Page 79 of Dangerous

As he changed into his riding clothes he ran through the half dozen things he would need to mention to Batson before his departure, not the least of which was an explanation for his daughters about his and Mia’s sudden departure.

Adam shrugged on his coat and felt something in the breast pocket. He pulled out a single green glove—a small woman’s glove. The sight of his wife’s lost or forgotten item, one of the many things that had cluttered his life before he’d purged her from his space—if not his mind—five days ago, brought a smile to his face. And then he recalled what she’d done. Without thinking, he brought it to his face. The faint scent of her lingered in the soft leather and almost doubled him over. He stared at the small article of clothing in his hand.

“I’m going to find you, my lady,” he told the glove, drawing strength from the sound of his own voice. “And when I do . . .” He stopped. What would he do? Could anything she said or did make any difference to how he felt at this point—enraged, destroyed, and abandoned, again?

Adam shrugged away the questions, tucked the glove inside his waistcoat, and snatched up his own gloves. He could demand answers to those questions once he got his hands on her.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mia marveled at the difference a carriage could make to a journey. She longed for the luxury of Adam’s coach, where she had lounged in comfort against piles of cushions and her husband’s muscular, protective body.

The post-chaise Bouchard had engaged was fast, and she told herself that that was all that mattered. She tried to banish yearning thoughts of her husband from her mind and concentrate on the journey before her. Not the least of which was the struggle she anticipated having with Baron Ramsay.

Very little moonlight shone through the grimy carriage window. Martín had not had an easy time convincing the post company to make a journey on such a dark night. Money had finally won the argument and he’d paid three times the usual rate.

Mia had the carriage to herself as Bouchard had insisted on riding ahead of the postilions to ensure there were no unanticipated obstacles in the road. The road still showed signs of the recent heavy rains, but not enough to impede their progress in any serious way. Mia could only assume he meant thieves or robbers.

Mia couldn’t imagine that any highwayman would be stupid enough to meddle with Martín. In addition to the pair of loaded pistols he kept in a holster that fit across his saddle, he also had a wicked-looking sword at his hip. All three weapons were beautiful and ornate, as were their tooled leather carriers. Martín himself was rather beautiful and ornate on his enormous blood bay horse, his elegantly tailored riding outfit as well made as anything her husband owned.

Mia had been shocked by the quality and fit of his clothing. Having only ever seen him aboard Baron Ramsay’s ship, she had not realized he possessed the wealth and taste necessary to turn himself out in such a fashion. She supposed he must have made a fortune during his association with Ramsay, who had seized almost as many corsair vessels as the corsairs themselves.

Mia couldn’t recall very much of her journey from Oran to Eastbourne. She’d been too relieved by Jibril’s agreement to accompany her back to England to think of much else. One of the few details of the trip that had stayed with her, however, was Martín Bouchard.

He’d made his interest in Mia apparent her very first day on the Batavia’s Ghost.

She’d found his open, lustful admiration more than a little thrilling after years with the sultan, a man who had considered any female over thirteen a crone. She’d soon begun staring at him when she wasn’t even aware of doing it. Watching as he’d strutted about the ship, stripped down to only an old leather vest and worn buckskin breeches that covered his body like a coat of paint.

While his raw sensuality had woken long dormant urges in her body, it had driven Jibril almost to the brink of insanity.

“That man is a swine and I forbid you to have anything to do with him, Mother. In the future you will cover yourself before coming on deck.”

Jibril knew it was not the tradition of English women to cover their faces and bodies. But the Berber side of him— that part that approved the manner in which the sultan had sequestered and protected his women—could not bear to see men gawking at his mother.

Bouchard had come up to Mia after Jibril had stormed off one day, disgusted with her refusal to don her hijab.

“Your son guards you like a dog guards a bone,” the Frenchman had said in heavily accented English, his smile mocking.

Mia had assessed him from top to bottom before meeting his astonishing gold eyes.

“There are many hungry dogs on this ship. Perhaps he is wise to do so.”

He’d laughed but he’d not denied her words. And Mia could tell there were few dogs as hungry as Martín Bouchard.

Mia had only avoided his bed on the journey because she’d known what it would do to her son to see his mother fraternizing with a man he’d viewed as a servant. While Mia liked to think she’d had the lion’s share in forming Jibril’s character, the sultan had left his imprint on their son.

And now Bouchard was the captain of his own vessel—the Golden Scythe—a corsair ship that had terrorized the waters of the Mediterranean for decades. Bouchard was no longer a ship’s mate but a wealthy, independent man. That, added to his looks and arrogance, made him a force of nature.

The short time she’d spent in the private dining room of the Black Swan had shown her his effect on both men and women alike. The serving wenches at the dirty, rough inn had been lined up to please the exotic, wealthy man. The way his eyes had roamed and raked their bodies had convinced Mia he’d already worked his way through the most attractive of the staff in the short time he’d spent at the inn.

The hostile attitude of the men at the posting company had demonstrated the effect of his looks, attitude, and money on the male population. Mia could not blame the men; she had never seen a man behave so contemptuously toward others. Even Adam, who had no compunction about using his haughty stare on a duke, had never displayed such wholesale disregard of everyone in his orbit. If Adam ever happened upon the Black Swan, which was unlikely, he would have no difficulty getting information about the arrogant Frenchman from the stunned staff of that shady establishment.

Mia smiled in spite of herself at Bouchard’s obnoxious, swaggering behavior. In his mind, if not in reality, he undressed every woman he encountered and thrashed every man. He was sensuality and violence personified. She had to admit he was more blatantly attractive than her husband, but she was no longer tempted by him—a development Bouchard found highly annoying.

Mia had put him in a surly, pouting mood after she was forced to make it plain that she had no intention of becoming his bed partner. Or, as the case had been, stable partner, which was where they’d been standing when he’d made his first overture, describing to her with smug assurance how he could pleasure her in multiple ways before their carriage was even made ready. Mia didn’t doubt it.

She sighed as she leaned her head back against her seat. She’d given her heart to her husband, a man who most likely didn’t want it. The thought of lying with another man—even one as attractive as Martín Bouchard—held no interest for her. His molten eyes, which she had once thought so mesmerizing, offered no comparison to the icy blue pair that heated with searing passion when Adam looked at her.

The Frenchman’s ridiculously lush and shapely lips did not for a moment challenge her preference for Adam’s thinner, yet somehow more sensuous pair, with their enigmatic ability to shift from cruel to amused in the blink of an eye. She had no desire to spend her time with any other man. No other man’s inner workings seemed as interesting, unknowable, or intriguing as his.