Page 38 of Scandalous

“Perhaps, but that does not make it any less true. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who has considered grievous bodily harm from time to time.”

He grinned and looked down at the book.

“You were on his ship before you acquired the Scythe?” she asked.

“I was on the Batavia’s Ghost for almost seven years. I started out peeling potatoes and cleaning the head. But not at the same time,” he added with a playful look that made her heart thrash like an animal in a snare. “I was his second mate by the time we captured the Scythe.”

“He is a great friend of yours?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes still on the copperplate writing, as if he saw something else in the inscription. “There is nobody else quite like him.” He looked up, his eyes distant. “He saved me.”

“Oh?” She wondered how far she could pry. “How did he do that?”

Bouchard’s eyes sharpened, and he snapped the book shut, his face closing just as quickly. “You may read to the men so long as they work. If I see they are neglecting their chores, the reading will stop.”

Sarah sighed and took the book. “Thank you, Captain.”

He opened the door for her, shutting it quickly behind her.

The man was a mystery Sarah burned to solve. She flopped down on her hard bunk and closed her eyes. Why was she such a fool? He’d showed her in every way possible that he had no interest in her as a woman or a person. She suspected Bouchard didn’t actually think of women as people. The thought should enrage or disgust her, but it only made her more curious. Why couldn’t she transfer her affections to somebody more worthy? Somebody like Daniels, who respected her and cared about her comfort and well-being? The answer to that question was easy: she was a weak, besotted, heartsick fool.

* * *

The men performed their less taxing jobs during the heat of the day. That afternoon Sarah told Mr. Daniels what she’d planned, assuring him that she had Bouchard’s approval. He located a chair and placed it beside a group of men who were repairing rope and sails, which seemed to be never-ending chores.

They clambered to their feet when Sarah approached. “Please, do not get up.” She held up the book. “I thought I would read to you while you worked. I have found listening to a story makes doing tedious tasks more enjoyable.”

The men gaped, as if she’d just told them she’d come to instruct them in needlepoint and ballroom dancing.

Sarah lowered her head and fumbled with the book. What impulse had possessed her to think a bunch of hardened sailors would enjoy a children’s book?

She began to read.

The next time she looked up, a quarter of an hour later, several others had drifted over. One man was dismantling and cleaning a large piece of machinery, while one of the galley hands was peeling potatoes.

Daniels hovered off to one side to ensure nobody offered her any discourtesy. Sarah looked around at the collection of hardened, interested faces and smiled. She doubted she would have to worry about a lack of courtesy.

* * *

Between teaching Bouchard, reading to the crew, and entertaining the recovering Graaf, Sarah had little time to brood about her situation. It was not until they approached Tenerife, where they would stop to resupply and make some repairs, that she realized time was flying. She needed to give some thought to her plans.

She longed to talk to Bouchard about the matter, but she was still less than comfortable with him even though they no longer spent their daily lessons fighting. Unlike Mies, who was almost lighthearted in spite of his situation, Bouchard seemed determined to maintain a distance between them.

When he wasn’t ignoring her, he behaved like an arrogant, conceited beast. He was easily the vainest person she’d ever met. And rude, she mustn’t forget rudeness. He reveled in being rude. The only good thing she could say was that he didn’t limit his obnoxious treatment to her. He took particular delight in tormenting Mies. Sarah was ashamed to admit she took a certain degree of satisfaction from his mocking persecution of the Dutchman. Yet another reason to dislike Bouchard—the ease with which he managed to bring her down to his childish, unchristian, and vindictive level.

Sarah sighed as she tied the end of her plait with a frayed piece of ribbon, grateful she didn’t have a glass in her small cabin. Not that she needed a mirror with Bouchard around.

After their lesson had finished yesterday, she’d expressed her eagerness to explore her first port of call today. Bouchard had responded with his usual insensitivity.

“There are several dressmakers there. I trust you will be able to acquire something less hideous to wear.”

Sarah had stopped what she’d been doing—mending yet another quill for him, because he was too clumsy and rough on them—and gaped at him in disbelief.

It had taken at least a full moment of frigid silence before he’d noticed her glare.

“What?” he demanded, looking annoyingly clueless.

“Why must you say such hurtful things?”