Page 31 of Scandalous

Her throat had constricted at his touch, and she gave a slight cough to clear it. “I came to offer you payment for my passage.”

He cocked one eyebrow.

“Not that kind of payment,” she snapped. “Besides, I should think you would be well and good in that department after last night.” Sarah instantly wished she could retract the words.

“Ah, mademoiselle, how little you know of men. We are never so ‘well and good’—as you so charmingly put it— to decline further offers in that department. If the offer is attractive enough.”

Her hand itched to slap the smug, insulting smirk from his face. “Do not worry, Captain; I am not offering my body in payment. I am repeating my offer to teach you to read and write.”

The amusement drained from his face, and he raked her with a hostile look that took her breath away. “Thank you, mademoiselle, but no thank you. The only payment I require from you is that you stay out of my business. And my cabin.” He turned and marched to the door.

“I, however, am not satisfied to be in your debt. You will agree to my form of payment or I will tell every member of your crew that you are illiterate.”

His hand froze in the act of reaching for the doorknob, and he turned around slowly and raised one hand to the side of his head. He tapped his ear. “I must have misheard you, mademoiselle. Surely you weren’t threatening me?”

Sarah flinched, even though his voice had not risen. “No, Captain, you did not mishear me. You will either submit to my teaching, or I will expose you.”

He was across the room in a heartbeat, not stopping until her nose touched his throat, forcing her to take a step back. He continued walking until she felt the wall at her back. And still he kept coming, until his hard thighs and chest pinned her, his body like warm stone.

“What is to stop me from simply throwing you overboard, mademoiselle?” His voice rumbled from his chest to hers like distant thunder.

“Very little.” She spoke into the muscular column of his throat, which was dotted with tiny dark hairs. She was momentarily distracted by the observation. She was also distracted by the smell of him. It reminded her of the last time their bodies had been this close. For a long moment there was only the feeling of his breath on her hair and the regular rise and fall of his chest against hers. And then he was gone, quicker than should have been possible.

He jerked open the door. “Come to me tomorrow after I have had my breakfast. I will give you an hour to convince me.”

Sarah bolted for the open door. It was not until she was back in her cabin that she stopped expecting to be struck in the back of the head and dumped from the ship. She had threatened him. His cabin had all but pulsed with menace. Would she even make it until tomorrow?

What had she been thinking?

* * *

What the devil had he been thinking?

The woman was an interfering menace, and he’d condemned himself to days spent in her presence.

Martín poured a glass of brandy, tossed it back in one swallow, and poured another.

It had taken Sarah Fisher less than one day to disturb his peace and attempt to take control of him. This time she’d done it more surely than if she’d put him at the point of his pistol.

But he knew a thing or two she did not. Her audacious threat had not scared him; it had liberated him. He would have cut off his own tongue before admitting how much he yearned to read and write. And now he could keep that precious organ because she believed she’d blackmailed him.

He knew he should have been disgusted by his pitiful subterfuge. He was too afraid to tell a mere girl what he wanted? The enormity of his own pride stunned him, but he ruthlessly shoved his surprise into a hole that was filled with other, far darker thoughts and fears.

Besides, why the hell should he tell her what he wanted or why he wanted it? She’d been correct in saying she owed him. Only a fool would expect payment from the British government for transporting her to England. Martín might as well derive some benefit from her annoying presence on his ship.

It was too damn bad he could not say the same about Graaf. He fiddled with the glass as he toyed with the idea of throwing the Dutch nobleman overboard. After all, it would be very easy to say he’d died of his fever. In fact, Graaf might die of his sickness anyway; it happened all the time.

He grinned, enjoying the thought for a few moments before dismissing it. If Martín threw Graaf overboard, he would have to throw the woman right behind him. Or right before him, if he wanted to be on the safe side.

Martín snorted. God only knew what she would do to him and his crew if she got wind that he was considering disposing of the Dutch peer.

No, he couldn’t get rid of Graaf because he couldn’t get rid of the woman. He needed her. Martín considered what he had just committed himself to: hours—no, days—in her company. Was he insane? The woman was a menace to any man’s peace. Thank God he’d never actually bedded her. He recalled her reaction to the news that he’d visited a whorehouse and smiled. Good! He wanted her to know she meant nothing to him, certainly no more than any other woman. He would keep his hands off her. She was too much trouble, and learning to read and write was more important than a quick fuck. Particularly given his pitiful performance in Freetown.

He snorted again and scratched at the brand on his shoulder. He did not hold much hope she could teach him anything. At thirty years of age—or even more, for all he knew—he was probably beyond the point of learning such things.

His arm itched like the devil, and he pulled off his jacket to scratch it. It didn’t seem to matter how hard he rubbed the hateful brand. Was it trying to tell him something? To remind him that teaching a slave to read and write was a crime in the United States? That it was even illegal for a slave to possess a book—or at least a damned bad idea. The brand on his arm was nothing compared to the brand of ignorance his owners had burnt into his brain.

The men who relied on slave labor knew well the need to keep their chattel under control.