Page 110 of Scandalous

Martín marched up and down the deck of the Scythe looking for something or someone to criticize. He was aware of his mood—bad—but felt no compunction to do anything about it.

His eyes swept the deck, searching for his first mate, a man called Butkins. Butkins was new and highly recommended by Ramsay to fill Beauville’s place.

Not only did Martín have to adjust to a new first mate, but his second had also decamped. Daniels had taken an offer from Beauville of all people. Martín had left Oak Park in Beauville’s hands, providing the Frenchman and his new young bride with a home and an immediate position.

To repay him, Beauville had stolen Daniels to act as steward. Not that Martín had ever felt any particular attachment to Daniels, or even liked him. In fact, the man had annoyed him more often than not. But it was the principle of the matter that counted.

Martín paced and brooded about the duplicitous nature of men.

That subject naturally led him to his new, and apparently invisible, second mate. A man whose surname was, laughably, Newman.

Martín had only caught a glimpse of Newman as he’d scuttled on board at the last possible moment and darted below deck.

“Mr. Newman is, er, well, he’s very ill, Captain,” the idiot Butkins had reported when Martín had questioned him on the matter.

A sailor who got ill before his ship even left port? It could not be a coincidence. It had to be some manner of farce—most likely perpetrated by Ramsay. Yes, Martín smelled the influence of Ramsay the same way a mouse could smell cheese.

“Butkins!” His bad mood was made even worse at having to yell such a stupid name.

Feet pounded the deck behind him, and Martín turned.

“Uh, Captain Bouchard?” The shorter man slid to a halt mere inches from his face.

Martín took a step back. “Where is the elusive Mr. Newman?”

“Uh, Mr. Newman?”

“Is it your intention to begin every sentence with ‘uh’ and follow with a repetition of my own words, Butkins?”

“Uh . . . that is, no, sir.”

Martín waited.

“Mr. Newman is below deck, sir. He is . . . uh . . . not well. Or so I comprehend, sir.”

“Mr. Butkins, I am sure it is not necessary for me to point out to you that we are now well under way. At this point in the voyage, at least in my humble experience, it is customary for the second to give his captain a thorough report on trivial matters such as tonnage, cargo—things of that nature.” He smiled down at the smaller man, who wilted away from him as if Martín were a noxious gas.

“Uh . . . that is, begging your pardon, sir—”

Martín held up his hand, rather than wrapping it around the other man’s neck. “I am going to my cabin, Mr. Butkins. I want you—without speaking another word to me—to have Mr. Newman sent directly to my cabin, no matter what the condition of his health.”

Martín stormed down the stairs, stopping only to check on Gaston, whom he’d installed in the same cabin Graaf had once occupied. Martín cracked the door and waited until his eyes adjusted. The boy was fast asleep, his chest moving slowly and deeply. Martín watched for a few moments before closing the door.

His son was a very good boy, although far too quiet. He was also, understandably, torn with grief over his mother’s death. But Gaston’s reticence was not just the result of grief; it was that of a boy who’d lived his entire life balanced on the edge of a precipice. Martín knew the feeling well and could only hope Gaston would come out of his shell now that he was no longer under d’Armand’s warped influence.

Martín opened the door to his cabin and froze. A man sat slumped over his desk.

“Who the devil are you?” Martín demanded.

The figure sat upright, but did not turn.

Martín strode forward and yanked the chair around. “I said—”

The man’s hat tumbled to one side, and brown hair spilled around a pale, freckled face.

“Mon Dieu!”

“Hello, Martín.” Sarah stood and took a step toward him.