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  Sarah tried to summon her parents’ faces, but couldn’t. The desire in her body overwhelmed any shame. She couldn’t stop wondering if he would come back and finish what he’d started.

  The memory of what she’d done on deck came crashing down on her, and she groaned. If he came to her now, it would be to throw her in the brig—or even overboard. Sarah would not be surprised to find out that she would be joining the rest of the mutineers, her severed head bobbing among theirs on the open water.

  * * *

  Beauville was waiting for Martín when he stepped on board the Blue Bird. A pile of unmoving bodies lay on the deck behind his first mate.

  “De Heeckeren?” Martín asked.

  “He is dead, Captain, along with five others.”

  Martín looked at the bleeding cut on his first mate’s forehead and frowned. “What happened?”

  Beauville’s hand moved to the goose egg on his forehead, and he winced. “I was sleeping when he sneaked aboard. He knew this ship like the back of his hand and was able to get down to the brig unmolested. He knocked out the guards who were standing watch and jammed several crew cabin doors shut, but not mine. And then he led his men to take back the ship.

  “The commotion of so many feet woke me, and I came on deck and was attacked at the top of the stairs. It was lucky for me that several of the Africans jumped on the man who hit me and subdued him. The mutineers took many of the sleeping crew by surprise,” Beauville admitted. “Without the assistance of the Africans, we would have been done for.”

  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?”

  Martín made a mental note to tell Daniels to keep his trap shut around the nosy woman. He took a mouthful of coffee and paused to wipe his mouth with a linen napkin before leaning back, enjoying her look of impatience. He could see his state of undress was distracting her concentration from the object of her visit, which appeared to be bossing him about.

  He smiled at her obvious irritation. He should have thanked Daniels for providing him with entertainment before he’d dismissed him.

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “But it can be no problem for you to deposit the captives at Ouidah. You said as much during our parley.” Her voice was at least an octave higher
than usual.

  “I said no such thing, mademoiselle.” He crossed his arms and made himself comfortable.

  “When I told you Captain Graaf had turned back the ship, you said—” She stopped and searched her memory. Not finding what she was seeking, she tried a different tack. “You didn’t actually disagree. Freetown is a great distance from where most of the captives were taken. How will they ever make their way back to their people?”

  “That, mademoiselle, is not my concern.” She opened her mouth and stared, looking very much like a fish gasping for air. Martín relented, but only slightly. “As I said last night, Freetown is a much safer place for them. If they return to their villages, they will be taken again. I have seen it happen over and over.”

  Her jaw worked as if she wanted to argue but could not come up with anything persuasive. “What of me?” she finally asked.

  Martín didn’t try to stop the evil smile that spread across his face. “What of you?” He paused to savor the moment. “As you are a British citizen, I will personally escort you to the British authorities so they can determine what to do with you. You can tell them whatever story you wish, but I would advise you not to hold them at gunpoint if they refuse to do as you like.”

  She bit her lip, making him curious as to what devious plans were going through her clever mind. He did not have to wait long.

  “You mentioned last night you might be willing to take me back to England.” Her face turned a dark red at the reference to the night before.

  “Actually, I said Daniels thought you should return—not that you should do so on my ship. Besides, that was last night, before you stole my pistol and held me at gunpoint.”

  She lowered her eyes to the table, which she was gripping with white-knuckled fingers. “I . . . I am very sorry for that, Captain.” The honest regret in her eyes made him feel like a bully.

  “I accept your apology,” he said shortly, no longer interested in toying with her. “You must take my word when I tell you the authorities in Freetown will take better care of you than anyone else. They will know whom to contact on your behalf.” Martín realized he had no idea whether his assurance was true or not. That realization angered him. So what if he didn’t know? It was no concern of his—she was no concern of his.

  She looked at him for a long moment before nodding. “Very well, Captain.”

  Martín moved to the door, eager to get her out of his cabin. He felt uneasy, rather than pleased, now that he had triumphed over her. He opened the door and looked down at her, experiencing an odd shortness of breath when he met her clear-eyed gaze.

  “Would it be possible to see Captain Graaf?”

  Her reference to the slaver sent a jolt of annoyance through him and brought him back to his senses.

  He sneered. “By all means, mademoiselle. Be sure to take Daniels with you—we wouldn’t want Graaf getting any ideas.” He nudged her out of the cabin and shut the door on her affronted expression. He stood with his back against the door, his hand still clasping the doorknob, as if she might try to force her way back inside.

  What was it about this woman? Why did he suffer such bizarre thoughts while in her presence? Martín had bedded hundreds of women, and most of them were far more beautiful or desirable than she; all of them had certainly been less trouble. He shook his head in mute exasperation at his strange reaction to her. His problem could only be that he hadn’t had a woman in too long. After all, she had worked him into a passion last night, and he had had no release. And again this morning.

  Martín knew the frustration that came from a lack of sexual release was detrimental to a man’s mental processes. His current state was proof of that.

  He would drop off the woman, the sick captain, and the rest of them and then immediately find a whore, preferably more than one, and then he could begin to think sensibly again.

  * * *

  Sarah bit back her disappointment at the captain’s refusal to return the captives to Ouidah or her to England. She supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t thrown her in the hold after last night.

  Daniels was waiting for her just down the corridor.

  “Miss Fisher.” He sounded relieved and surprised in equal measures. Sarah wondered if he’d expected Bouchard to ravish her rather than kick her out of his cabin. Frankly, Sarah had been wondering the same thing. If she was honest with herself—which she strove to be, no matter how uncomfortable her thoughts might be—she’d have to admit that part of her had looked forward to a resumption of last night’s fascinating activities. The captain must not have found the experience as captivating. He’d barely tolerated her presence in his cabin and had all but shoved her out the door.

  “Captain Bouchard said that I may see Captain Graaf, but that you should accompany me.”

  “Very good, miss. Would you like to see him now?”

  “If you think he will be awake.” She was in no hurry to find the Dutch captain in the same state of undress as Bouchard. She flushed again just thinking of his muscular, tanned chest.

  “I’ll just nip into his room and speak to him first.” Daniels paused and looked at her, his expression tense. “Please, Miss Fisher, will you promise me that you won’t—”

  “I promise not to seize any guns or to accost Captain Bouchard, Mr. Daniels.” She smiled to show him she took no offense.

  He gave her a boyish grin. “Very good, miss. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he said.

  Sarah looked down at her clothing as she listened to the murmur of voices beyond the door. She was wearing the slippers Captain Bouchard had given her, but otherwise was dressed in Graaf’s clothing. Well, her options for clothing were rather limited right now. She could hardly wear the satin robe or either of the other scandalous gowns.

  The door opened, interrupting her thoughts. “He’ll see you now. I’ll wait for you out here, Miss Fisher.”

  Graaf’s cabin was much like Sarah’s, except for a glass-fronted cabinet that was filled with simple medical supplies. He began to stand, and she held up a hand.

  “Please, you need to be resting.” Sarah took the only chair in the room. “You are looking much better, Captain.” That was not a lie. He was pale, but no longer the shade of yellow-gray he’d been a mere day before.

  “I feel much better, although not as a result of any medicine, but rather because of the weight that has been lifted from my conscience. I must thank you for that. If you hadn’t come along, most likely I would have either died or wished that I had. I have no excuse for what I did to you and the people of your village.” His was a pale pink when he finished.

  Sarah was nonplussed by his apology. She suddenly realized it had been easier to despise him than it was to forgive him. The thought shamed her. She’d been preaching forgiveness and mercy to Captain Bouchard and not practicing it herself. She should start forgiving Graaf now, even though she had little hope of succeeding.

  “Can you forgive me for lying to you about your illness?”

  He gave a low chuckle that turned into a cough. When he was able to speak, he was smiling. “I’d like to think I would not have been so credulous had I not been so ill. Thank you for helping yesterday. You would make an excellent captain, Miss Fisher, much better than I could ever be.” He no longer looked so amused. Sarah thought he was imagining his father’s reaction to the news of his son’s capture and the loss of a ship.

  “I’m sorry for what you will have to undergo, but I don’t believe you are the type of person who could have sold other human beings and lived comfortably with yourself afterward. I know you will face reprisals, but it is better for everyone this way.”

  He grimaced. “Nobody should be comfortable with such a thing. Unfortunately, we all tell ourselves the lies we need to hear. You are an exception, Miss Fisher. You had the courage of your convictions even when you could have saved yourself and left everyone else to fend for them-sleves.”

  Sarah brushed away his praise. “Let us talk of something else, Captain Graaf. Although
I gave your sickness a spurious name, it is an illness I have seen many times. There is usually very little anyone can do, but if a person can make it through the fever stage, they recover. You are no longer feverish?”

  “Bouchard’s man assured me I am within a normal range. I think I may have suffered the worst of the sickness before we left Ouidah. I was fortunate, I suppose, that we were at anchor and my lack of wits was less obvious to my crew.”

  “You are fortunate you did not die. Every year such sicknesses carry away dozens in my village.”

  His enormous blue eyes were less watery, although the white portion was still discolored. “I never learned how you came to be in such a place. Are you from the British fort? I had thought the fort in Ouidah abandoned?”

  “My village was in the jungle a few days from Ouidah. My father was a doctor, and my parents were missionaries. I was born in Africa. I am English, but African, too.”

  “Where are your parents? How is it that you were taken with the, er, other captives?” he asked, carefully avoiding the word “slave.”

  “My parents died two years ago.”

  “Two years? How have you survived?”

  She was amused by his shocked expression. “I continued to live as I always did. The people in my village are the only people I have ever known. They fed me and, in exchange, I tended to their illnesses. First I was the helper of my father and the village healer; later I was the only healer. I was content.”

  Graaf shook his head, a look of wonder on his face. Again Sarah changed the subject, not interested in trying to make him understand her life.

  “And you, Captain, what were you doing before your father pressed you into his business?”

  “I was in Leiden, at the university.”