Scandalous Page 3

  “How dare you? I am no . . . whore.” She trembled with the force of her emotions. “Have you no decency?”

  “None at all,” he admitted, grinning.

  Her eyes spit fire, and her pale cheeks bore twin flags of color. She was quite attractive in her anger. Also, her hips stretched her snug breeches in a most intriguing manner.

  He gestured to her clothing. “Do you always dress so?”

  Her smooth brow furrowed. “What has that to do with anything?”

  Martín shrugged.

  “I donned these clothes to stop the mutineers.” She enunciated each word as if speaking to a lackwit, and Martín frowned. But before he could contrive a suitable response, she jabbed a finger at the Dutchman. “This man risked his life so that we might return home. Can you not forgo money just this once?”

  “Home?” Martín repeated, perplexed.

  “Yes, home. I live in the village of N’goe, not far from Bantè. At least it used to be a village before the entire population was captured and sold to slavers, which was how I ended up on the Blue Bird.” She glared down at the Dutchman, forgetting she’d been his champion only a moment before.

  Martín looked from the Dutchman to the woman, and then back again. She was his captive? His slave? He shifted irritably in the too-small wardroom chair, tired and short-tempered from a lack of sleep. When he stretched out his legs to get more comfortable, he noticed an unsightly mark on the toe of one boot. He stared in disbelief at the hideous smudge; Jenkins had missed a spot. Just wait until—

  “Captain? Captain? Are you listening?”

  “Eh?” Martín pulled his eyes away from his blemished boot and tried to recall what she’d just said. “Are you telling me Graaf purchased you, mademoiselle?”

  She gave the Dutchman a speculative look. “Not precisely.”

  “But he kept you in the hold?”

  “Well, yes—”

  Martín held up a hand, not wanting to lose the thread. “But then he took you out of the hold?”

  She made a huffing noise and crossed her arms. “Yes.”

  He looked from her to the Dutchman and back. “Are you wearing his clothing?”

  She sneered. “I refuse to discuss my clothing with you, Captain Bouchard.” She raked her eyes across him, an unpleasant twist to her lips. “Although you certainly look as if you think of nothing else.”

  Martín frowned and sat up. “You think my clothing is not, eh, how do you say it?” He snapped his fingers to summon the words. “Comme il faut?” he asked when the English words refused to come.

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Will you, or will you not, let our ship go?”

  Martín blinked at this unexpected change of subject and threw up his hands. “Voyons, of course I will not release your ship.” He looked from the infuriating woman to the fool beside her. The Dutchman coughed, an expression of abject misery in his hazy blue eyes.

  “What is wrong with you?” Martín asked, all of a sudden noticing the man’s complexion had a somewhat greenish cast.

  “I have the choking fever.”

  Martín squinted. “You have the what?”

  The woman fluttered her hand, as if to catch Martín’s attention.

  “The choking fever,” the Dutchman repeated. “Mademoiselle Fisher assured me the thorn of Christ, which only grows in coastal marshes, will cure it.”

  Martín looked from the sick man to the furiously blushing woman. She gave a minute shake of her head, and mouthed the word please.

  What was this? She did not wish him to pursue the matter? Why not?

  Martín shrugged away the questions. He would find out later. But for now . . .

  “Ah,” he said, as if in dawning comprehension. “You have the choking fever. Yes, yes, I see. Well, that is indeed unfortunate.”

  The woman glared at Martín’s mocking and exaggerated tone, while the Dutchman looked confused.

  Martín smirked at both. But, as amusing as this was, he did not have either the time or the patience to get to the bottom of whatever was going on. He would question the woman later, perhaps over dinner in his cabin. Just the two of them—alone.

  After she had taken a bath.

  Martín stood. “Beauville will take you to our cook,” he told the Dutchman. “He is a good enough doctor. As for the ringleader of the mutiny, you brought him with you and he is on deck with my men?”

  Graaf nodded.

  “Bien. I will deal with him, and then we can make plans to be on our way.”

  Martín’s hand was on the brass door handle when the woman’s ringing voice stopped him.

  “What will you do with him, Captain?”

  He pivoted on his heel. “Pardon?” He used his most discouraging tone, the one that made grown men feel for their weapons or look for cover.

  “The first mate, de Heeckeren, what will you do with him?”

  “I will do what is always done with mutineers. I will cut off his head and throw his body overboard.”

  Her jaw dropped. “But, that is . . . barbaric,” she gasped.

  Martín studied her with no small amount of bewilderment. “What else would you have me do? Invite him to tea and crumpets?” All the men, even the sickly captain, chuckled, and the woman flushed.

  Martín gentled his voice. “A mutineer is like a mad dog that has bitten its master, mademoiselle. It will always bite again.”

  “Could you not turn him over to the authorities in Freetown?”

  “I can do many things. Anything I choose, in point of fact. What I will do is cut off his head and throw him overboard.” Martín sketched a brief bow and left the boardroom before she could say anything else.

  His second mate followed hard on his heels.

  “What do you want, Mr. Daniels?”

  “What shall you do with the woman, Captain?”

  Martín stopped so suddenly Daniels almost slammed into him. He pivoted to face the younger man, arrested. “Do with her? Are you asking me if you may have her, Daniels?”

  The Englishman turned the color of a brick. “Of course not, Captain.”

  Martín frowned at the man’s chiding tone, but decided to overlook it this once. “What the devil is it, then?” He turned away and took the stairs two at a time, leaving the other man to trot behind him.

  “What will you do with her, sir?”

  “Have you suffered some manner of head injury, Daniels?” Martín demanded, not pausing to wait for an answer. “I’m not going to do anything with her.”

  “You cannot just leave her in Freetown, sir.”

  Martín crossed the deck and stopped in front of the mutineer, who was bound and surrounded by a cluster of Martín’s men, glaring at him with seething hatred. “She can do whatever she likes once I release her.”

  “But it will be dangerous for her on shore, Captain.”

  Martín ground his teeth and turned away from the hostile Dutchman, back to his second mate. “I weary of your obscure babbling. Either express yourself with sense or have done with this subject.”

  “She is English, sir. Perhaps we could take her back to England? Are we not headed home after we leave Freetown?”

  Martín stared at the younger man, mystified. Was it chivalry—a concept he was only vaguely aware of—that motivated Daniels? Martín’s sole interest in women was whether or not he wanted to bed them and then how to get rid of them once he’d done so.

  Thinking about beds gave him an idea. “I tell you what, Daniels, I shall carefully consider the woman’s future,” he lied. “But while I do so, she should stay in your cabin. You will bunk with the men.”

  Rather than protest violently, as any normal man would do, Daniels smiled, as if Martín had given him a gold coin instead of condemning him to miserable nights in a hammock surrounded by stinking sailors.

  “Thank you, sir.” Daniels nodded and scuttled off without another word.

  “Fool,” Martín muttered before turning back to the mutineer.

  The D
utchman was a stocky man and as tall as Martín. Anger and hostility flowed from him in almost tangible waves. “You are de Heeckeren, the leader of the mutiny?”

  The Dutchman glowered, and Martín repeated the question in French.

  “Oui.”

  “How do you plead to the charges of mutiny?” Martín continued in the same language.

  The mutineer scowled. “Coupable!”

  “You know the punishment for mutiny is death?”

  De Heeckeren stared sullenly.

  “Answer me.”

  “Je comprends.”

  Martín gestured to the men standing beside de Heeckeren and one withdrew a razor-sharp scimitar from its sheath, while two others dragged the prisoner toward a huge block of wood and commenced to stretch his neck across it.

  “Stop!”

  Martín gritted his teeth and whipped around. “Mademoiselle Fisher. Why am I not surprised? Are you trying to make me lose my temper?”

  She faltered under his glare, but came closer. “Please, Captain, can you not show Christian kindness?”

  “I am not a Christian, mademoiselle.”

  His shocking admission did not stop her. She laid a hand on his sleeve, the gesture oddly compelling. “Please, do not do this barbaric thing,” she begged in a whisper.

  Up close, Martín saw that her brown eyes were flecked with green and gold. They were actually quite pretty. He flinched away from the pointless observation and forced his lips into a sneer. “You would plead mercy for men who have captured, imprisoned, and sold the people of your village into slavery?”

  “I am a Christian, Captain. I strive to forgive those who would do me violence.”

  “That is an admirable sentiment, mademoiselle. Unfortunately, I am not motivated by such elevated notions. Besides, what if my crew viewed such forgiveness as a sign of weakness? I might soon find myself in the same situation as Graaf.”

  “It is not weakness, but mercy. Have you no mercy?”

  “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.

  He’d just finished showing her how to work the fold-out table when three men arrived with a compact hip-bath.

  “Ah, here is your bath, miss. I’ll just go and see to some other matters while the men fill the tub.”

  Within a short time the tub was full of steaming water, and there were several thick, fluffy towels piled on the bunk. The men were just leaving when Daniels returned with an armload of garments, his homely face a fiery red.

  “The Captain sent these, miss.”

  Sarah took the pile of clothing and laid it on the bunk. She wanted to ask why Captain Bouchard possessed such garments, but knew it would just agitate the second mate.

  Instead, she gave him a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Mr. Daniels.”

  He nodded, his eyes on anything but her. “Lock the door when I leave, miss.”

  Sarah locked the door and turned to the steaming tub of water. She’d never had a bath in a real tub before. It was an unthinkable luxury, and she forced herself to stop worrying about the evening ahead and enjoy this singular experience. After all, she was a prisoner; who knew what might happen to her tomorrow? This might be the first and only bath she would ever have.

  She stripped off her clothing, eager to get into the water before it cooled. Once she submerged as much of herself as possible, she closed her eyes and mulled over the events of the last few hectic hours.

  The mutiny had d
ied quickly after they’d lured de Heeckeren to Graaf’s cabin and captured him. Apparently many of the mutineers had already started drinking to celebrate their control of the ship and were slow-moving and clumsy when it came time to fight.

  Speaking in Yoruba, Sarah had told the people they were free before opening the hold. It would not go well for them if Femi burst out and began laying waste—they were still dreadfully outnumbered and unarmed. She added that they should send up the strongest men first to ensure their freedom.

  The sickening stench that billowed from the hold when the sailors opened the hatch drove everyone back, and eight huge men emerged from the stinking hole, with Femi in the lead.

  Sarah handed him the pistol. “I am sorry—this is the only gun I could take, but there are also some knives and machetes.” She pointed to the small pile of weapons they’d taken from the mutineers. “Are you familiar with this kind of gun?”

  Femi quickly examined the pistol before giving her an abrupt nod. “I have not used one, but I have seen them used often enough.”

  Sarah handed him her extra ammunition. “This is all I have.” She gestured to the remaining sailors, all of whom were red-faced and looking anywhere but at the people they’d held captive, and then she gave Femi a grim smile. “I know you wish to shoot them; so do I. Unfortunately, we need them to get our ship to safety.”

  “I will not hurt them.” He jerked his chin at the other men, all of whom vibrated with barely tethered rage. “I will tell the others.”

  Before long the entire back half of the deck was filled with people, many too sick or weak to stand. Sarah found the husband of the young mother who’d died, protecting his newborn and the woman who’d agreed to nurse the baby.

  “These three will need someplace private and quiet to rest.”

  Graaf hastened to translate her orders into Dutch, his cheeks flushed. Sarah knew that if not for the mutiny, he would have sailed halfway round the world and never contemplated the hell right below his feet. That a human being would consider causing such devastating misery to others for money was so befuddling, Sarah could not get her mind to accept it. Hate for Graaf and his crew threatened to overwhelm her common sense, and it was a constant struggle to remind herself that she was a Christian, and Christians believed in forgiveness. Besides, she needed Graaf to deal with the privateers, whomever they were.