Page 39 of Scandalous

He lifted his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “What hurtful things? About your frock, you mean?”

“Yes, ‘about my frock.’” She mimicked his accent and perplexed tone even though she knew it was childish.

He laughed. “That is a very good imitation of me, mademoiselle. Are you trying to say something hurtful?” he asked, mimicking her in return. Sarah couldn’t help laughing at his pursed lips and artificially high voice.

“I do not sound like that. You are a vile beast.” She shook her head, annoyed at her inability to stay angry with him.

“Why? Because I would have you wear something less”—his brow wrinkled as he searched for the correct word—“unattractive?” His eyes swept up and down her body in a way calculated to make her temperature rise.

“Why should you care what I wear?” She finished the quill and slammed the small knife down on his desk, barely missing his hand. “Here is your quill, your highness. Next time you may fix your own.”

He moved the knife out of her reach. “I don’t understand what I have said that is so insulting. You should want to look more attractive for those around you. Why wear such a horrible gown when you can have something that makes you look nicer?”

It hurt beyond reason that he thought she needed a new gown to make her attractive. “I don’t have any money to buy a gown with, you idiot!” She sprang up, eager to leave him before she said or did something she regretted.

He was on his feet and at the door before her, blocking her exit.

“Stop a minute,” he said, taking her gently by the shoulders. “Why are you so angry? Is it because I have insulted you? Or because you have no money to buy yourself something pretty?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You should not be foolish. I am very happy to buy you something to wear—any dresses you desire, in fact.” His glorious eyes were gentle, almost pitying, as they roamed her face. Knowing what he was seeing—her plain face and skinny body—was like a kick to her stomach. A cruel vision of him embracing a woman equal in beauty to his own flashed through her mind, and she stiffened, recalling how this man preferred to take his pleasure.

“Thank you, but I am not some . . . whore to be purchased by pretty baubles. I’ll not take any charity from you, Captain.”

Bouchard flinched as though she’d struck him. His full lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed to slits. He reached an arm around her, the motion bringing their faces close. “Oh, mademoiselle, trust me,” he said in a voice that was like silk over iron, “you would not be taking charity. You would be doing us all a favor by making yourself more attractive.” He opened the door. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”

His smirking face blurred, and she blinked rapidly.

“You are odious beyond belief.” She had shoved past him and stormed toward her cabin, grinding her teeth at the sound of his laughter behind her. He was nothing but a vain, arrogant whore-mongering swine.

Sarah’s jaw firmed as she recalled his humiliating treatment yesterday, and she yanked on the worn cotton gloves that had come in the admiral’s small bundle of used clothes. Yesterday was the last time she would be kind to Bouchard. Oh, she would continue his lessons; she owed him that much. But yesterday would be the last time she allowed him to get under her skin.

The next time anyone’s skin was invaded, it would be his.

Chapter Fourteen

Martín was conferring with Beauville when they came into the harbor at Tenerife. They would be stopping for a few days, and there was the usual business of determining shore leave and arranging for repairs. By the time Martín went below deck, Sarah was not in her cabin. He pushed back his hat and scratched his head. Clearly she was still angry from yesterday.

He leaned against the doorframe and chewed the inside of his cheek. Her comment about whores hadn’t been directed against him or his sordid past, of course, but that hadn’t seemed to matter. He’d responded to her expression of distaste like a maddened dog, snapping and snarling. It was not until he was tossing and turning and failing to find sleep that he’d finally admitted the truth. He didn’t know why or when it had happened, but the plain missionary woman’s opinion of him mattered. When he thought about his past, and what she’d do if she knew about it, his chest became heavy with a toxic blend of fear, anger, and apprehension.

He closed the door to her empty cabin, wishing he could do the same with his thoughts. The Dutchman’s door was closed. Was she in there? He was at the door before he even knew he’d moved. He pressed his ear against the thick wood. No sound came from the other side. Were they in there together? Were they—

He yanked open the door.

The Dutchman yelped and dropped the book he’d been reading. Fear, surprise, resignation, and finally humor settled on his face. “Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure,” he said flatly. He picked up his book and looked at Martín over a pair of spectacles that were identical to the ones Martín wore—something that had irked him almost beyond reason when he’d found out. His first stop today would be a shop he’d visited often over the years. The last time he’d been on the island he’d brought his spyglass for repair. He could only hope the man also sold spectacles so he could return the pair he’d been using to the Dutch slaver.

Martín raked the blond man with a look that held all the contempt he felt. “I see you are dressed. Are you going someplace?”

The Dutchman smiled easily in return, far more confident now that he was not in danger of dying at any moment—at least not from his illness. “I’d hoped I might be allowed a little time on shore.”

“You hoped that, did you? And why should I let a prisoner have shore leave?”

The Dutchman flushed, but refused to rise to the bait. “Oh, come, Captain. What harm can it do? You have my word as a gentleman I will not try to escape. In fact, why may I not go with you? Or had you other plans? Perhaps you’d hoped to accompany Sarah?” His grin was sly, as if he knew something Martín did not. Martín wrestled with the same desire that threatened to overtake him whenever he was in the Dutch nobleman’s presence: the desire to toss him overboard.

Graaf smirked at him. “I’m afraid you are too late. Sarah has gone off with Daniels. That would be your fault, Captain. You gave him shore leave, I believe?” He shrugged one of his slim shoulders. “Of course you can always leave me here. I shall be glad to pass along any message you have for Sarah when she returns.”

It galled Martín to succumb to such an obvious ploy, but the thought of Sarah spending time alone with the idiot Dutchman galled him even more. It was better to take the fool with him. He certainly was not concerned about Graaf’s slipping off to freedom. That would actually be a bloody godsend, as Martín could then sail off and leave him here.

“I am leaving in five minutes. If you are not ready, you can stay in your cabin.”

Graaf sprang to his feet. “I am ready right now, Captain.” He snatched up his coat and shrugged himself into it easily.