Page 73 of Dangerous

“Excuse me, sir,” she murmured.

“The park,” he said in a loud whisper.

Mia glanced at the girls. They were too excited to get into the dress shop to notice anything else. Miss Temple, who was just behind her, did not comment on her unusual encounter but gave Mia a speculative look as she walked past.

The quarter of an hour she had to wait before making her escape was agonizing. Even then, she wondered if she were leaving too soon after Martín’s disruptive appearance. But she had to take the risk; she was terrified he would wander off and she’d never find him. Or worse: he’d show up at the house. She grimaced at the thought of Adam’s reaction to the virile, arrogant captain on his doorstep.

“I have something of a headache, Miss Temple. I believe I will take a chair and go back to the house.”

Mia dealt with the usual questions and concerns with polite demurs and smiles. Inside she was screaming. She was almost frantic by the time she was able to convince them she wouldn’t take the carriage and instead climbed into the chair that had been hailed by the dressmaker’s boy.

She had no idea what park Bouchard meant; the only parklike place she could think of was a square they’d driven past on their way to the dress shop.

Mia saw his broad shoulders and golden head from the far side of the street. She stopped the chair and paid the sturdy men the entire price for the journey.

She restrained herself from running to meet him, but still made the short journey with unseemly haste, her eyes sweeping the streets as she approached the bench where he sat. It was not private, but it would have to do. A wicked smile spread across his lips as he saw her flushed and anxious face. She seated herself and turned expectantly, annoyed by his arrogant expression. Had she made a mistake trusting him?

“Madame,” he greeted her, moving closer. Too close. She inched away from him and frowned to communicate her disapproval. It was pointless; he merely smiled.

“Why are you here, Bouchard?”

“So uncivil,” he answered in French.

She stared at him, waiting.

He smirked, amused by her irritation. “I met your man at Eastbourne. I tried to pay the big English idiot you sent to bring word to you, but he would not come back.” He raked her body with eyes the color of very old gold. “What have you done to your servant, madame?” Mia flushed at the man’s impertinent innuendoes. He shrugged at her narrow-eyed stare. “I take it the jewels you sent were not a gift for me?”

“Didn’t you read my note?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “My ship is having repairs and I decided to come see you myself.”

Mia snorted. What an arrogant fool. “You mean Ramsay’s ship is being repaired.” Drat! More delays.

“No, I mean my ship.”

“You no longer captain for Ramsay?”

“No. I now captain my own ship, the Golden Scythe.” Bouchard seemed to double in size, his expression beyond smug.

“The Golden Scythe,” she repeated dumbly.

He smirked. “Oui.”

Mia had heard of the ship before—many times, in fact. It had once been part of the loose fleet of corsairs who served the sultan. If Bouchard had seized the ship that meant her stepson Assad’s hold on his father’s empire must be slipping. Did that mean Jibril was gaining support?

She looked at Bouchard. “So you have a ship of your own now. Good. You will be able to take the packet I sent you and deliver it to my son. How long will your ship be under repair?”

“She is almost ready.”

Mia bit back a scream. “Then why are you wasting time coming here?” Her eyes narrowed. “If you think to bed me, Bouchard, you are—” He raised a hand, no longer smiling. Dread and terror flooded her as she saw the pity in his hard eyes. She grabbed his arm. “What? What is it? Why are you here?” Her high-pitched words drew the attention of a passing nanny carrying a baby and Mia swallowed down her hysteria. “Why have you come?” she repeated.

“I came because I thought to deliver the news myself.”

“Good God, Bouchard! What news?”

“Your son, he has been taken by Assad.” He looked away from her face and down at his hands, not so comfortable any longer.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is he . . . ?”