Page 120 of Scandalous

“Sarah . . .”

“We are not going to Paris, Martín.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘We are not going to Paris.’”

“Mon Dieu!” He pushed up off his elbow and faced her. “We are not even married and already you want to defy me. Why do you not want to go to Paris? Every woman wishes to go to Paris.”

Her eyes narrowed at the words “every” and “woman” together.

He held up one hand. “Fine. I wish to go to Paris. Besides, it is our first port of call, and we should marry as quickly as possible.”

“Why?” She reached out and circled one of his nipples with a single finger.

Mother of God. He grabbed her hand and stilled it. Where had she learned such teasing tricks? “I am a father now, Sarah. I cannot have my son know we are living in sin. We must marry immediately if we are to set a good example for Gaston.” He strove to say the ridiculous words with his old arrogance, but her laughter told him he’d failed miserably.

“We can go to Paris later, after you’ve delivered your cargo.”

“What cargo?”

She stood and sauntered toward his desk, casting a wicked look over her shoulder. “You’ll just have to live with me in sin until we reach Tenerife. I’ve already notified the DuValle sisters we shall be stopping there. I expect the preparations for our wedding are well under way.”

Martín felt as if he had plunged his head into the eye of a particularly savage storm.

“What do you know of my cargo?” he repeated, leaving aside for the moment the more unnerving issue: that she’d planned their marriage without him. Such behavior exhibited a degree of high-handedness he couldn’t help but admire, as much as it terrified him.

“It is my cargo.”

“What?” He seemed to be saying that a lot.

“I am your employer, Captain Bouchard. Butkins holds the ship’s manifest proving the truth of my words.”

“Butkins?”

“Butkins would tell you, if you asked him, that you are taking me and my cargo to Freetown.” She settled onto the bench at the table and smirked across at him.

Martín scrambled off the bed and went to stand before her.

“What the devil are you talking about, Sarah?” She gazed into his navel, her lips curving into a slow smile. He took her chin and tilted her face. “The hold of my ship is full of cording and other supplies for a warehouse just outside Paris. I arranged the deal myself.”

Sarah shrugged, and her eyes drifted down again. His cock—duplicitous organ that it was—betrayed the true contents of his brain by standing at attention. She looked from his erection to his face, openly grinning now.

“I’m afraid Lord Ramsay offered your merchant more appealing terms, which left you with an empty hold. Fortunately for you, Mr. Beauville knew I was looking for a ship, and he spoke to Butkins. Your first mate made an excellent deal on your behalf. You should be thanking him, rather than scolding him for his silly name.”

Martín gaped.

“That is an attractive expression,” Sarah observed.

Martín closed his mouth. He’d been outmaneuvered in just about every possible way. What was the use in arguing? She had always been diabolically single-minded in her pursuit of what she wanted. It appeared that she now wanted him. He began to smile and froze. It would not be wise to capitulate too quickly to the woman before him.

He assumed a haughty expression. “May I ask what kind of cargo I am transporting?” he asked, not caring if the hold was stuffed with potatoes or unicorns or ladies’ undergarments.

Her hands slid around his waist, and she rested her face against his stomach, her hot breath teasing the head of his cock. Good God.

“Supplies for the orphanage we’re going to build in Freetown.” She spoke the words into his stomach while depositing little kisses on his skin, carefully avoiding the part of his body least able to hide its enthusiasm for her actions.

“We?” He gasped as her tongue probed his navel in a most distracting manner. Martín could not recall any other woman paying such close attention to his navel. Wisely, he did not share that information.