Page 56 of Scandalous

Sarah ignored him, and the Dutchman glared.

Martín had sent ahead for a private parlor. “Some tea for the lady, porter for me, and whatever you serve to visiting royalty for the prince here.” Martín gestured to Graaf.

“Porter will be fine,” the Dutchman assured the gaping innkeeper. He turned to Martín after the man had gone. “Tell me, Captain, do you intend to mock me all the way to London?”

Martín shrugged, his eyes on Sarah rather than the blond man and his too pretty looks. “I will if it pleases me, Captain. And I will not consult you before doing so, either.”

What was Sarah thinking behind her well-shuttered eyes? About yesterday? Did she wonder if her Dutch gentleman would be able to do the things to her that the barbaric ex-slave had done? Did it even matter to her that the man she’d chosen to ally herself with would sell other humans if told to do so?

The entrance of his first mate checked Martín’s building fury. “Ah, Mr. Beauville, welcome. A porter for my first mate, innkeeper.”

“Very good, Captain. And will Mr. Beauville be joining your party?” the innkeeper asked, his eyes sliding nervously toward Graaf. He was clearly uncomfortable with the presence of silent royalty.

“Yes, he will. Bring us your best for four.” The man hastened away, and Martín turned back to Beauville. “Has Mr. Wilson arrived?”

Beauville opened his mouth, but then paused when the door opened and a dark-haired wench entered with a serving tray. The Frenchman’s eyes were riveted to the chit until the door closed behind her and he turned to Martín, as if waking from a daze.

Martín’s eyebrows rose. Beauville reddened, but ignored Martín’s inquiring look.

“Wilson is certain we can dispose of most of the items quickly and at a good profit.”

“What items?” Sarah asked.

“Do you work for English customs, mademoiselle?” Martín teased. “Don’t worry,” he said, giving Graaf a mocking smile. “We aren’t hiding anything illegal in our hold.”

Sarah clamped her lips shut, and the Dutchman gnawed the inside of his cheek, as if he’d very much like to say something. Martín wished to God he would dare.

The innkeeper returned shortly with the little wench, and Martín amused himself by scrutinizing the young woman, his attention creating a charming flush on her plump cheeks. He was equally pleased by the daggers he saw in Beauville’s eyes. So, his first mate fancied the wench? She was a pretty little thing.... Martín realized three sets of eyes were regarding him with varying degrees of hostility and grinned back at his guests.

The meal passed largely in silence, moved along only by his occasional comments and observations.

As much as he enjoyed baiting his companions, he was impatient to be off once he’d finished eating. He stood as the serving girl entered the room, catching her hand and pressing a coin into her small palm, keeping it longer than was proper.

“This is for your excellent service, mademoiselle.” She’d frozen at his touch, her large blue eyes wide. Martín reached out on instinct to stroke the slight down on the curve of her jaw. “Enchanté.”

Beauville’s chair scraped noisily beside him. “The coach is waiting for you, Captain. I shall report to you later this evening,” he said harshly, regarding Martín with a grimness that made him release the young girl’s hand. Once freed, she moved away like a frightened deer.

* * *

Sarah had long believed Martín Bouchard to be the most trying and obnoxious person she’d ever met, but today he was outdoing even himself.

For a moment she’d thought Mr. Beauville, a man who was usually a pillar of calm, might strike his captain. Even a fool could see he was deeply in love with the young serving girl. And any fool, other than Bouchard apparently, could see she was not the kind of girl to sell her favors.

Sarah’s hand itched to slap his snidely handsome face. What was wrong with the man? What on earth drove him to behave in such a universally insulting and reprehensible manner?

Once seated in the coach, Sarah fumed and stared across the short distance at him. He appeared oblivious, gazing out the window with a slight smile on his face as if contemplating something amusing. No doubt imagining himself bedding the serving wench.

The swine!

Graaf, who was seated beside her, must have sensed her anger. He patted her hand as it lay on her knee.

The intimate action drew a scowl from Bouchard, and Sarah extracted her hand, using it to point out the window. “Is that Lessing Hall?”

Mies leaned across her to look out the window toward the enormous white manor house that lay at the end of the long drive. “Hmmm, I should guess the bulk of it is fourteenth, perhaps fifteenth century.”

Bouchard’s eyes narrowed even further, and he leaned toward the Dutchman, his hands clenched, as if he were about to begin pounding the slighter man.

Thankfully, the carriage drew to a halt before fisticuffs broke out. A host of elegantly clad servants swarmed down the steps toward them. Sarah was so desperate to escape the hostile environment inside the carriage that she pushed open the door. She would have stumbled if not for Bouchard’s steadying hand on her arm.