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.
He picked up his glass and stared into the amber liquid. For years he’d allowed the situation to stand—enabled the men who’d striven to keep him ignorant and vulnerable. Tomorrow he would change that, and all those men could go to hell. He threw back the rest of his brandy and bared his teeth as it burned down his throat. He was free, wealthy, and the master of his own destiny; he could do anything he wished.
His arm itched, and he scratched until it bled.
Chapter Eleven
Sarah crawled around the cabin floor on her hands and knees and collected the scattered paper, broken quill, and empty ink well, grimacing at the stain spattered across the lovely silk bedding.
“Miss Fisher? Are you all right?” Daniels stood in the open doorway, his boyish features compressed with anxiety.
Bouchard hadn’t bothered to close the door after flinging it open and stomping off, cursing furiously in French and a collection of other languages.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Daniels.” She accepted his hand up and held out the damaged quill. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather clumsy.” It was easier to claim the effects of the captain’s tantrums as her own, as she’d been doing almost every day for weeks.
Sarah had guessed Captain Bouchard might be a challenging pupil, but nothing had prepared her for the difficulties she faced. He was the most impatient, arrogant, and excitable person she’d ever known. If he did not grasp a concept immediately—which he did often, as his mind was agile and hungry—he became enraged. If he wasn’t flinging the contents of the table across the room, he was accusing her of toying with him, as he’d done today. She must be failing Bouchard somehow; otherwise he wouldn’t react with such frustrated anger.
“You should be more careful, Miss Fisher. This is the fourth quill I’ve fixed for you this week,” Daniels chided, examining the splayed tip.
“I’m afraid I have rather a heavy hand, Mr. Daniels.”
Daniels closed the door to the captain’s cabin.
“Miss Fisher? Is that you?” Captain Graaf’s voice came from behind his cabin door as they passed and stopped both her and the second mate in their tracks. Sarah considered ignoring the bored aristocrat, but knew Daniels was watching her. It would be rude to ignore the man under such circumstances.
“Coming, Captain Graaf.” She nodded to the second mate and turned to walk the short distance to the Dutchman’s cabin.
His face lit up at the sight of her, and Sarah couldn’t help feeling flattered, even though she could not entirely like the man.
“Good afternoon, Captain. What can I do for you?”
“Please, won’t you sit and talk with me? Or read to me? Or play chess with me?”
Sarah made herself smile, although who he was and what he’d done was never far from her mind. Practicing forgiveness was proving to be more of a challenge than she had anticipated. “Very well, which do you prefer?”
“Perhaps a little talking and then a game of chess? Or maybe cards? Have you any cards?”
“No, I do not. I’m afraid I’ve never even seen a deck of cards.”
“Then I must procure some immediately. I will teach
you piquet, and maybe I’ll be able to beat you at something. I am quite exhausted from all the beatings I have endured in chess. Can you not let me win every fifth or sixth time?” He importuned her with eyes that were a clear, celestial blue. As his health improved, his demands on her attention increased. His growing infatuation was not surprising; Sarah was the only person onboard who would interact with him.
She gave a little snort of contempt. She could captivate a nobleman she privately despised, and could befriend several of Bouchard’s crew, but not the frustrating Frenchman himself. A man who made it no secret that he preferred whores to her.
“You look so sad. What are you thinking, Miss Fisher?”
Sarah sat down. “I am merely tired.”
He made a tsking sound. “I told you helping Bouchard with his bookwork would not be a pleasant task.”
Doing bookwork to pay for her passage was a myth she’d concocted to explain why she spent so much time in Bouchard’s cabin. She doubted the pretense would be necessary for much longer.
She chewed her lower lip. If she couldn’t find some way to break through whatever was stopping Bouchard from progressing, he would call a halt to her efforts. She’d wracked her brain for weeks over what the problem was. He was quick at writing and reading the sample exercise she drew up every day, but when it came to reading an actual book, he became sullen and angry. Perhaps she wasn’t offering him items that interested him enough to learn? Maybe he would prefer ship records?
Graaf’s voice intruded on her thoughts. “Come, you are very distracted today, Miss Fisher. What is it?”
Sarah looked at his earnest, hopeful face and felt a pang. She forced the more interesting topic of Captain Bouchard from her mind and tried to concentrate on the man across from her. “Please, won’t you call me Sarah? We have been on this ship for several weeks, and there are still many to go.”
His pale cheeks tinted. “I would like that very much, Sarah. You must call me Mies. Captain Graaf is not only a mouthful, it is also not a title I’ve earned.”
Sarah ignored the last part of his comment. “Your cough seems to have gone away. How are you feeling otherwise?”
“Better each day. No doubt I will be ready to get on a ship and make the journey home when we reach England.”
Not if Bouchard had anything to say about it.
Sarah frowned at the thought. Was there no topic of discussion that did not lead her back to the aggravating captain? “Tell me about your home—what is it like?”
Graaf’s expression lightened at her invitation, and soon he was painting a vivid image of the life he’d left behind at his father’s bidding. As she listened to stories of his indulgent older siblings and parents, Sarah realized he was not evil, but rather a weak-willed man who had done something evil. The realization made it easier to forgive him, but she could never respect such a man, nor could she forget he’d been willing to trade in other human beings.
“And you, Sarah, what of your childhood? It is always I who talk. But your life must have been unusual indeed, living in the jungle among savages.”
Sarah flinched at his characterization of her friends and neighbors, but he didn’t seem to notice. She bit her tongue. Why try to make him see the error of his thoughts when she did not care what he thought?
“There must have been many different and dangerous animals. Tell me, did you ever see a lion or tiger?”
The ridiculous question made her laugh. “Tigers do not live in Africa.”
She was still teasing him for his ignorance when Captain Bouchard appeared in the doorway. Sarah always left the door to the Dutchman’s cabin open when she was with him.
“Ah, Captain Bouchard,” Graaf said. “I am glad you are here. Sarah has been abusing me. You must remind her that I am an ill man.”
Bouchard’s eyebrows rose at the nobleman’s use of her Christian name, and Sarah flushed under his disconcerting yellow gaze. “Sarah is quite skilled at finding a man’s weaknesses, Graaf. I hesitate to draw her attention to mine.”
Sarah glared at him. “I didn’t think you had any weaknesses, Captain Bouchard.”
“You should not work her so hard, Bouchard. Surely you have someone else who can serve as your steward. Too much reading is bad for a lady’s eyes.”
Bouchard’s lids lowered. Sarah hoped he did not think the Dutchman’s comment meant she had been complaining. The bitter twist of his lips and his next words disabused her of that hope.
“I believe I am almost out of work for Mademoiselle Fisher.”
“Excellent. I plan to teach her to play cards. Can you believe she does not know any card games, Captain?”
Bouchard turned away. “Mademoiselle Fisher is good at games. I’m sure she will be a quick learner,” he tossed over his shoulder, closing the door behind him.
* * *
That night, for the first time since leaving N’goe, Sarah dreamt of her parents.
She was in the rickety two-room building that had been her family’s home since before she’d been born. Her father lay in the room that doubled as master bedroom and dining room. It was either the eleventh or twelfth of June; she was never sure afterward. In any event, it was the peak of the wet season, and everything was coated with a layer of fine, slimy mist. The air was so heavy it was like breathing water. Insects the size of saucers buzzed and bombarded the heavy netting that surrounded her parents’ bed. Well, it was her father’s bed, as her mother had died a few weeks before.
It was nighttime, and Michael Fisher was finally dozing after a day of coughing up blood and writhing in agony. Abena had been needed by other sick villagers that night, so Sarah had been alone. She’d done the best she could without the help of her friend—who was a far more skilled healer than Sarah could ever hope to be.
“Your father is dying, Sarah,” Abena had said, her dark brown eyes flooded with sympathy. “I have given him a very big dose of my pain-killing powder, which will make him sleep. It is the best we can do to ease his passing.”
If not for Abena and the compounds she made, Sarah’s father would have died in screaming agony.
Sarah’s mother had always been dismissive of folk remedies. “It is foolish to put your faith in a people who believe tying a bone to one’s leg will be sufficient to heal a break,” she had said on more than one occasion.
Sarah had loved her mother, but never understood her. To Sarah, English and African medicine and culture were more alike than not. While the Africans might put their faith in an animal or plant spirit, Christians did the same with their belief in the saints and the Holy Trinity. Both groups relied on faith.
She must have been twelve the first time she spoke this observation out loud. She’d been helping her father patch a corner of their thatched roof.
He’d paused to wipe his forehead with a frayed handkerchief. “That is the observation of a natural philosopher, Sarah.” His eyes had drifted to where her mother labored over a tub of laundry. “While I find your comment thought provoking, I’m afraid your mother might not appreciate such speculation.”
Even then, Sarah had known what her father meant. Her mother clung to her beliefs with a rigidity that never bent or gave, even after a quarter of a century of hard, ceaseless labor. Clara Fisher viewed herself as a bulwark of Christianity between her family and the dangerous vastness that threatened to overwhelm them. Her mother would have given her last mouthful of food to another, but she would never believe the people of the small village of N’goe were not in need of saving.
Even on her deathbed she’d pursued her life’s goal. “I was a young woman once—I know you are torn by conflicting desires.”
Sarah had been stunned to hear her mother admit such a thing.
Clara had seen her surprise. “You want excitement, amusement, and all the other furbelows you read about in the books you sneak from the missionary barrel.” She nodded knowingly at Sarah’s flushed face. “Those are the temptations of the flesh, Sarah. You must fight them. You must conti
nue our good work here. Your father will need you now more than ever. We have not done as well as we’d hoped spreading God’s Grace, but the English School must go on.”
The name was a rather grand appellation for the one-room shack where both her parents spent their days and where they had undoubtedly picked up their sickness from one of their students. Her mother had become sick first. Her father had caught the jungle fever from his wife while he, Abena, and Sarah nursed her. Sarah couldn’t understand why she’d been spared the sickness when so many in their village had succumbed. Her father had struggled on for over two weeks after his wife. By the end, his skin was almost translucent, his narrow face wasted. The powder Abena had given him had bought him some peace, but his body still raged like a furnace in the humid heat.
Sarah must have fallen asleep because she woke to a gentle tugging sensation on her hand.
“Sarah?” her father croaked, his claw-like hand around hers.
“I’m here, Father.”
“The village, you must—”
“Shh,” she soothed, passing the clean, cool cloth over the boiling skin on his forehead. “I will continue with the school, Father. I gave Mother my word, remember?” Her father had been ill the night Clara died, but he’d been at her bedside and would have heard Sarah’s pledge.
He shook his head back and forth, wincing at the jerky movement as if it caused him more pain. “I want you to know—”
“What, Father? You want me to know what? What—”
Sarah’s own voice woke her at this point, just as it always did. She lay in the narrow bunk, shaking and sweating with frustration and shame as she listened to the now-familiar sound of the waves on the hull of the Golden Scythe as the ship flew through the night.
What had her father wanted to tell her? Was he on the brink of asking for some new, even weightier commitment or would his words have been a reprieve—an absolution—from the deathbed promise she’d given her mother? Guilt joined frustration, and she groaned and turned toward the small porthole window. The light from a partial moon silvered the room and somehow soothed her churning emotions.
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