Page 13 of Scandalous

He filled the doorway, his disconcerting yellow eyes flickering between Daniels and Sarah.

“That will be all, Daniels,” he said, his intense gaze finally settling on her. “Come in, Miss Fisher.” He ushered her inside and closed the door in his second mate’s face.

Bouchard’s lair was as sensual and lush as the man himself. It was nothing like Graaf’s, which had been elegant, but spare. An ornate, carved desk stood against the wall just inside the door. Above the desk was a built-in mahogany bookshelf that contained dozens of books. Sarah’s breath quickened at the sight of such riches and her hands twitched to browse their contents. She’d had only a half-dozen well-used books in her possession and those had been destroyed when the slavers burned down the small mission school. She restrained the impulse to gorge on books and looked around the rest of the room.

A huge bed occupied the entire right side of the cabin, the masculine lines of the dark wood softened by layer upon layer of brown and gold bedding. It was a bed designed for something other than sleeping. Wicked, unbidden images of the man behind her leapt into her head and Sarah flushed and turned away.

A table surrounded by wooden benches took up most of the other side of the cabin. Brown leather cushions padded the benches, and the table was covered with a fine linen cloth and set for two, complete with a small pair of brass candle holders and tapered white candles. Sarah reached out and fingered one of the snowy linen napkins, marveling at the beauty of the scene.

“Wine?” Bouchard asked.

Sarah turned, no longer able to avoid looking at him. Like her, he had bathed and changed clothes. His robe was a dull gold and tied loosely over a sand-colored tunic and trousers. Sarah’s gaze fixed on the flesh that was exposed by his collarless shirt. His smooth brown skin was still damp, and she could smell the clean, fresh scent of soap, the same as the cake she’d used.

She looked up to find him watching her, his full lips pulled into a knowing smile. He oozed an arrogant confidence that told her he was used to female adulation and viewed it as his due. He was indeed a perfect physical specimen, but Sarah forced herself to recall the man who occupied the body: a man who would cut off another person’s head as easily as he would smash a fly.

He placed a glass in her hand and took a drink from his own vessel, his eyes watchful.

Sarah had never tasted wine before and took only the smallest of sips. The dry, tangy taste was not unpleasant, but it was not what she’d expected. She put down the glass, refusing to allow alcohol to turn her into a babbling fool.

“You have a fine selection of books, Captain.” She inched around him and went to the bookshelf. “May I?” she asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

“My cabin is your cabin.” Bouchard managed to imbue the innocent words with a carnality that made her blush.

Sarah ignored the innuendo and motioned to a volume by Pope. “Tell me, Captain, why do you keep some of your books upside down?” She turned around when he didn’t answer.

Bouchard’s eyes flickered over the shelf, and an odd expression crossed his face. He shrugged. “Perhaps Daniels or Beauville borrowed one and put it back that way. You like to read?”

Sarah turned back to the selection, more than one of which was upside-down. “Yes, I do,” she murmured, her attention on the books. “Oh, you have Herodotus in Greek.” She skimmed past it and plucked a different volume from the shelf, a book she’d not heard of, Clarissa.

Bouchard came to stand beside her, looking at the book she held in her hands.

“I do not read Greek. That one was here when I took the ship.” He stared somewhat fixedly at the book she held, his jaw tense.

Sarah frowned and turned the book’s spine toward him, so the title, Clarissa, was clear. “I should like to borrow this—do you mind?”

He glared at the book, a small line of annoyance forming between his eyes. “I already said I do not read Greek. Take it and keep it—consider it a gift.”

He turned away, as if tired of the subject of books. “Come, let us sit and enjoy the food my cook has prepared for us.”

Sarah’s jaw sagged and she stared at his broad back as the realization struck her.

He could not read and was trying to hide it.

An almost suffocating wave of pity welled up inside her for the handsome, arrogant man. How terrible it would be not to be able to read. How did he manage to function as captain of this fine ship? Did he have a man of affairs to manage his business? Why had he never learned to read?

Bouchard gestured to a plate arrayed with unrecognizable foods, and Sarah decided it would be wise to dismiss such questions from her mind. The matter did not concern her. She had plenty of her own problems—many caused by the man in question.

She took a seat and pointed to some hard-looking yellow slabs. “What are these?”

His brows rose. “You have not had cheese before?”

“I have heard of it, but never tasted any.”

“That is a type of cheddar.”

“Before I eat, Captain, the people who were in the hold—”

“Luckily we resupplied only ten days ago, so Mr. Beauville was able to bring ample food, water, and supplies from my ship to make sure the captives have what they need.” He frowned. “Understandably, most have chosen to sleep on deck. They are crowded, but it does not make sense to transport people onto this ship, where there is actually less available room given the number of my crew. The weather is pleasant and should stay so for the next few days. Also, our ship’s surgeon has gone over and examined a few of the captives who were very weak and ill. Those have been put in crew cabins and are being treated.”