Scandalous

Book 3: Outcasts

by Minerva Spencer

Genres: Regency Romance; General Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

"Have you no decency?"

Straight-laced missionary Sarah Fisher has never met a man like Captain Martin Bouchard. He is the most beautiful person—male or female—she's ever seen. Overwhelmingly masculine, elegantly attired despite months at sea, he is in complete command of everyone and everything around him: everyone, that is, except Sarah. But that's about to change because Sarah has bought Bouchard's mercy with the only thing she has to sell: her body.

"None at all . . ."

In spite of her outrageous offer, Martin has no doubt Sarah is a virgin, and a most delectable one at that. But instead of bedding her, he finds himself staring down the muzzle of his own pistol. Clearly, the longer she stays on his ship, the greater the chances that she'll end up its damned captain! Most infuriating of all, she looks past his perfect exterior to the wounded man inside. Can Martin outrun his scandalous past in time to have a future with the first woman to find and capture his heart?

Contains mature themes.

Release date: September 24, 2019

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 385

Sample

Martín drummed his fingers on the gleaming wooden railing and stared at the Dutch ship. The vessel was upwind and too far away to smell the stench, but Martín could imagine it. The pitiful cries of the slaves were another matter. Those he could hear even from this distance.

The dirty business of slaving was more lucrative than ever since the British and Americans had banned the importation of slaves in 1808. The American South paid well for smuggled slaves, as it could not function without their labor, a fact Martín knew all too well.

He turned to his first mate. “How many crew, Beauville?” he asked in English, rather than his native French. He’d begun speaking English after the British granted him his letter of marque, the document that made his profitable life as a privateer possible.

Beauville lowered his spyglass. “No more than forty, Captain, and most of those appear to be either drunk or incompetent.”

Martín laughed at the man’s dry assessment and strode to where his second mate held the wheel. “Ready the men, Daniels, and then prepare to make the offer.”

Although the Dutch ship had suffered some damage to its mast, it appeared to be a well-maintained ship and far cleaner than the usual run of slavers. Martín’s own ship, the Golden Scythe, had been a slave ship before he’d captured her, but she’d cleaned up nicely. He regarded the immaculate deck with pride. With a crew of seventy men and fourteen cannon, the Scythe greatly outmatched the Dutch ship and was a force to be reckoned with.

Still, it was never wise to be too cocky. If the Blue Bird carried to capacity—five hundred souls—the money involved was great. Things would become ugly if the ship’s captain was determined to fight for his cargo. Martín was confident he would triumph in such a struggle, but he knew it would not be without cost.

A flurry of activity broke out as he watched the other ship; the crew was flapping about like a flock of frightened hens. A dozen men stood near the main mast and gestured wildly to one another—a few with machetes. Martín shook his head; something odd was going on.

Daniels appeared beside him. “Everything is prepared, Captain, and we await your command.”

Martín turned to Jenkins, his man of all work, who held out two pistols for his inspection. He checked the guns carefully before inserting them into a holster that kept both guns resting on his right hip while his rapier lay on his left. The holster was of Martín’s design and allowed him to draw any of the three weapons quickly.

He glanced into the large mirror Jenkins held up before him and flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his immaculate coat. He took his time and made a minute adjustment to his cravat, careful to keep his movements languid and his expression bored. His crew was watching, their battered faces amused, yet proud. Martín knew they drew strength from his reputation as a cold, hard killer who was more concerned with his cravat than his life.

To be honest, Martín’s stomach churned just as much, if not more, than that of any other man on the ship. If anyone died today, he would be to blame. While that might not bother his conscience—a hardened, shriveled thing—his pride was fat and healthy, and he could not bear to have poor decisions attributed to him.

Martín flicked his hand, and Jenkins took away the mirror. Daniels’s mouth was pursed with disapproval. He knew the younger man still found his behavior shocking, even though he’d been Martín’s second for over a year.

Martín found his irritation amusing. “Make the offer, Mr. Daniels.”

“Aye, Captain!” Daniels turned and gave the midshipman a hand signal. A second later a loud crack issued from one of the Scythe’s cannons. The smoke had barely cleared before a black flag crept up the Dutch ship’s pole.

Martín exhaled; they would parley.

“Excellent shot, gentlemen, and very persuasive. Beauville, please escort their captain to the wardroom when he arrives.” Martín unfastened his weapon belt and handed it to Jenkins. “Don’t unload these just yet,” he advised before going below deck.

Once inside his cabin, he cast his hat onto the desk and collapsed in a high-backed chair, careful not to crush the tails of his coat. His excessive concern for his appearance was only partly feigned. He loved fine clothing. As a young slave in New Orleans he’d envied the wealthy, well-dressed men who’d frequented Madam Sonia’s establishment, vowing he would dress even better one day. Now he was rich enough to dress however he pleased, and what pleased him was the best.

He idly studied his reflection in the glass that hung over his desk, frowning at the man who looked back. Nobody would ever mistake him for a European, no matter the color of his eyes, skin, and hair. Even though his skin was lighter than that of anyone imprisoned on the Dutch ship, Martín could be bought and sold just as readily were he to step foot on American soil. Actually, he would face death if he returned home, death being the punishment for a runaway slave.

Martín pushed the thought away and absently picked up a book and opened it. He immediately wished he hadn’t. The black marks danced on the pages before him, inscrutable and taunting. It was a criminal offense to teach a slave to read in America, and Martín had been far too old to learn after he’d escaped.

The only three words he could read or write were those that comprised his name: Martín Etienne Bouchard—a name that wasn’t even his, but one he’d cobbled together for himself.

The name Martín he had taken from a story an old woman had once told him: the tale of Martín Garatuza, the legendary Mexican trickster.

And Etienne Bouchard he’d added some time later, taking it from the old man who’d taught him everything he knew about horses. And why not? Old Bouchard had been dead by then; he no longer needed the name.

Martín shut the book with a snap and replaced it on the shelf. Most of the books had been on the Scythe when he’d taken her, but his friend and mentor One-Eyed Standish had given him some of the others, mercifully unaware his protégé did not know how to read.

Martín frowned. Thoughts of his humiliating past only came to him when he was too tired to control his memories. Or too restless. And he was always restless when it came to seizing another man’s ship. But soon it would be over.

He stood and unfastened the gold buttons of his navy wool coat before draping it over the back of the chair. Once he was finished with the parley he would return to Freetown, set the captives free, turn the offenders over to His Majesty’s government, and collect his reward. In other words: he’d do the same thing he always did, and there was no reason to feel restless.

Martín looked at the ornate gold clock that sat on his desk; there was at least an hour before the other captain would arrive to parley. He could rest and catch up on the sleep he had missed while they’d followed the slaver.

Calmed by his comfortable vision of the future, Martín stretched out on his luxurious bed, closed his eyes, and imagined amusing ways in which to spend the money he would get from capturing this ship.

Meanwhile, on the Blue Bird . . .

Sarah was finishing setting a little boy’s broken arm using a filthy strip of skirt and a stiff piece of leather from her battered medical bag when the hatch to the slave hold opened and a ladder was lowered into the gloom.

“Woman!” The guttural voice came from the narrow opening high above.

Sarah squinted up, but the light was too bright to see the speaker’s face.

“Captain want, now,” the man ordered in English so guttural she could barely understand him.

“There is a woman in need of burying,” Sarah called back in French, glancing at the new mother she had been unable to save, who now lay packed between two of the ship’s ribs in the bilge and waste.

“Come now!”

Sarah shut her mouth, said a silent prayer, and crawled across the splintered wood and over the tightly packed bodies toward the ladder. What was left of her wet skirts dragged behind her, snagging and tearing, making the short journey twice as long. Just before she made it to the swaying ladder a hand caught her arm; it was Femi, a captive she had met on the hellish three-week journey from the inland to the coastal settlement of Ouidah.

Sarah paused, and Femi leaned close and whispered in Yoruba, “If there is some way for you to get the doors open, even for only a few moments, we will be waiting.” He looked up at the opening—squinting against the light. “Maybe at night you will be able to sneak away—after.” He gave her a grim, humorless smile and shrugged his massive shoulders. They both knew what he meant. Why else would these monsters take a woman from the hold?

He gave her arm a brief squeeze. “But if not . . .”

They stared at each other in the gloom, more words unnecessary.

Two other women had disappeared in the days they’d spent in this hell; neither woman had returned.

She gave him an abrupt nod and commenced the torturous climb. The muscles in her shoulders and wrists burned hotter with each rung. She’d begun to think she wouldn’t make it to the top when rough hands closed around her arms. The men cursed her smell and grunted under the weight of her soaking clothing as they lifted her into the blazing sunshine.

A scarred, unshaven face was pushed up against hers. “You fix captain.”

Sarah reeled back from the alcohol fumes and stench of rotting teeth, noticeable even after the horrid smell of the hold. She would have fallen had he not given her arm a vicious yank and dragged her down a short flight of steps into a dim, narrow corridor.

They led her to the last door, and the leader rapped. “Kapiten!”

A much softer answer came from behind the handsome mahogany and brass door, and her captor wrenched it open. He muttered something in Dutch before thrusting Sarah inside and slamming the door behind her.

Sarah’s first glimpse of the captain was both a shock and a relief. He was young, perhaps five-and-twenty. His build was slight—almost delicate—and he was very fair, bearing more than a passing resemblance to the angels in her father’s religious books.

But the thing that left her weak with relief was the fact he was ill—far too ill to have even the slightest amorous glint in his watery blue eyes.

He stood and gestured to a chair across from him. “Please have a seat,” he said in almost unaccented English.

Sarah moved past him, and he covered his mouth, his nostrils quivering as the smell hit him. She dropped into the chair and crossed her arms.

“Thank you so much for joining me.”

Sarah snorted.

His smile wavered at the rude noise. “I am Mies Graaf; my family owns the Blue Bird. My men tell me you are a medical person and—” A ferocious bout of coughing doubled him over.

Grim satisfaction trickled through Sarah as she watched his suffering; it was only fair that this architect of human misery should receive his own share of pain.

An image of her father’s kind, worn face appeared in Sarah’s mind and froze her smile. Reverend Michael Fisher would have argued that a man depraved enough to deal in human flesh deserved her pity rather than scorn.

Always remember we are not on Earth to judge, Sarah.

The memory of her father’s words drove the vengeful thoughts from her head and left shame in their wake. She was behaving like a fool. Instead of letting rage consume her, she needed to harness her anger and use it to figure out a way to get the doors to the hold open.

She eyed the sick man. He was all she had to work with, and there was no point antagonizing him.

The Dutchman’s coughing diminished, and he straightened in his chair, his movements slow and deliberate, like those of a very old man. “I apologize, Miss, er—”

“Fisher. Sarah Fisher.”

He frowned at whatever he saw on her face. “I was not aware of your presence in the hold until a short time ago. I am sorry you have been subjected to such indignity. You will be given a cabin and treated as my guest.”

“What of the others?”

His handsome brow wrinkled. “Excuse me?”

“The other people in your hold—what about them?”

He flinched back from the violence in her tone, his eyes flickering about the room, as if searching for answers, a dark red stain creeping over his already flushed cheeks. “Ah . . . that. Buying these people was not my doing—nor was it my intention to—” His voice broke, and, when he drew in a ragged breath to speak, he was wracked by more coughing.

Sarah made an irritated noise and stood. “Give me your wrist.”

Still coughing, he regarded her grimy hand with apprehension.

“Do you wish for my help or not?”

He held out one pale, slim, clean hand.

Sarah snatched up the proffered limb. His pulse was irregular and fast, and his skin hot and damp.

She dropped his arm. “I will need to look in your ears and mouth.”

He leaned forward, and she took his angelic, clean face with her filthy hands and tilted him toward the light streaming through the porthole window. “Open your mouth and depress your tongue with your finger.” He did so, and Sarah looked her fill before resuming her seat and meeting his frightened gaze.

“You have the choking fever,” she lied, adding a silent prayer.

“The choking fever,” he repeated, as if in a trance. “And the cure?” The hope in his eyes was painful to witness, no matter how much he deserved his suffering.

“Only the thorn of Christ will cure it.” Sarah offered more prayers for forgiveness of the lies pouring from her mouth. Surely the dire circumstances would excuse her dishonesty?

“Thorn of Christ?” he repeated.

“Yes, a rare herb.” So rare as to be nonexistent.

“Where can we procure this herb?”

It was the question Sarah had been hoping for.

“It only grows near coastal marshes.” It was imperative she convince him to take the ship back to shore. It was the only chance for her and the people in the hold—if she could get the door open.

Sarah pushed the thought away. First things first.

She examined the room while the captain pondered her words. A pair of dueling pistols hung over the desk, the guns so ornate Sarah could hardly believe they were real. She was imagining ways to get her hands on one when a deafening crack shook the room.

She jumped to her feet. “What was that?”

The Dutch captain gave her a grim look. “That, Miss Fisher, was the sound of cannon fire.”

“Cannon fire?” Sarah repeated, the words hanging in the air between them like so much smoke.

Graaf uttered several uncivil-sounding words in Dutch and made for the door. “I will return directly.” He slammed the door, and a key scraped in the lock; so, he was not distracted enough to forget to lock the cabin door behind him.

Sarah waited until his footsteps receded before lunging for one of the pistols. She tripped over her sodden skirts and banged into the captain’s heavy teak chair in the process.

“Blast,” she muttered, standing on tiptoe to pluck the ornate pistol from the wall. She broke open the breech and almost sobbed—the gun was real.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she whispered frantically beneath her breath.

She jammed a gun in each of her tattered skirt pockets and commenced to riffle drawers and cabinets, her hands shaking so badly, she dropped clothing, books, and other items all over the cabin floor. Just when she thought the search was fruitless, she spied a polished wooden box. It contained powder, lead balls, and pistol-shaped indentations lined with red silk.

“Oh, thank you!” she said with a sob, dropping to the floor and beginning the process of loading the guns. Her father had owned an ancient pistol and had taught her to load and clean the weapon one year when three lions had menaced their village. This gun, although far fancier, was, in all important aspects, the same.

When she’d finished loading the second gun, she secured it in the waistband of her skirt and placed the remaining powder and balls into the pocket of her tattered petticoat. She’d just taken up a position behind the door and pulled back the hammer when a key clicked in the lock.

The squawk of surprise that tore from Graaf’s mouth when the barrel of his own pistol touched his temple was more than a little satisfying.

“This pistol is loaded, and I will not hesitate to use it.” Sarah was proud of her steady hand and voice. “Now, sit down.”

The captain sat, his shoulders sagging with defeat. “Whatever it is you want, you probably will not get it. That cannon was fired by the privateer who has been following us.”

“Privateer?” Her fingers tightened on the pistol, and the Dutchman grimaced, his eyes wide as he stared at her hand.

“Yes, a privateer, a man who has been empowered by the British government to capture ships on behalf of their king. Not only are we outgunned by the privateer vessel, but I am certain the first mate began to incite mutiny among my crew when I told him we would parley.” The Dutchman closed his eyes and shook his head. “The men are angry. None of them wanted to crew on a slaver ship—it was de Heeckeren, the first mate, who got us into this. But now that we are . . .” Graaf opened his eyes and must have seen the lack of sympathy on her face. He held up his hands in a gesture that was both placating and beseeching. “Please, Miss Fisher, you must believe me when I tell you dealing in slaves was not my idea.”

“I. Don’t. Care.” She had to force the words through clenched jaws, and it was all she could do not to shoot him for wallowing in self-pity while people died beneath his feet. “I don’t care whose idea it was,” she repeated. “Do you have any idea what happened to our lives? People are suffering and dying because of you,” she said, her voice rising. “This is a chance for you to help stop this nightmare. It will not redeem you—not even close—but it will be a start. Now, here is what you will do: you will take the ship back to shore and release everyone from the hold, or I will shoot you.”

He snorted. “You would be doing me a favor. I think you have a mistaken notion about what is going on, Miss Fisher. While I and many of my crew did not want to run this cargo—”

“Cargo? These are people, Captain Graaf—I want to hear you say it.”

His jaw tightened, and he swayed a little, sweat pouring down his temples. “While I and many of my crew did not want to buy and sell people, I think you do not understand the situation. I am merely a token, a representative of the Graaf family—I’m not even a captain, although I am using the title. The real person in charge is de Heeckeren.” Graaf grimaced. “He is an experienced sailor and greatly feared—and not just by me.”

Sarah frowned, confused. “He is the captain?”

“In everything except name. He is also the reason we left Ouidah with a hold full of . . . people. The men didn’t realize they were signing on to crew a slave ship, but they know there will be no pay if they turn back. Some of them will not let that happen and will follow my first mate.” He shook his head. “I cannot say how many.” He suffered another coughing spell.

Sarah stared at him, trying to gain his measure. What was the Dutchman trying to get at? Was he saying he might be agreeable to returning to shore—for the mythical thorn of Christ, if for nothing else? Just how much did he regret his decision to allow his first mate to fill his hold with human cargo? Enough to risk his life to let them go?

Graaf regained his breath and continued in a hoarse voice. “The men know the privateer will bring the captain and crew before the Vice-Admiralty Court once we reach Freetown—and some of them do not view this threat lightly. Without the proper leadership, they will follow de Heeckeren and fight the privateer vessel rather than parley. And then we will all most likely die.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand your position in all this, Captain. What are you trying to say?”

“I propose we join forces.”

His words surprised a laugh out of her. “And what do you have that I might want? A mutinous crew? The imminent arrival of a shipload of marauding privateers? Please, I am curious to know what you bring to the bargain.”

He sighed, the grooves that bracketed his mouth deepening. “If all my crew was on the side of my first mate, then I would be bobbing in the ocean, and you and I would not be having this conversation, Miss Fisher. I’m telling you that if we act before it is too late, we may be able to gain the support we need.” He stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping sweat from his brow and staring at her through red-rimmed, watery eyes.

Sarah examined his face for any trace of deceit, but all she saw was exhaustion and illness.

“We do not have much time,” he prodded.

Sarah drew in a deep breath before speaking. “What about the privateers?”

“Once we have control of the ship, we parley. The privateer will attack us if we do not. Either way, I will be boarded, and the ship will be confiscated for violation of a recent Anglo-Dutch treaty. I would prefer to surrender without any damage to my ship or loss of life.”

Sarah chewed her lip so hard the metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth. Could she trust him? She snorted at the thought. What other choice did she have? She stared, not seeing him but the faces in the hold. The only way people got out of the hold was when the crew threw their bodies over the side of the ship. This might be everyone’s only chance.

“If I agree to help you, how will we go about it, Captain?”

His shoulders sagged with relief, as if she’d already agreed.

Well, he could think whatever he wanted. Sarah had no qualms about using him, at least until she had the backing of the only people on the ship she trusted: those imprisoned in the hold.

“I will summon my first mate with an offer to capitulate. If we can capture him, I believe the mutiny will die quickly. You wait behind the door as you did with me. I will take the other pistol and confront him when he enters.”

“What if he is more suspicious than you and sends someone else? What if he brings a pistol of his own?”

He flushed at her not-so-subtle mockery of his own easy capture. “De Heeckeren is overconfident and not expecting any resistance from me. He will come. Also, I possess the only pistols on this ship, and he would not bring a musket to such a close space.”

“And once we have the first mate, you will unlock the hold and free everyone?”

He nodded. “I daresay they will prove loyal to our cause, which is more than I can say for many of my crew.”

“And then we will parley?”

Again he nodded.

Sarah hesitated.

“This is no trick. The privateers are now our best hope. But we must hurry.”

What else could she do? She could not single-handedly capture the ship. She could—

“Miss Fisher, we must—”

She raised the gun. “Let me think.”

His mouth snapped shut, and he slumped in his chair.

What did she have? A pair of guns and herself. She grimaced. She needed help to get past the sailors and to reach the hold and Femi. She bit back a groan as the thoughts chased one another around and around inside her exhausted brain.

She had to trust somebody. There was no other way. She studied the captain from beneath her lashes. His skin was sheened with sweat, and his hands shook. He might not even stay conscious long enough to take back his ship.

Something slammed hard on the deck above them, and Sarah jumped.

“What are they doing?” she demanded.

“Probably preparing the cannons to fight the privateers.”

Cannons! The people in the hold would be the first to die if the ships exchanged cannon fire.

Sarah said a silent prayer and pulled the second pistol from her waistband. “It is loaded.”

He took the gun and checked it.

“Extra ammunition?” he asked, ignoring the weapon she still had leveled at his chest.

Sarah struggled with her wet, heavy clothing to pull out the little bag of powder and balls. After an interminable time digging about, she located both and handed them over. He looked at her for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again.

“What?”

“It is only . . . Well, if you will forgive me, I was going to say we may need to move quickly. Will you be able to do so in your wet garments?” The captain flushed under her suspicious stare and shrugged. “Should you desire it, there is dry clothing in the wardrobe behind you. It is men’s clothing, but we are of a similar height, and you will be able to move faster.”

He was right—her clothing was a hindrance. Besides, she stank and was cold. Sarah could discern no sly intent or cunning in his face. All the same, she backed toward the wardrobe without lowering her gun. She jerked open the door and glanced inside.

“For the love of God.” He plunked down the pistol on the desk. “There, keep it. Although how you plan to change your clothing and shoot me at the same time I cannot guess.” He moved his chair so his back was toward her and collapsed into it.

Sarah tore off several buttons in her haste to get out of her garments. She yanked one of his fine linen shirts over her worn chemise before stepping out of her tattered skirt and into a pair of breeches, all the while keeping her eyes on Graaf’s back. After she’d donned a waistcoat and a blue woolen frock coat, she picked up the second gun and handed it over his shoulder.

The captain looked at her outfit and snorted, his barely suppressed amusement triggering a coughing fit.

“That serves you right for laughing.” Sarah cocked her pistol and took her place behind the door. “Now, are you ready to take back your ship?”

When Martín opened the door to the wardroom he found two similarly dressed people sitting across from Beauville and Daniels. Both people were fair-skinned and slim, their pale faces wan beneath their hats. One of them was female.

“Bonjour, Captain. Bonjour, madam? Mademoiselle?” He cocked an inquiring eyebrow at the woman. The gasps that escaped Beauville and Daniels told Martín his men had been fooled by her male clothing.

He turned to his first mate and made a tsk-tsk sound. “For shame, Beauville. How is it you could fail to notice a beautiful woman even when she is dressed as a man?”

The woman inhaled sharply at Martín’s inaccurate description. Her thin, pale face was, in fact, not particularly handsome. And, judging by the way she had fooled his crew, she must have a figure to match.

She glared at him. “My name is Sarah Fisher. Miss Sarah Fisher. And this”—she gestured to the man beside her—“is Mies Graaf, captain of the Blue Bird.” The blond man gave Martín a tired smile and lifted his shoulders, as if to say he was merely along on a whim.

Martín eyed the weak-looking slaver with scorn. It would be far more entertaining, not to mention humiliating, to deal with the captain’s excitable woman rather than the man himself.

Martín turned to her and bowed with a flourish. “Welcome to my ship, Miss Fisher. I am Captain Martín Bouchard. I take it by your presence here that you are going to turn yourselves and your ship over without any fuss, eh?”

She crossed her arms. “By what right do you claim Captain Graaf’s ship and cargo?”

Martín leaned across the table, both to get a closer look under her hat and to let her know he was not a man to be held at arm’s length by frigid looks. “By the power of the letter of marque granted to me by the British government, Miss Fisher.”

She glanced at the Dutchman, clearly hoping for assistance.

She received none.

Her eyes slid back to Martín’s face, but she let slip no indication of what she was thinking.

He smiled; such cool behavior was intriguing. Women usually flung themselves at him, or, at the very least, giggled and behaved foolishly in his company. Who was this plain woman with such self-possession and calm? And what was she to the mute, pitiful lump of man beside her? His sister? His wife? His whore? She flushed under his stare, as if he’d spoken the words out loud.

“The Blue Bird was in the process of returning to Ouidah when you stopped us, Captain. The people on the ship are going home. There is no need for you to interfere; nobody on that ship will be sold into slavery.”

Martín laughed and threw his hands in the air. “Enfin, mademoiselle, I see now that I have made a terrible mistake. You are free to go.”

The woman’s lips parted, and she looked sideways at the Dutchman. Neither spoke as they rose hesitantly to their feet.

Martín waited until they were standing before leaning across the table, no longer smiling. “You may go, but I will retain your ship, crew, and human cargo.”

The captain slumped back into his seat, but the woman flushed a deep red and planted both hands on the table. She glar. . .