Page 48 of Scandalous

Bouchard had been born a slave, chattel since the day he came into the world. Beauville shuddered at the thought of his captain’s brutal past. The man could hardly have ended up any differently than he had.

But lately the captain had been stranger than usual. His behavior around the plain missionary woman was different from anything Beauville had seen before. If he had been forced to guess, he would have said Bouchard was acting like a jealous lover. Beauville had found him more than once lurking outside the Dutchman’s cabin, always when Miss Fisher was inside.

Beauville chuckled to think of the hardened captain finally losing his heart to a woman or even discovering that he had a heart. And to such a woman as the missionary. Not that Sarah Fisher was ugly, far from it. But she was nothing compared to the women Bouchard had always attracted in droves—not just whores, but beautiful women, rich women. Women who would do anything for him.

As far as Beauville could tell, Sarah Fisher treated Bouchard the same way she did Daniels or Graaf, both of whom also seemed besotted by the kind, rather plain woman.

He shrugged. It was one of life’s mysteries. Who knew why a person’s heart made the choices it did? Certainly not he. After all, Beauville was besotted with a mere slip of a girl he had seen only twice in the town of Eastbourne. He’d never even spoken to her, and he was as lovelorn as his captain. He could not stop thinking of her and would have to make her an honest offer when he returned to England. She was not the type of woman who would accept anything less.

Beauville sighed with contentment; the idea of taking a wife and settling down held more than a little appeal. For most of his life he’d lived on a ship and rubbed shoulders with both the best and the worst of men. Like most sailors he knew few females other than whores or the promiscuous wives of men who did not take care of their women. When it came to women of virtue, he was without a clue. Maybe the dark-haired little serving wench would not want an older, battered French husband. All he could do was ask.

He did not think his arrogant captain would allow the capture of his heart with such a sanguine attitude. Bouchard had the look of a man who would go down fighting, all the way to the bitter end.

Chapter Eighteen

A sharp rapping sound shook Martín from his restless slumber. Before he could find his voice to tell whomever it was to go away, Sarah Fisher entered his cabin, slamming the door with unnecessary force. He winced, closed his eyes, and pushed his head under a large, soft pillow.

“Why are you still abed, Captain Bouchard? I believe we have three lessons this morning since you missed the last two.”

The pillow did nothing to muffle her piercing voice.

“Captain?”

She would not go away. That much was plain. Martín inhaled deeply and squinted through eyes that were swollen and watery with drink.

And pain.

He carefully cleared his throat, but even that hurt his head. “Ah—”

“You may view my teaching as a frivolous waste of time, but I see it as the only way to pay my debts. I see you are incapacitated. The result of alcohol and prostitutes, no doubt. Be that as it may”—her voice went up an octave—“I can only answer for my own behavior. I will complete our arrangement as agreed. I can work around your indisposition. I will return in an hour.” She stomped to the door and then stopped, swinging around. “Oh, I purchased this in town, mistakenly believing you would enjoy it.”

Martín barely dodged the missile she hurled at his head.

She did not wait for a response before slamming the door behind her. He could feel the thud of her feet as she stomped down the corridor.

Martín picked up the brown paper-wrapped package, curiosity overwhelming the pain in his head. A gift? He had received very few gifts in his life. His hands shook as he unwrapped the package; it was a book. His hand scrabbled blindly on the nightstand for Graaf’s spectacles, which he had not yet returned. He put them on and looked at the book. It was a dictionary. Inside, on the flyleaf, was her neat, careful writing: For my friend Captain Bouchard, may you never be at a loss for words, Sarah Fisher.

He dropped his head back on the pillow, moaning in pain at the sudden movement.

Martín was a jackass, but it hurt too much to think about it right now. He’d barely closed his eyes when he realized somebody was at his door again. This time it was a soft scratching sound, rather than pounding.

“Yes,” he called weakly, not bothering to sit up for fear he would vomit. He cracked an eyelid and watched through a watery, red haze as Jenkins entered the room, not making a sound.

The little man held a tray, his shifty eyes darting from Martín to the table and back to the bed. “I’ve brought you some hot coffee. I’ll go and fetch your hot water while you drink it. Miss Fisher sent me, Captain,” he added, when Martín failed to move or respond.

“Miss Fisher?”

Martín could hear his wiry servant swallow from across the room. The soft clink of a spoon on china filled the long pause. “I’ll just put your coffee here, sir.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Fisher says you’re to be ready for a meeting in an hour, sir.”

The door latch clicked shut, telling him Jenkins had departed without waiting for an answer.

That was just as well, as Martín seemed incapable of giving one. A rich, dark aroma teased his nostrils, and he propped himself up and took the steaming cup in his shaking hands, clutching it tightly before putting it to his lips.

“Ahhhh.” He clenched his jaws as hot liquid scorched his throat. Any pain was better than that in his head.

Martín drained his cup before he knew it and reached for the pot.

The second cup jarred loose the memories of the last few days. Well, some of them.