Page 47 of Scandalous

“I daresay we are shockingly forward, but we couldn’t help introducing ourselves to you. After all, we feel as if we know you.” The woman spoke French with the accent of the islands. The other woman, obviously her twin, smiled and nodded her head.

Martín was struck speechless, his mind racing over the possibilities. They were unusual looking to say the least, garbed in colorful dresses that seemed to have been designed with whimsy, rather than fashion, in mind. He couldn’t imagine they were whores; he certainly would not have forgotten them. The one who’d spoken had sounded far too well-bred to work in a bordello.

“We met Miss Fisher today,” the second one explained after enjoying his look of confusion for a moment. “She came to us for new dresses.”

“Ah.” Martín nodded his understanding, clear as to who they were but not what they wanted. “I am pleased to meet you.” He looked inquiringly at the woman who stood nearest.

“Oh, how silly. Yes, I am Arlette DuValle, and this is my sister, Adele.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Martín said again, taking each lady’s hand and bowing, still perplexed.

“Miss Fisher told us all about you, Captain,” said one of the sisters, he’d already forgotten which one. She was eying him with a look he could only call provocative—a look he was accustomed to receiving, although not from such elderly women.

“Oh, er, is that so, Mademoiselle DuValle?” Her smile told him he had judged correctly that she was a spinster.

“We were quite taken with Sarah. We were so happy to do what we could for her, even though she argued fiercely against taking charity.”

Martín felt a strange falling sensation in his stomach. “She did not pay for her dress?”

“Oh, goodness, no. We told her it was not charity, but a loan, and she could send us payment when she returned to her family.”

“I see.”

The two women regarded him with their sharp dark eyes, like two small birds.

“You will see that she is safely returned to her family, Captain?” The woman’s words were pleasant, but her eyes hard.

He nodded, unable to speak.

“We have several more frocks to send with her. Our girls are working late into the evening, but we’ll have them to your ship before you depart.”

Martín blinked, uncertain which woman had just spoken. “Please excuse me. I have an appointment.” He lurched away without waiting for a response. He could feel their eyes on his back, no doubt guessing where he was headed. He turned the corner and then slumped against the nearest shop front, staring at the ground before him. She had not taken gifts from Graaf or Daniels. And for that Martín had treated her like a whore. Worse than a whore. He had never behaved so disrespectfully—so cruelly—to any woman he’d paid.

He stood against the cool stone wall, his mind racing.

“Can I help you, monsieur?”

Martín looked up to find a man—a shopkeeper, Martín guessed—staring at him. He waved the man away and continued down the street. He needed to be someplace where he could think. Or not think.

The two-story pitch pine house looked almost uninhabited from the street. He knew from experience that large windows overlooked the back courtyard, a delightful, hidden garden that was protected from prying eyes.

The door opened before he knocked. “Captain Bouchard,” a tiny woman with almond-shaped eyes said. “I’d heard you’d returned to our little island. Welcome back.” She ushered him inside, and Martín entered the cool dimness of the house, leaving the hot chaos of his thoughts behind him.

Chapter Seventeen

Beauville watched without comment as Bouchard stalked across the deck of the Scythe. Judging by his stiff gait, the Captain had spent the prior two nights—and days—with more than one bottle. And probably with more than one woman.

He shook his head as the captain descended to his cabin. Beauville had known two days ago that the captain would not be back for the tide. He hadn’t been surprised when the time to leave had come and gone. And he most certainly had not been foolish enough to send somebody ashore to find him.

Bouchard’s whoring had always been legendary, even among sailors, a group who were notorious for their sexual appetites. That said, Beauville could not recall the last time he had seen his captain so deep inside the bottle, and certainly not twice in one journey. It was as if Bouchard needed to ply himself with drink before he could engage in his usual pursuits.

Beauville was not entirely without thoughts on the matter. He’d seen the way the captain stared at Miss Fisher when he thought nobody was watching. A smile pulled at his mouth. As smart as Bouchard was in most matters, he certainly seemed to be stupid when it came to his own heart. That didn’t surprise Beauville. He would never deny Martín Bouchard was a loyal friend and generous master, but he’d long suspected the man didn’t have a heart when it came to the fairer sex. No, Bouchard was a true menace to a woman’s peace of mind and virtue.

Beauville could not count the number of times women had come seeking Bouchard, crying, begging and—on one memorable occasion—brandishing a gun.

The striking ex-slave was more skilled at attracting the opposite sex than any man Beauville had ever known. He was also colder and more ruthless than any when it came to discarding them. The first mate believed he knew his captain as well as anyone could know such a proud, arrogant man and doubted Bouchard ever completely opened his budget with anyone. Well, perhaps he was honest with his mentor, One-Eyed Standish, a man as inscrutable as himself.

The captain was as scarred by life as any man could be, and for good reason. Beauville himself had been a slave on a corsair galley for a little over a year before his ship was captured and he was freed by One-Eyed Standish.