Page 41 of Scandalous

Graaf turned to Martín as they descended the shop steps. “I am famished. Could we stop and eat or do you need to finish your errands first?”

Martín’s first impulse was to argue with Graaf, but he was also hungry. Nor did he have any pressing errands. The truth was, he had looked forward to showing Sarah the first town of any size she’d ever visited. He’d hoped to spend the day with her, perhaps taking her to dine.

He frowned as yesterday’s unpleasant and confusing interaction replayed itself yet again in his mind. Why did his offering to purchase her something to wear make her so angry? Did not all women enjoy gifts, or was it really only whores who liked to receive presents? The disdain in her voice when she’d spoken the word “whore” echoed through him and made his stomach clench. It was better this way, even if it meant he was stuck with the idiot Graaf as a dinner companion.

“The Hotel Saint Frances offers excellent food,” Martín said abruptly, turning in the direction of the elegant establishment where he’d last dined with Standish and several other men from the crew of the Batavia’s Ghost.

“You are a well-traveled man, Captain Bouchard. How long have you been at sea?”

Was the Dutchman getting at something? Martín gave the shorter man a hard look.

No, Graaf appeared as vapid as he normally did.

“I’ve been at sea since I was sixteen, more or less.”

“More or less?”

“Yes, more or less, Captain Graaf. As I’m sure you know, I began my life as a slave. Nobody cares what year a slave was born—or at least nobody ever bothered to inform me. While that adds a degree of mystery to my past that charms the ladies, it does make it difficult for me to truthfully state my age.”

Graaf’s mouth snapped shut, and the rest of the short walk took place in silence.

The Hotel Saint Frances was the only establishment of its kind on the island. It had been in business for perhaps fifteen years and catered to the wealthier element on the island as well as the officers of various navies. Even English vessels frequented the Canaries during the war, something of a miracle considering the fact that Nelson had left the island in disgrace—and minus one arm—the last time the British had tried to capture it.

Herr Dietzel, the rotund, rosy-cheeked proprietor, bustled over to greet them, his face beaming. “Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure to see you again!”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Dietzel. It has been a long time, my friend. Do you have any food left for me and my companions?”

Dietzel chortled. “Always! You are here for a while perhaps?” The older man shuffled ahead of them into the dining room.

“Only a few days. I’m afraid I have urgent business in England. Would you mind holding this package for me while we dine?” Martín handed him the box that held his new spectacles.

“It will be a pleasure, Captain. So, you are off to England, yes? Perhaps you will see Captain Standish? I understand he lives there now and has given up his mistress for a wife, eh?”

Martín sat in one of the ornate gilt chairs. “Yes, Standish is married and rather settled. I daresay he will not be making this journey anytime soon.”

“Please give him my best when you next see him. Now, shall I send you a bottle of something wonderful that I have recently procured?”

“Yes, I leave the selection entirely up to you; the food as well.” Martín breathed a sigh of relief when the garrulous Prussian left.

“You are a popular man here, Captain Bouchard,” Graaf noted.

Martín snapped the white linen napkin and laid it across his lap. “Here in the uncivilized wilderness, a man’s actions are far more important than his lineage, Graaf.”

“Touché, Captain. Perhaps we could call a truce to our sparring for the time being? Maybe only so long as we share a meal together?”

Martín shrugged. He was tired of baiting the man in any case. Graaf was far too easy game. “Very well, a truce. I gather you have not been in the Canaries before?”

“No, I have actually been to very few places. This was my first voyage. My eldest brother captained the Blue Bird until we stopped at Gibraltar, where another of my father’s ships was in for repairs.”

Herr Dietzel appeared with a bottle of red wine and poured a sample into Martín’s glass. Martín took a sip and nodded, and the Prussian filled the other men’s glasses.

Graaf’s eyes lingered on Banks, as if sharing a bottle of wine with a black man made him uneasy. The Dutchman wasn’t the only one. Patrons at a nearby table were muttering and giving their table angry looks.

Banks turned to Martín and began to stand. “I’ll go wait outside, Captain.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Banks. We came here to eat. We will eat, all of us.”

Banks sat, his face impassive, but concern rolling off him in waves.