Page 26 of Scandalous

He must have placed it in her room. Sarah picked up the book and stared at it, as though it could tell her something. She didn’t understand the kind gesture any more than she understood the man.

Chapter Eight

Martín led his two companions toward the Vice-Admiralty Court, forcing himself to maintain a dignified pace and not sprint. He couldn’t wait to get rid of his charges. The past few days onboard the ship with them had been beyond aggravating, and he’d been humiliated to realize that he’d been avoiding the woman—on his own bloody ship.

The building they were looking for was at the end of a scruffy street not too far from the harbor. It had been a while since he’d last been to the frontier town, and time had not improved it much. Like every other structure in the ramshackle town, Admiral Keeton’s office was made of irregular planks of raw wood, which gave it the appearance of having been designed by a drunken architect and then built by drunken sailors—which was probably not far from the truth. A limp-looking flag dangled from a tall bamboo pole, and a single soldier stood beside the entrance. The soldier bulged out of his uniform in more than one place and did not look like much of a threat. He sized up the approaching visitors with an insolent smirk that made Martín’s hands curl into fists.

“We are here to speak to Admiral Keeton.”

“And who are you?” His eyes slid over Martín’s two companions and then snapped back again, when he realized one of them was a woman wearing men’s clothing.

“Captain Bouchard of the Golden Scythe,” Martín barked, unaccountably annoyed by the way the man’s eyes were traveling over the missionary woman’s body.

The soldier stiffened and looked at him with an expression that was no longer slack and disrespectful. “Captain Bouchard?”

Martín frowned. “As you see.”

“The Captain Bouchard?”

Martín glared, and the man jolted into action and yanked open the door.

“I’ll be back right smartly, sir,” he said, before darting into the house.

“It would seem your reputation precedes you, Captain Bouchard,” Graaf said.

“Perhaps I should have mentioned your name instead, Captain?” Martín retorted, sneering at the flush that crept up the blond man’s throat.

The soldier returned before the seething Dutchman could answer. “The admiral will see you at once, Captain Bouchard.”

The admiral’s office was everything Martín had expected: a dreary little room in a dreary little house. The admiral himself was a dreary little man, and he looked well past his prime. Martín was not surprised. Freetown would not be considered a plum posting.

Keeton rose as Martín entered the muggy, dingy office. “Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure to meet you. I have heard much about you.”

That was more than Martín could say about Keeton. He’d never heard the man’s name before today. Still, an admiral was not a person to trifle with. Besides, why behave churlishly when the man was so obviously pleased to see him?

“Thank you for agreeing to see me so quickly, Admiral.”

“I have heard much about your exploits—and Captain Standish’s too, of course. Some of those stories came from Admiral Nelson himself.” The red-faced man had an unhealthy sheen of sweat on his face. Living in the tropics was not something that tended to improve one’s constitution.

Martín indulged the man in a few minutes of chatter before steering the conversation to the point and launching into a succinct explanation of the past few days.

Keeton’s bloodshot eyes moved from Martín to the Dutchman and narrowed, as if he were trying to recall something.

“So,” Martín concluded a few minutes later, “I’ve taken the liberty of releasing those of Graaf’s crew who assisted me against the mutineers. Captain Graaf, the rest of the mutineers, and his ship, however, I relinquish to your possession.”

The admiral had not stopped staring at Graaf.

“Graaf?” The admiral cleared his throat. “Are you any relation to Hertog Graaf, er, that is, His Grace of Orange?”

Graaf sighed, as though the weight of the world had just been lowered onto his spindly shoulders. “Yes, he is my grandfather.”

Keeton seemed to shrink to half his size before Martín’s eyes. He swallowed audibly. “Ah, yes, very good, my . . . ?”

“Captain Graaf will do, Admiral.”

Martín stared at the younger man as comprehension slowly dawned. He had captured a bloody Dutch peer? He had to clamp his jaw tight to hold back his yell. He knew he should have thrown the useless, slaving, effete-looking fool off his ship when he’d had the chance. Now it was too late. It would take years to get his reward with a member of the peerage involved.

The admiral interrupted Martín’s internal raging. “And who is this, Captain Bouchard?” He motioned to the woman.