“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?”
He lifted his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “What hurtful things? About your frock, you mean?”
“Yes, ‘about my frock.’” She mimicked his accent and perplexed tone even though she knew it was childish.
He laughed. “That is a very good imitation of me, mademoiselle. Are you trying to say something hurtful?” he asked, mimicking her in return. Sarah couldn’t help laughing at his pursed lips and artificially high voice.
“I do not sound like that. You are a vile beast.” She shook her head, annoyed at her inability to stay angry with him.
“Why? Because I would have you wear something less”—his brow wrinkled as he searched for the correct word—“unattractive?” His eyes swept up and down her body in a way calculated to make her temperature rise.
“Why should you care what I wear?” She finished the quill and slammed the small knife down on his desk, barely missing his hand. “Here is your quill, your highness. Next time you may fix your own.”
He moved the knife out of her reach. “I don’t understand what I have said that is so insulting. You should want to look more attractive for those around you. Why wear such a horrible gown when you can have something that makes you look nicer?”
It hurt beyond reason that he thought she needed a new gown to make her attractive. “I don’t have any money to buy a gown with, you idiot!” She sprang up, eager to leave him before she said or did something she regretted.
He was on his feet and at the door before her, blocking her exit.
“Stop a minute,” he said, taking her gently by the shoulders. “Why are you so angry? Is it because I have insulted you? Or because you have no money to buy yourself something pretty?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You should not be foolish. I am very happy to buy you something to wear—any dresses you desire, in fact.” His glorious eyes were gentle, almost pitying, as they roamed her face. Knowing what he was seeing—her plain face and skinny body—was like a kick to her stomach. A cruel vision of him embracing a woman equal in beauty to his own flashed through her mind, and she stiffened, recalling how this man preferred to take his pleasure.
“Thank you, but I am not some . . . whore to be purchased by pretty baubles. I’ll not take any charity from you, Captain.”
Bouchard flinched as though she’d struck him. His full lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed to slits. He reached an arm around her, the motion bringing their faces close. “Oh, mademoiselle, trust me,” he said in a voice that was like silk over iron, “you would not be taking charity. You would be doing us all a favor by making yourself more attractive.” He opened the door. “Please, don’t let me keep you.”
His smirking face blurred, and she blinked rapidly.
“You are odious beyond belief.” She had shoved past him and stormed toward her cabin, grinding her teeth at the sound of his laughter behind her. He was nothing but a vain, arrogant whore-mongering swine.
Sarah’s jaw firmed as she recalled his humiliating treatment yesterday, and she yanked on the worn cotton gloves that had come in the admiral’s small bundle of used clothes. Yesterday was the last time she would be kind to Bouchard. Oh, she would continue his lessons; she owed him that much. But yesterday would be the last time she allowed him to get under her skin.
The next time anyone’s skin was invaded, it would be his.
Chapter Fourteen
Martín was conferring with Beauville when they came into the harbor at Tenerife. They would be stopping for a few days, and there was the usual business of determining shore leave and arranging for repairs. By the time Martín went below deck, Sarah was not in her cabin. He pushed back his hat and scratched his head. Clearly she was still angry from yesterday.
He leaned against the doorframe and chewed the inside of his cheek. Her comment abo
ut whores hadn’t been directed against him or his sordid past, of course, but that hadn’t seemed to matter. He’d responded to her expression of distaste like a maddened dog, snapping and snarling. It was not until he was tossing and turning and failing to find sleep that he’d finally admitted the truth. He didn’t know why or when it had happened, but the plain missionary woman’s opinion of him mattered. When he thought about his past, and what she’d do if she knew about it, his chest became heavy with a toxic blend of fear, anger, and apprehension.
He closed the door to her empty cabin, wishing he could do the same with his thoughts. The Dutchman’s door was closed. Was she in there? He was at the door before he even knew he’d moved. He pressed his ear against the thick wood. No sound came from the other side. Were they in there together? Were they—
He yanked open the door.
The Dutchman yelped and dropped the book he’d been reading. Fear, surprise, resignation, and finally humor settled on his face. “Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure,” he said flatly. He picked up his book and looked at Martín over a pair of spectacles that were identical to the ones Martín wore—something that had irked him almost beyond reason when he’d found out. His first stop today would be a shop he’d visited often over the years. The last time he’d been on the island he’d brought his spyglass for repair. He could only hope the man also sold spectacles so he could return the pair he’d been using to the Dutch slaver.
Martín raked the blond man with a look that held all the contempt he felt. “I see you are dressed. Are you going someplace?”
The Dutchman smiled easily in return, far more confident now that he was not in danger of dying at any moment—at least not from his illness. “I’d hoped I might be allowed a little time on shore.”
“You hoped that, did you? And why should I let a prisoner have shore leave?”
The Dutchman flushed, but refused to rise to the bait. “Oh, come, Captain. What harm can it do? You have my word as a gentleman I will not try to escape. In fact, why may I not go with you? Or had you other plans? Perhaps you’d hoped to accompany Sarah?” His grin was sly, as if he knew something Martín did not. Martín wrestled with the same desire that threatened to overtake him whenever he was in the Dutch nobleman’s presence: the desire to toss him overboard.
Graaf smirked at him. “I’m afraid you are too late. Sarah has gone off with Daniels. That would be your fault, Captain. You gave him shore leave, I believe?” He shrugged one of his slim shoulders. “Of course you can always leave me here. I shall be glad to pass along any message you have for Sarah when she returns.”
It galled Martín to succumb to such an obvious ploy, but the thought of Sarah spending time alone with the idiot Dutchman galled him even more. It was better to take the fool with him. He certainly was not concerned about Graaf’s slipping off to freedom. That would actually be a bloody godsend, as Martín could then sail off and leave him here.
“I am leaving in five minutes. If you are not ready, you can stay in your cabin.”
Graaf sprang to his feet. “I am ready right now, Captain.” He snatched up his coat and shrugged himself into it easily.
The Dutchman had lost weight, but Martín grudgingly admitted the man still looked well in his impeccably tailored garments, a realization that made him want to murder him even more.
He strode from the cabin, not caring whether Graaf kept up or not. “I have several errands,” he flung over his shoulder. “So you’d best reconcile yourself to the fact that this won’t be a pleasure journey.”
“Any time not spent in my cabin will be a pleasure journey, Captain,” Graaf contradicted, breathing heavily as he all but sprinted to keep pace.
“Beauville!” Martín’s bellow drew his first mate’s attention away from the cluster of men awaiting their shore leave assignments.
“Yes, Captain?”
“I’m taking Captain Graaf out of his kennel for a little walk. Give me one of those men to accompany us. I’d hate to find myself suddenly overpowered and thrown into the bay by the good captain.” The men roared, and even the somber Beauville cracked a smile.
Martín left the ship with Graaf and a large, quiet black man known only as Banks. All Martín knew about Banks was that he was an escaped slave. The only reason he knew even that much was because Banks had volunteered the information to Beauville before he’d been hired. Martín didn’t know whom he’d escaped from or how he’d done it, and he didn’t care. As he knew only too well, the last thing an escaped slave enjoyed was questions about his life as another man’s chattel.
The three men made their way through the crush of people who milled between the harbor and the small town.
“What is our first destination, Captain?” The Dutchman’s voice was breathy as he tried to keep pace with Martín’s aggressive stride. Banks kept up the rear, his eyes on the prisoner. Martín was not worried Graaf would try to escape; he’d just wanted to humiliate the man by assigning him a guard as if he were a common prisoner. Graaf seemed unaware of Martín’s intention and looked around with open curiosity, clearly pleased at having gotten off the ship.
“We are going to an optical shop.”
“Are you purchasing something or having something repaired?”
Martín stopped suddenly, and Graaf careened into him. “If you plan on babbling like a woman the entire time, I’ll have Mr. Banks gag you or take you back to the ship.” Martín secretly wished to see the former scenario.
Graaf smiled, as if there were nothing he liked better than being threatened. “My apologies, Captain. I didn’t realize we were engaged in a mission requiring secrecy.”
Martín resumed his journey without comment, more than a little disappointed the Dutchman was proving so difficult to provoke.
The optics shop was in a small building at the very end of the main commercial street. Martín had been coming here for years and had purchased his first sextant from the old Scotsman who owned the shop.
A small, stooped man came out of a back room to greet them as soon as they opened the door. His gnomish face broke into a genuine smile. “Ah, Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure to see you again. It has been too long.” He extended a small, bent hand.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Farquhar. And how is your business?” The old man’s fingers felt like a bundle of dry, fragile twigs, and Martín was glad when he could let go of them.
“Oh, excellent, excellent. You’ve brought friends, I see?” The Scotsman peered up at the spindly Dutchman and hulking black man.
“This is Captain Graaf and Mr. Banks, one of my crew.”
“Welcome, gentlemen. Feel free to look around and ask me any questions.”
A long pause followed as Graaf and Banks stared at Martín.
He sighed, realizing he couldn’t keep the object of his visit a secret. He was also cheered by the fact that the old man was wearing glasses. “I am here to inquire about a pair of spectacles.”
Farquhar nodded. “You have developed a problem seeing things up close?” Martín’s surprise must have shown on his face. “Oh, it is nothing unusual, I assure you. All the greatest men wear them if they are lucky to live so long. Even your Mr. Jefferson wears spectacles,” he added, as if Martín would be comforted by the knowledge that an American slave owner was similarly afflicted with poor vision. Martín let the comment pass, for the moment more interested in the issue of his vision than a disputation on slavery.
“This is a common problem, then?”
“Oh yes. Come with me.”
Martín scowled at Graaf when he made to follow, and the Dutchman held up his hands and turned away to look at a display of spyglasses.
Farquhar led Martín to an ornate glass case at the back of his shop. Inside the case were dozens of pairs of glasses. The old Scotsman opened the cabinet and extracted four pairs from different trays, setting them out on a piece of velvet.
“There are different strengths. You are young, almost too young to need them, but a person never knows. Take m
e for instance—I have worn spectacles all my life. These I have on were invented by the brilliant Doctor Franklin.” He gestured to his glasses, which had a curious split across the middle. “These are for people who need help seeing both close and far. That is not what you need, I think. Here try these first.” He opened a pair and handed them to Martín, and they proceeded to narrow the choices with a series of simple reading tests.
When Martín saw the vision charts he almost wept with relief. Thank God—or Sarah—he was able to recognize the letters Farquhar set before him. It would have been most embarrassing if he’d had to confess he was unable to read.
After Farquhar had determined which pair best suited him, Martín bought three pairs, hating to think he would ever again not be able to see well enough to read. The old Scotsman was well pleased with the sale and escorted the men to the door while thanking Martín profusely the entire way.
Graaf turned to Martín as they descended the shop steps. “I am famished. Could we stop and eat or do you need to finish your errands first?”
Martín’s first impulse was to argue with Graaf, but he was also hungry. Nor did he have any pressing errands. The truth was, he had looked forward to showing Sarah the first town of any size she’d ever visited. He’d hoped to spend the day with her, perhaps taking her to dine.
He frowned as yesterday’s unpleasant and confusing interaction replayed itself yet again in his mind. Why did his offering to purchase her something to wear make her so angry? Did not all women enjoy gifts, or was it really only whores who liked to receive presents? The disdain in her voice when she’d spoken the word “whore” echoed through him and made his stomach clench. It was better this way, even if it meant he was stuck with the idiot Graaf as a dinner companion.
“The Hotel Saint Frances offers excellent food,” Martín said abruptly, turning in the direction of the elegant establishment where he’d last dined with Standish and several other men from the crew of the Batavia’s Ghost.
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