Page 105 of Scandalous

I never knew my mother. She died when I was born.

My father was a gambler and lost everything when I was somewhere between ten and twelve. He had to sell everything: his house, cattle—both human and animal—and all his land.

I was young and stupid and scared and ran away when I herd I was to be sold. The first time I ran and they cot me, it was a beating, the second time, I was branded a runaway.”

Sarah sucked in a breath and held it, her heart pounding in her ears. Branded?

Oh, Lord.

Sarah closed her eyes, but tears leaked out anyway.

When she had no more tears left, she opened the letter again.

“Bannock sold me to a brothel.”

Sarah’s vision clouded, and it was several minutes before she could reread the sentence again. A brothel? The man sold a little boy—his own son—to a brothel? She felt as if somebody had kicked her in the chest. Good God. Did she want to know what came next?

Her face heated at the thought. If Martín had survived it—only a mere boy—surely she could read about it? Or was she really as fragile as he believed?

She gritted her teeth and turned to the next page.

“Life at Madam Sonia’s was far better than I could have hopped for. Even then I had a love of fine clothing and Madam saw to it that all who worked for her were dressed better than any other brothel in a town which had many.

I lived above the stables with an old man named Etienne Bouchard. Bouchard had forgotten more about horses than I would ever learn. He was a meen old bastard, but he tot me all he cud before he died. I had no last name and was called only Martín, which was a name I pikked for myself after a story I once herd. So when the old man died I took his name, thinking I wood also take his place.

I loved caring for madam’s horses and I foolishly believed life would go on that way. But of corse things changed.”

Sarah closed her eyes, terrified to read what had happened next. How had he survived?

“I was sixteen or so when Madam Sonia told me it was time to take up my reel job. There is no way to say this that is polite, Sarah. I became a whore.”

Sarah looked up from the page and blinked. A whore? But . . . he was a man.

“You are such a sweet innocent Sarah. I hate to be the one to take your illushuns, but the truth is some women are willing to pay for the pleasures of the flesh, Sarah, just like their male counterparts. And, of course, some men prefer men or boys. But that was not my purpose. Not at first. At first I was used to provide more . . . exotic entertainments. Some of these involved other slaves—other whores.”

Sarah’s hands shook as she lowered the letter to the dark green velvet settee. She stood and began to pace the room in restless circles, lacing and unlacing her hands as Martín’s words bounced and ricocheted endlessly in her head.

His past—his life—was unimaginable to her. Who could do this to another human? What kind of person could buy and sell others? Her hands curled into fists. Who could use others in ways that not only violated common decency, but the very heart and soul of another human being? They’d taken physical love from him and made it commerce. No wonder he spent his time in brothels. What else did he know?

Fury coursed through her and tempered her pity into rage. She marched back to the divan and snatched up the letter.

“Not long after Bouchard died, Madam Sonia moved me to the howse. That was also when I first met Valerie—the mother of my son.”

“What?” Sarah’s voice was so shrill she didn’t even recognize it as her own.

Sarah reread the last sentence.

It said the same thing.

He had a child? She collapsed back against the settee and read the words over and over. Why had he never told her? She felt as if a giant, black pit had opened inside her.

Was he married?

Sarah cursed herself for even wondering such a thing. What? Was she actually hoping he’d fathered a child outside of wedlock? She ignored the howling pain in her chest and picked up the letter with numb, clumsy fingers.

“Madam bot Valerie off a slave ship. She was maybe a little older than me, a dimond hidden in a dung heep, far two butiful to waste on common labor. She spoke hardly a word—at least no English or French—and we never even talked to each other.”

Sarah stared at the words in gape-mouthed astonishment. How could they be married if they’d never spoken? Her head felt light and dizzy—as if it might come detached from her neck and float away.