“You are a well-traveled man, Captain Bouchard. How long have you been at sea?”
Was the Dutchman getting at something? Martín gave the shorter man a hard look.
No, Graaf appeared as vapid as he normally did.
“I’ve been at sea since I was sixteen, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“Yes, more or less, Captain Graaf. As I’m sure you know, I began my life as a slave. Nobody cares what year a slave was born—or at least nobody ever bothered to inform me. While that adds a degree of mystery to my past that charms the ladies, it does make it difficult for me to truthfully state my age.”
Graaf’s mouth snapped shut, and the rest of the short walk took place in silence.
The Hotel Saint Frances was the only establishment of its kind on the island. It had been in business for perhaps fifteen years and catered to the wealthier element on the island as well as the officers of various navies. Even English vessels frequented the Canaries during the war, something of a miracle considering the fact that Nelson had left the island in disgrace—and minus one arm—the last time the British had tried to capture it.
Herr Dietzel, the rotund, rosy-cheeked proprietor, bustled over to greet them, his face beaming. “Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure to see you again!”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Dietzel. It has been a long time, my friend. Do you have any food left for me and my companions?”
Dietzel chortled. “Always! You are here for a while perhaps?” The older man shuffled ahead of them into the dining room.
“Only a few days. I’m afraid I have urgent business in England. Would you mind holding this package for me while we dine?” Martín handed him the box that held his new spectacles.
“It will be a pleasure, Captain. So, you are off to England, yes? Perhaps you will see Captain Standish? I understand he lives there now and has given up his mistress for a wife, eh?”
Martín sat in one of the ornate gilt chairs. “Yes, Standish is married and rather settled. I daresay he will not be making this journey anytime soon.”
“Please give him my best when you next see him. Now, shall I send you a bottle of something wonderful that I have recently procured?”
“Yes, I leave the selection entirely up to you; the food as well.” Martín breathed a sigh of relief when the garrulous Prussian left.
“You are a popular man here, Captain Bouchard,” Graaf noted.
Martín snapped the white linen napkin and laid it across his lap. “Here in the uncivilized wilderness, a man’s actions are far more important than his lineage, Graaf.”
“Touché, Captain. Perhaps we could call a truce to our sparring for the time being? Maybe only so long as we share a meal together?”
Martín shrugged. He was tired of baiting the man in any case. Graaf was far too easy game. “Very well, a truce. I gather you have not been in the Canaries before?”
“No, I have actually been to very few places. This was my first voyage. My eldest brother captained the Blue Bird until we stopped at Gibraltar, where another of my father’s ships was in for repairs.”
Herr Dietzel appeared with a bottle of red wine and poured a sample into Martín’s glass. Martín took a sip and nodded, and the Prussian filled the other men’s glasses.
Graaf’s eyes lingered on Banks, as if sharing a bottle of wine with a black man made him uneasy. The Dutchman wasn’t the only one. Patrons at a nearby table were muttering and giving their table angry looks.
Banks turned to Martín and began to stand. “I’ll go wait outside, Captain.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Banks. We came here to eat. We will eat, all of us.”
Banks sat, his face impassive, but concern rolling off him in waves.
For his part, Martín was beginning to get the light, almost dizzy sensation he usually experienced right before he engaged in violence.
Graaf looked from Banks to Martín, his angelic features equal parts worry and confusion. Martín smiled at the Dutchman’s discomfort. It was clear he’d never experienced the invigorating sensation currently flooding Martín’s body.
The only other man Martín had met who’d understand his blind fury on the issue of slavery was Standish. It had always intrigued Martín that such a cultured and well-bred man could suffer from the same uncontrollable anger as an ex-slave whore.
Unfortunately, a major difference between Martín and his mentor was Ramsay’s ability to recognize the feeling and stop it. Well, at least some of the time.
Martín sipped his wine and chatted with Graaf, nodding at whatever he said without listening. The four men at the other table were becoming increasingly agitated by the presence of a black man in the dining room. Too bad they didn’t realize there were really two black men polluting the dining room.
Martín was close to coming apart at the seams when one of the men stood, his friends muttering angry encouragement as he stalked over to their table.
“What’s he doing in here?” the man demanded, interrupting something Graaf had been saying.
Martín glanced up as if he’d only just then noticed the man. He was as big as Martín, but perhaps a few years older. He had the brown, battered face of a sailor, but wore expensive, if tasteless clothing. Martín raised his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, what makes you think you can bring him in here?” he repeated, his face darkening at having to repeat himself.
“I did not bring him in here; he brought himself in here.”
The man’s face contorted. “You know what I mean. His kind isn’t allowed in here.”
“His kind?” Martín set down his glass and scratched his forehead.
Herr Dietzel appeared, his cherubic face tense. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Is there a problem?” His protuberant blue eyes swung from Martín to the man hovering over him.
“This gentleman says my friend is not allowed in here.” Martín turned to the Dutchman. “It appears he does not care for Dutchmen, Captain Graaf. I think he wants you to leave.”
Graaf’s jaw dropped.
“You know damn well I don’t mean him. Do you think I’m some kind of fool?” The thug’s face was dangerously red.
Martín shoved back his chair and stood. The other man took a step back as Martín shrugged out of his coat.
“Will you please hold this?”
The stunned Prussian took the garment without speaking.
Martín turned to face his aggressor, who’d swelled up like a poison-spitting toad. “No,” Martín said, giving his shirt cuff a minute adjustment. “I do not think you are a fool. I know you are one.”
Martín saw the punch coming before the man even knew he’d swung his arm. He ducked the roundhouse swing and jabbed the sluggish man twice in his side, doubling him over and then capping him off with a powerful left to his jaw. The big man’s body hit the floor so hard that dust puffed up from the gaps in the wood flooring, and cutlery, china, and crystal jumped on tables twenty feet in any direction.
Martín looked down at the groaning lump at his feet, adjusting his cuffs again as he waited for the man’s three friends to make up their minds.
They did not disappoint.
The men rose up like a single organism and clambered toward him, knocking aside chairs and tables in their clumsy fury, leaving shattered glass and clattering silverware in their wake.
Martín turned to the horrified Prussian. “Please take my coat somewhere safe, Herr Dietzel,” he murmured, as Banks rushed to greet the first of the aggressors. “I should hate for it to get soiled.”
The big ex-slave punched the closest man in the face with a fist as large and heavy as a twelve-pound shot. The man was teetering drunkenly when Banks hit him with a full-body slam that threw him back a good ten feet to his now empty dinner table.
Banks straightened and turned just in time to dodge a chair and then marched implacably toward the next man.
Martín’s new opponent was smaller and lighter than he, but exceptionally quick. H
e danced and bobbed in a manner that told Martín he’d done his share of sparring, if not actual fighting.
They exchanged a few jabs while Martín took his measure. It didn’t take him long to assess his opponent. His moves were predictable, obviously learned in some gentleman’s salon. He displayed a fundamental knowledge of pugilism, but he lacked cunning, something Martín possessed in abundance.
Still, it was enjoyable to have such a sparring partner, and Martín took his time, harrying the man with small, quick jabs rather than laying him out. He realized he’d toyed with him too long when the sound of a breaking glass came from behind him.
He turned to find Graaf holding a broken bottle, his gaze fixed on the prone figure of the first man who’d attacked Martín. The fellow had clearly been about to rejoin the fray before the Dutchman intervened. Graaf looked up at Martín and his opponent, both of whom had frozen.
“I am hungry, Captain Bouchard. Would you please conclude your business?” Graaf asked coolly. He laid the broken bottle carefully on the table and picked up his glass of wine. Only the slight shaking of the glass gave away what his violent action had cost him.
Martín laughed and turned back just in time to take a punishing blow to his chin rather than the side of his head. He staggered and hit the table before bouncing back up, his mouth filling with the metallic taste of blood. He swallowed and shook his head to clear it.
He smiled at the other man with genuine admiration. “That was a damned good hit.”
The other man reacted to his praise by roaring and charging, his blind rage robbing him of any science.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” Martín apologized before ducking under the other man’s slack guard and punching him so hard in the side he heard the crack of a rib. The man yowled and clutched his side, the action giving Martín wide-open access to his face.
Martín obliged him with the requisite blow and watched him fall.
“We should leave, Captain,” Banks said from behind him.
Martín turned around, seeing for the first time the room full of horrified diners.
He needed to catch his breath before he could speak. He smiled up at the bigger man, who was breathing normally. “We have yet to eat, Mr. Banks. If there is one thing you should know about me, it is that I become irritable when I am hungry.” He waved to Dietzel, who scurried over still holding his jacket.
Martín donned the garment and dropped into his chair. “Herr Dietzel, pray add any damages to my bill. Before you do so, however, could you remove these men so we might eat in peace?” He gestured to the bodies of the four men; two of the men were moaning loudly.
Dietzel was a wizard. Bodies were removed, their table was reset, and a fresh bottle delivered in a remarkably short time. While they waited for their food to arrive, Martín looked at the Dutchman.
“I give you my thanks, Captain Graaf. You behaved with remarkable aplomb. I gather this is not a common experience for you?”
Graaf laughed, the sound as shaky as his hands. His thin nostrils were pinched, and the flags of color on his pale cheeks told louder than words how much the action had cost him. “I daresay the same cannot be said for you, Captain Bouchard.”
Martín shrugged. “I’ve been known to get my hands dirty when the occasion demands it.” He glanced at Banks. The only sign he’d just engaged in a fight was the torn knuckles on the big hand that rested on the table.
Although Banks didn’t show it, Martín knew he was probably as upset as the Dutchman and would have preferred to avoid the scuffle altogether. Martín would wager Banks was a member of the “turn the other cheek” school of thought, a group Martín had never been able to understand.
Graaf suddenly shot to his feet, his eyes on something over Martín’s shoulder.
Martín sighed. What now? More friends of the four men they’d just put down? It was going to be a long afternoon.
He was about to turn around when a familiar voice rang out behind him.
“What in the world has happened here?”
Chapter Fifteen
Sarah entered the most beautiful building she’d seen in her life only to find Bouchard and Graaf and the sailor named Banks sitting in the midst of a dining room that looked as if it had been attacked by a small army.
Mies’s open mouth and round eyes gave Sarah a moment of gratification, but the expression on Captain Bouchard’s face was beyond price. His golden eyes swept over her not once or even twice, but three times. Most satisfying of all was the way his mouth hung open before he recalled himself and shut it.
“May we join you?” She glanced around at the sea of destruction. “That is, if there are any chairs left that are not broken.”
Graaf leapt up. “Take mine.”
Bouchard eyed the Dutchman as if he were a noxious smell.
“Here you go, Miss Fisher.” Daniels seized a chair from a nearby table and hovered, an uncertain look on his boyish features when he realized she’d already taken the Dutchman’s chair.
“Give Graaf the chair and get another for yourself, Daniels,” Bouchard ordered, not looking at her.
Sarah smirked. It no longer mattered to her what he said or did. The memory of his earlier reaction would be with her for a long, long time.
She was not a vain person, but even she had had a difficult time looking away from her reflection in the small dress shop mirror.
Daniels had located the shop for her and then escorted her there first thing when they came ashore. Sarah had been the only customer that early in the day, and the two French sisters who owned the shop had both come out to greet her and take her back for a fitting.
“I’ll wait for you out here, Miss Fisher.” Daniels had motioned to a small waiting room, complete with reading material, a platter of biscuits, and a comfortable chair.
“No, you must leave her with us,” one of the women said. They were identical twins, or at least near enough. “This is no place for a man,” the other added, escorting Daniels to the door. “Come back for her just before luncheon,” she said, shutting the door in his surprised face.
When the women learned Sarah had arrived on Captain Bouchard’s ship, they’d hung the Closed sign in the window, ordered a full tea from their servant, and pulled Sarah into the back room. “We must know everything about you and the delectable captain.”
They’d proceeded to extract every detail about Sarah’s life to date, including the little she knew of Captain Bouchard. The sisters, like everyone else in the world, had heard of Bouchard even though they’d only seen him from afar.
“He is beautiful, that one, eh, Arlette?” the one named Adele asked.
“Oui! So exotic! So virile!” She nudged Sarah in the ribs. “You will need something special to keep that one’s attention, I think.”
“His attention is not mine to keep,” Sarah protested. “Nor is any other part of him.”
The sisters ignored her, instead rooting through the large rack of ready-made garments. “You have a beautiful figure—so tall and thin—no corset for you, eh?” Arlette had a remarkably ribald laugh for such a small woman.
Sarah’s ears burned. “I’ve only borrowed enough money for one dress,” she said, watching in dismay as the women began creating a huge pile of garments.
Adele waved away her words as if they were a bothersome fly. “Don’t be a silly girl. You cannot live with only one dress. Especially not on a ship filled with men. You can send us payment after you reach your family.”
“But I told you, I don’t know if I have any family left. Even if I do, I cannot assume they will be in a position to give me money. Really, I—”
“You belong to a wealthy family—I know it.” Adele closed her eyes as she spoke, as if prognosticating. “They will be delighted to have you back.”
Arlette nodded. “Yes, you must have several dresses. It is a shame you are not here longer. We will have to alter what we have instead of making something just for you.”
Sarah had protested over and
over, but they had ignored her.
“We are giving you these dresses because we wish to do so. If you cannot pay?” Arlette flicked her wrist in a gesture that was richly dismissive. “Bah! It is nothing to us. We have no daughters or nieces of our own, and our father left us well provided for. We have never needed to take a man as husband. Only to bed, eh, Adele?”
They cackled and then went on to list their multiple lovers and describe them in fascinating, but excruciating detail. Both of them offered unsolicited advice on how to capture Captain Bouchard and what to do with him once she had him.
Sarah learned more in a few hours about men and their various uses than she’d learned in all her previous years. She was convinced her face was a permanent shade of red. Instead, when she gazed in the mirror, she looked almost pretty. They’d trimmed, curled, crimped, and arranged her hair high on her head and forced a string of pearls on her, complete with matching bracelet.
“It’s only paste, my dear. Besides, neither of us are the type who can wear pearls,” Adele had explained when Sarah demurred.
“We are too wicked,” Arlette had agreed through a mouthful of pins, which she was using to mark the dress Sarah was wearing.
The women had compensated for her above-average height by quickly adding several flounces to the hem. Oh, and the fabric—it was delectable enough to eat. It was a peachy pink muslin that made Sarah’s hair look tawny rather than mousy brown. The ensemble also made her very small breasts seem prominent, if not actually larger. In fact, they looked so prominent she was concerned. The women had waved away her concerns.
“You do not need stays for your very slim waist, but a corset is helpful in other ways.” They’d cinched her into a beautiful pink undergarment that pushed up her small breasts until they were two creamy swells.
After seeing the reactions of Daniels, Bouchard, Graaf, and even the usually shy and retiring Mr. Banks, Sarah could not feel sorry she’d allowed herself to be laced into the tight corset. For the first time in her life, she felt pretty.
The meal passed far too quickly. Even with the dining room in shambles, it was still the most elegant experience she’d ever had. Graaf was amusing and engaging, Daniels sweet and friendly, and even the reticent Banks spoke a word or two, coming out of his shell for a brief time. Everyone looked happy except for Bouchard, who maintained a grim silence throughout the meal. Sarah refused to let his sullenness dampen her excitement about dining in a hotel and wearing a new dress. And it wasn’t her only new dress, either.
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