknowable. Martín had made love to her—had sex with her, really—dozens of times, but had never had a conversation with her. He had never even heard her speak, although he assumed she spoke one of the many West African dialects. Perhaps Sarah might know her language and be able to talk to her.

Oh God. Sarah. Martín briefly closed his eyes, as if he could shut the door between Sarah and what was happening in this room. When he opened his eyes, he said to d’Armand, “This is the last time I ask—what do you want?”

“Very well, I will get to the point.” D’Armand stood and walked around to the front of his desk, hitching up a hip and sitting on it, his glass dangling from long, white fingers.

“You have nothing to offer me that is not mine already, Bouchard. Under the law, everything belongs to me, including your body and your life.” The Frenchman’s voice was conversational, but Martín heard the steel beneath it. D’Armand took a sip from his glass and then strolled forward, not stopping until he was a mere foot from Martín.

Martín thought about reminding him that he referred to American law and they were now on British soil, but he was sure the man already knew as much. He remained quiet, letting things unfold. If d’Armand thought to goad him, he would fail. Martín had been goaded by the best. Ramsay himself was enough to drive the average man mad; Martín could listen to the Frenchman without losing his temper.

D’Armand’s dark eyes glowed with contempt and pride and . . . anger. Yes, he was angry. Whether he was angry because Martín had known his degenerate father or angry because Martín had escaped, he could not say. Perhaps it was some of both. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

“I already have your son, and soon I will have your possessions and the woman you love.”

Martín’s startled gaze flickered from d’Armand to the woman who still had not spoken. D’Armand saw the look and smiled, the action doing nothing to soften his cruel expression.

“No, not her, you fool. I already have her. I’m speaking of Sarah. Sweet, sweet Sarah.” He looked at Martín’s expression and gave a laugh of genuine amusement. “Oh yes, I can see you love her; so can everyone else. Everyone except you and her, it would seem. How cruel and blind love is, eh?” He enjoyed whatever it was he saw on Martín’s face. “Tell me, how do you think your beloved will respond when I tell her about your son and how he was begotten?” The smile slid from his face.

Martín refused to give this man what he wanted.

“Don’t worry,” d’Armand taunted. “You will not lose her completely. I will make her my wife—her uncles will see to that. Already our men of business meet to discuss the details of our union. In spite of her humble origins, I will do her the honor of making her my marquise.” He began to pace in circles around Martín, each circle smaller in circumference, each circle bringing him closer.

“You will be able to see her after we have married, provided you continue to produce more healthy offspring like fine young Gaston. You will have the privilege of watching Sarah flower as I initiate her into the pleasures of the flesh.”

Martín began to unravel, and visions of the Frenchman’s head, disconnected from his body, filled his mind. He repressed his fury and took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore the red haze of rage already clouding his vision. Killing the man where he stood would only create more problems.

As if reading Martín’s mind, d’Armand turned away abruptly, sauntered to the decanter, and refilled his glass.

“I understand you and Valerie used to put on quite a show. I can’t blame you for that.” He turned and cast a look at the woman, who appeared as distant as the moon. “She is quite magnificent when it comes to pleasuring a man . . . or a woman.”

“What do you want?” Martín once again forced the words from between clenched teeth.

D’Armand stepped close enough that Martín could feel his hot breath and smell the brandy. His pupils were tiny black specks. “I want what belongs to me. I want what you stole from me. I could seize you right now, throw you in a sack, take you back to New Orleans, and mete out whatever punishment I deem fit.” His words came out a flat, dangerous hiss. “I would be within my rights to do anything I wish, and you know it. The laws of this country might forbid me from taking any of you back where you belong, but laws are brittle and easily broken, and they serve those in power. The blood of kings runs in my veins, Bouchard, and you are a runaway slave whore.”

“None of that matters to a man’s liberty under English law.” Martín glanced at Valerie. “Or to a woman’s liberty.”

“Ahh, that might be true. But what will English law do when they learn you are also a murderer?”

Martín’s head jerked up.

D’Armand’s reptilian smile grew. “Ah, yes, now I have your attention. English law will not look so fondly on your presence here when they learn who you killed. They take the murder of a peer very seriously.”

“How do you know?”