Page 43 of Scandalous

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.