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“You are pleased to jest, mademoiselle.”

She shrugged rather than answered. Why not give him a little of his own back?

“I have not yet gone to inspect the estate. There are still several issues to talk over with Exley, who has been overseeing some matters for me.”

“That is very kind of him.” Sarah was more than a little surprised to hear the haughty peer would take an interest in an ex-slave’s business.

“One would think him incapable of such kindness from looking at him, eh? But you mustn’t judge by appearances, mademoiselle.”

“No, I shouldn’t; you are correct.”

“Why do you sound so surprised? After all, I am correct about so much, eh?”

“If it pleases you to think so.”

“You please me, Sarah.” He spoke her name softly, his eyes darkening. Sarah looked quickly away, terrified she would launch herself into his arms and take whatever he wanted to give, not caring that it wouldn’t be enough.

Thankfully, the music ended, and she was saved from her reckless impulses. They stood for a moment longer than was proper before the shrill laughter of a nearby woman broke the spell.

“Thank you, Captain.”

He released her and stepped back; the moment had passed.

“The pleasure was mine.” He led her back to her friends, bowed, and took his leave. Sarah stared at his broad shoulders as they disappeared from view, the pain in her chest making it difficult to breathe. She knew less about him and his feelings for her than she had the night they’d met. She was beginning to think she never would know him.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Martín was laboriously reading Waverley with both English and French dictionaries open before him when Ramsay called. The baron tossed his hat onto a nearby table and looked about the room, his gaze lingering on the cluttered desk.

“You seem to have settled in quite nicely.”

“It lacks the amenities of Venetia’s, but it will do.”

“Daphne has kept your rooms ready for you,” Ramsay said, helping himself to a glass of brandy.

“You meddle like an old woman, Ramsay.”

“Somebody has to, my friend. When are you going to admit to yourself you want the girl?” He didn’t bother to explain which girl he meant.

Martín’s neck and face became hot. Ramsay, for a change, was not smiling.

Why bother with dissimulation? Besides, Ramsay would not stop until he got what he was after. The man was relentless.

“What can I offer her?” Martín asked, staring at the amber liquid in his glass and thinking back to the last time he’d argued with Sarah back on his ship, when she’d told him, in no uncertain terms, her opinion of him.

“Yourself.”

“You have a good sense of humor, Ramsay. Unfortunately, I am not in the mood to be amused.”

“You are behaving like a fool, Martín, a blind fool who cannot see what is right in front of him. The girl cares for you. She is sensible and makes up her own mind. Tell her the truth—she would not care about your past.”

“But I care. Do you think I want her to know I was a whore? Do you think she would ever look at me the same way again? Even if she did, what would her family say? Eh? Do you think they will welcome an ex-slave, murderer, whore into their family with open arms?”

“Nobody will ever know about the murder, Martín.”

“So you say, Hugh. But you don’t have to build your life on lies and wonder how long such a foundation will last.”

“So, tell me, then, what are you going to do, Martín? Keep running away, always afraid the past will catch you?”