Page 50 of Scandalous

“What are you working on? A letter to your cousin the king?”

The other man jumped and gave a startled yelp. “No,” Graaf said once he’d collected himself. “I am working on a letter to a missionary society in Amsterdam.”

“Oh?” Martín was disgusted by the curiosity he heard in the single syllable.

“Yes, I told Sarah I would write to them. When my mother was alive she had connections with the brother and sister who operated the mission.”

Martín glared, frustrated by his inability to find anything to scorn in the man’s words. The Dutchman continued to regard him with his wide blue eyes, the hint of superiority in his smile raising Martín’s hackles. He snorted and left the room. The temptation to choke the life out of Graaf seemed to get stronger the closer they got to England.

Martín slammed the door to his cabin and flung himself into his chair, staring blankly at the books and papers left on his desk from the morning’s lesson. There would not be too many more lessons, he realized, taking up the quill he had split yet again with his heavy-handed use.

Heavy-handed. Martín laughed. That was a perfect description of him, especially when it came to Sarah Fisher. His feelings toward her were so frustrating, they made him wish he could tear off his own head and throw it overboard.

Right after Graaf’s, of course.

Writing to missionaries? The man was obviously engaged in ingratiating himself with Sarah, dangling promises of aid for her ridiculous scheme of returning to the burnt-out village and rebuilding it.

Still, he couldn’t honestly blame Graaf for trying. At least the man knew how to gain a woman’s attention with something other than his cock. That was pretty much the limit of Martín’s abilities in that regard. And even that had been less than impressive lately.

But how could Sarah be taken in by the Dutchman’s efforts? How could she care for a man who’d bought her people and stowed them in the hold of his ship like so many head of beef or crates of fruit? Graaf’s claim that he’d been unaware of the people his first mate had purchased—even if it were true—did not excuse the man. Nothing could.

Oh, Martín knew what Sarah said. She was a Christian. Christians practiced forgiveness.

He could not begin to countenance forgiveness of such a matter. Slavery and the willingness to engage in it merited only one response: vengeance. Well, and perhaps death.

Martín chewed at his cheek and twirled the splintered quill between his fingers. He’d repeatedly tried to use Sarah’s forgiveness of Graaf to work up a dislike for her, but never succeeded. Her propensity to forgive anyone for anything—except him, of course—aggravated, annoyed, and angered him, but it didn’t make him dislike her.

But he disliked intensely her effect on him. He hated how she dominated his mind and ruined all other women for him. And it drove him mad to see her laughing and talking with his crew. It drove him even crazier when he realized he was displaying his craziness to either her or his men.

Her attitude toward Graaf was infuriating, but at least she showed him no preference. Daniels, on the other hand . . . The younger man seemed determined to assume the role of Sarah’s protector. He’d even had the effrontery to linger around her when she was near Martín, as if Martín were some vile, corrupting influence that should be kept at bay. What made it worse was Martín agreed with Daniels. He was a corrupting influence. All Martín could think about was getting her into his bed and corrupting her. Again and again.

He dropped his head into his hands. “Merde.” Why couldn’t he ignore the traitorous thoughts his mind seemed increasingly bent on generating? He yearned for the time before Sarah Fisher dominated his every waking—and sleeping—hour, when he’d been happy, or at least ignorant of anything other than fulfilling his appetites for pleasure and vengeance in equal measures.

What had happened to him? Perhaps it was some fever of the brain? He would speak to Ramsay when he reached Eastbourne. The man had a far greater knowledge of mental and emotional workings, subjects Martín had always considered irrelevant in the past.

In any case, it was Martín’s plan to bring his two “guests” to the baron’s hall near Eastbourne. It was rude to make such plans without asking Ramsay, but where else could Martín keep the king of the Netherlands’ bloody cousin while making arrangements to haul him to London?

Martín could put Sarah at Ramsay’s, along with the Dutchman. Ramsay’s wife would know what to do with Sarah. While Martín didn’t entirely trust the baron’s reserved, clever wife, he did think she was unusually practical for a woman. He respected her, which was something he didn’t feel for many females. She handled her husband—a man whose name still struck terror in savage killers all over the globe—with impressive ease. Martín had initially made the mistake of underestimating Lady Ramsay and would never do so again. She was the perfect person to assist Sarah with her foray into British society.

He could leave Sarah in the baroness’s capable hands, take Graaf to London, and deposit him with British officials. There would be no point in lingering and waiting for resolution of the Dutchman’s case, which he doubted would ever come to anything. Martín would be lucky if he even received reimbursement for transporting and feeding the man.

After he’d disposed of Graaf? Well, Martín could do whatever he wanted. He could go to Paris, something he’d never been able to do because of the damned war.

He looked down at the desk, at the sheet of paper Sarah had left for him. The page was filled with her neat writing, sentences, word problems, and other exercises. Suddenly, it struck him like an axe between the eyes: he could read. Not quickly or easily, of course, but he got better every day. Now, with his dictionary—yet another thing she’d given him—he could read anything he wanted.

What had he given her? Passage back to England, a thing that cost him almost nothing? That night in her cabin? Yes, he had certainly given her something then. Pleasure, followed by humiliation.

Martín dropped his head into his hands. Merde. He couldn’t wait for this endless journey to be over.

Chapter Nineteen

Sarah closed the book she’d been reading, a history of the Roman Empire, and placed it on the pile with the rest of the books she’d borrowed. She needed to return them. Tomorrow they would reach England, and she would be in a homeland she knew nothing about. Terror simmered in her stomach at the thought of leaving the ship.

The thought of leaving Bouchard was even worse.

Sarah closed her eyes and dropped her head back against the wall with a thud. Why could she not love Daniels, who had asked for her hand in marriage two days earlier? Why must she love the only man on this ship who took pleasure in showing her he preferred the company of prostitutes to her?

The thought of him with other women made her entire body tense with fury. Even worse than that was the painful knowledge that she had fallen for him just like every other woman. How she wished she’d thrown him out of her cabin the last time he’d entered it. It was agonizing to recall how easily he’d demonstrated his mastery over her body.