Page 9 of Scandalous

“Have you suffered some manner of head injury, Daniels?” Martín demanded, not pausing to wait for an answer. “I’m not going to do anything with her.”

“You cannot just leave her in Freetown, sir.”

Martín crossed the deck and stopped in front of the mutineer, who was bound and surrounded by a cluster of Martín’s men, glaring at him with seething hatred. “She can do whatever she likes once I release her.”

“But it will be dangerous for her on shore, Captain.”

Martín ground his teeth and turned away from the hostile Dutchman, back to his second mate. “I weary of your obscure babbling. Either express yourself with sense or have done with this subject.”

“She is English, sir. Perhaps we could take her back to England? Are we not headed home after we leave Freetown?”

Martín stared at the younger man, mystified. Was it chivalry—a concept he was only vaguely aware of—that motivated Daniels? Martín’s sole interest in women was whether or not he wanted to bed them and then how to get rid of them once he’d done so.

Thinking about beds gave him an idea. “I tell you what, Daniels, I shall carefully consider the woman’s future,” he lied. “But while I do so, she should stay in your cabin. You will bunk with the men.”

Rather than protest violently, as any normal man would do, Daniels smiled, as if Martín had given him a gold coin instead of condemning him to miserable nights in a hammock surrounded by stinking sailors.

“Thank you, sir.” Daniels nodded and scuttled off without another word.

“Fool,” Martín muttered before turning back to the mutineer.

The Dutchman was a stocky man and as tall as Martín. Anger and hostility flowed from him in almost tangible waves. “You are de Heeckeren, the leader of the mutiny?”

The Dutchman glowered, and Martín repeated the question in French.

“Oui.”

“How do you plead to the charges of mutiny?” Martín continued in the same language.

The mutineer scowled. “Coupable!”

“You know the punishment for mutiny is death?”

De Heeckeren stared sullenly.

“Answer me.”

“Je comprends.”

Martín gestured to the men standing beside de Heeckeren and one withdrew a razor-sharp scimitar from its sheath, while two others dragged the prisoner toward a huge block of wood and commenced to stretch his neck across it.

“Stop!”

Martín gritted his teeth and whipped around. “Mademoiselle Fisher. Why am I not surprised? Are you trying to make me lose my temper?”

She faltered under his glare, but came closer. “Please, Captain, can you not show Christian kindness?”

“I am not a Christian, mademoiselle.”

His shocking admission did not stop her. She laid a hand on his sleeve, the gesture oddly compelling. “Please, do not do this barbaric thing,” she begged in a whisper.

Up close, Martín saw that her brown eyes were flecked with green and gold. They were actually quite pretty. He flinched away from the pointless observation and forced his lips into a sneer. “You would plead mercy for men who have captured, imprisoned, and sold the people of your village into slavery?”

“I am a Christian, Captain. I strive to forgive those who would do me violence.”

“That is an admirable sentiment, mademoiselle. Unfortunately, I am not motivated by such elevated notions. Besides, what if my crew viewed such forgiveness as a sign of weakness? I might soon find myself in the same situation as Graaf.”

“It is not weakness, but mercy. Have you no mercy?”