The Rogue Pirate’s Bride

by Shana Galen

  She bristled. “Am I the steak in this scenario?”

  “Indeed. A rather juicy steak, I might add. And that’s why you won’t be sleeping among the men.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you don’t think I’ll be sleeping with you.”

  He grinned, and she knew that was exactly what he thought. A brisk knock on the door interrupted them, and he added, “We shall work out the details later.”

  She recognized the red-haired man who entered first. She didn’t understand the pirate hierarchy, but she thought Mr. Maine was something of a first lieutenant. Cutlass called him the quartermaster and nodded to him now. “Mr. Maine. I believe you remember Miss Russell.”

  She saw his surprise at seeing her in the wardroom flicker across his face a moment before he nodded and smiled. “Miss Russell, a pleasure to see you again.” The perfect gentleman, he took her hand, kissed it.

  “And this is our ship’s bosun, Mr. Ridley.”

  Raeven took a deep breath as she looked up and then up again at the large black man standing before her. She’d seen men with tattoos before but never one with tattoos on his face. This one had a large swirl made of small dots on his right temple, extending down along his cheek. His right ear boasted a large gold hoop, while his left had three small hoops dangling from it. He grinned at her, his smile broad and white and somewhat less than friendly. He took her hand in his—swallowed it was a more apt description—and she forced her lips into what she hoped was a smile. “Mr. Ridley, was it?” she breathed.

  “Dat right. And you is Miss Russell. The troublemaker.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “Troublemaker? I’m not a troublemaker.” Even as she said it, she heard Percy and Cutlass snort. She expected as much from Cutlass, but at least Percy could be loyal!

  “Good.” Mr. Ridley squeezed her hand. “I doan want no trouble on dis here ship.”

  She nodded.

  “Mr. Ridley generally gets what he wants,” Cutlass drawled.

  Raeven imagined he did indeed.

  “But, Mr. Ridley,” Cutlass added. “You should know Miss Russell is accustomed to having her own way, as well. Keep an eye on her, will you?”

  “Yes, Cap’n.”

  Raeven threw Cutlass a hard glare before Mr. Ridley moved away, and a small, elderly Frenchman stood before her. He had a shock of thinning white hair, thin lips, and a weathered face, but his brown eyes were clear and lively. “Bon soir, mademoiselle. Enchanté.”

  He kissed her fingers with paper-dry lips, and over his bowed head she gave Cutlass a questioning look. The man was obviously too old and feeble to fight. What use would he serve on a pirate ship, where every man was expected to fight to the death?

  Cutlass met her gaze, but his expression gave nothing away. “Our ship’s doctor, Monsieur Leveque.”

  “Je suis Gaston, mademoiselle. S’il vous plait.”

  She nodded. “Gaston it is then. Please call me Raeven.”

  His eyebrows rose and he glanced at Cutlass. “Ah, so you are the raven. I wondered why he was speaking of birds in his sleep.”

  Raeven frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Cutlass moved between them, taking her arm and leading her to a chair. “Salviati is our cook. Do you speak Portuguese?”

  She shook her head. “Very little.”

  “Then you’ll have to make your requests through me, as Salviati speaks only Portuguese.”

  The other men took their seats now, and Raeven could see there was some uncertainty as to who would sit where. Obviously, she had taken one of their places. She sincerely hoped it was not Mr. Ridley’s. But he settled down quickly at the far end of the table, while Cutlass sat at the head, to her left. The ship’s doctor sat on his other side, and Mr. Maine sat across from him. That left one chair next to Mr. Ridley, and poor Percy took it, trying very hard not to look too long at the large man.

  A moment later, the cook entered, carrying a tray with a steaming platter of… something. She wasn’t certain what it was, but it smelled edible. The places were set, and Cutlass served her first then each man in turn. He took what was left for himself, and she was surprised to see how little it was. He was either not hungry or did not care for the offering. He did pour first her then himself more wine. He passed the bottle to Gaston.

  The doctor filled his glass and turned to her, saying in heavily accented English, “And so you are named after a bird? Or have I translated incorrectly?”

  “No, a raven is a bird, but my name is spelled with an extra E. I was actually named because of the color of my hair. Apparently, when I was born, I had a head full of black hair, and my mother said I was to be named Raeven, but with the extra E so as not to confuse me with the bird. At least that’s the story I’ve been told. I never knew my mother, and I have no idea if it’s the truth. But”—she lifted a piece of her matted hair—“I still have the dark hair, so I’m inclined to believe it.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Russell,” Mr. Maine said quietly, “what happened to your mother?”

  Raeven cleared her throat. “I’m told she died several days after my birth. They think it was some sort of complication or infection.” She lifted her fork and pressed it into the glop of brown mush on her plate. It was some type of meat… or perhaps a potato?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She looked up. “I mean, thank you, but I never knew her. And had she lived, I imagine I would never have been allowed to sail with my father. As it is, I’ve been sailing with him since I was four.”

  “That explains a lot,” Cutlass murmured under his breath.

  She turned to glare at him but was distracted by Gaston. “Monsieur le Marquis lost his mother, as well,” he said. “He was eleven.”

  She blinked, not expecting such a revelation. The other men at the table were looking down, obviously uncomfortable. “Marquis?” she asked. She had to look past Cutlass to see the doctor, and she could see Cutlass’s jaw tighten.

  The doctor nodded, spooning some of the brown mush into his mouth. “Oui. He is the marquis de Valère. His parents were the duc and duchesse de Valère.”

  Ah, so he did spread stories of his noble lineage. At least she wanted to believe it was a story. “And did you know the duc and duchesse?” she asked.

  “Assurément. I—”

  “Why don’t we speak of something else?” Cutlass interjected.

  “Oh, no.” Raeven was intrigued now. “You won’t tell me why you’re after this Jourdain. I think I deserve to know something about you.” Even if it was a lie.

  She turned back to Gaston. “Are you the duc of something or other?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “No, I was their servant. Monsieur le Marquis and I escaped the night of the fire.”

  “Gaston, enough.”

  From the looks of the others at the table, Gaston’s remarks were revelations to them all. Most had forgotten to eat and were staring at the old man. The food was not very good, but she knew few sailors who didn’t eat what was given them.

  Gaston shrugged. “He doesn’t like me to speak of it, mademoiselle. Would like me to call him Bastien, but he is still the marquis to me.”

  Raeven felt a prickle run up her spine. Was it possible this man spoke the truth? He was certainly speaking it as he believed it to be true. And she knew the revolution in France had killed and displaced much of the aristocracy. She glanced at Cutlass. Could he be a marquis?

  She looked at Gaston again. “Bastien?”

  He nodded and indicated the captain. “His name. His real name is Sébastien, but the family always called him Bastien.”

  She blinked again, amazed at the amount of information she’d gleaned about this man who had been such a mystery only a few short minutes before. “And I suppose Cutlass is not his real surname.” She knew it was not, but she was interested to hear what old Gaston would say.

  “Cutlass? Oh, no! That was—”

  “Mr. Maine,” Cutlass—Bastien—
interrupted. “Does the fog show any sign of lifting soon?”

  “No, Captain. But I expect it will burn off in the morning.”

  They continued their discussion of winds and weather, a conversation Raeven would have found interesting at any other time, but she could only stare at the captain and wonder how much of what the doctor had said was true. She didn’t know if she believed he was a marquis, but why would the old man lie about having been the family’s servant?

  Sébastien… She studied the pirate. He did look something like a Sébastien. His features were refined, his smile charming, his voice smooth. And yet the way he sat, the leisurely way he smoked, and that intense look on his face when he spoke of Jourdain—that was when she could see Bastien was a better name for him. He was no lily-white aristocrat. She glanced at his hands. She’d felt them on her skin, knew they were roughened from work. Her own were rough as well from furling sails and climbing rat lines.

  Interesting. A deposed marquis. She wondered what other secrets he hid. And she worried she might just find out.

  Ten

  Bastien stood at the taffrail and stared into the gray dawn. The fog hadn’t lifted as Mr. Maine expected, and he scowled at Jourdain’s shield. The man had the devil’s own luck, but one of these days it would fail.

  He heard a light footstep behind him, and without turning, said, “Miss Russell, you’re up early.” He’d given her his cabin last night, as he didn’t intend to sleep. Ridley had posted a guard outside the door to make sure she didn’t hatch one of her schemes and attempt something like commandeering the ship while his crew slept. Now it was morning, and she must have talked the guard into allowing her on deck.

  “I’m not accustomed to lounging in bed,” she said, coming to stand beside him. She still wore his white shirt and breeches, but he saw she’d taken a comb to her hair—most likely his comb—and it hung in a neat black ribbon the length of her back. “The fog hasn’t lifted.”

  He stared at the grayness.

  “Jourdain could be just on the horizon or several hundred miles away,” she said, stating the obvious. “In any case, you’ve lost him. Perhaps it’s best if we turn back.”

  He glanced at her, arched a brow. “Is that what your father would do? If he had orders to… say… burn, sink, or take a ship—this ship, for instance—a prize, would he turn back at the first hindrance?”

  Her lips thinned. “No, of course not.”

  “And you think me any less determined?”

  She sighed, and they stood in silence for a long while. He listened to the water slap the sides of the boat, the wind pulling the sails tight, and the creak of the rigging.

  “If you don’t turn back,” she said, “Jourdain will be the least of your worries. My father will find you—fog or not—and when he does, he’ll destroy you.”

  Bastien nodded. He had no doubt the admiral would piece all of the events together once he realized his daughter was missing and the Shadow gone, as well. But he had at least a half a day on the Regal, and the fog would hinder the man-of-war as it now hindered him. The Regal might find them, and he’d deal with that problem when it arose. He seriously doubted the admiral would fire and risk injuring his daughter. There would be negotiations and bargains struck. And then, no matter what the admiral promised him, once he had his daughter back, Bastien would get the hell out of there.

  He had a fast ship. He’d outrun the British Navy before. With luck—a lot of luck against a 110-gun first-rate ship of the line—he could do it again.

  “Bastien.”

  He looked at her, saw her eyes were wide. “That really is your name.”

  “I prefer you call me Cutlass or Captain.”

  “Not Monsieur le Marquis?”

  Her tongue fumbled over the words, pronouncing marquis in the English fashion, marquess. “Your accent leaves something to be desired,” he drawled, changing the subject. “Where did you learn French?”

  “Oh, here and—” She paused, and he saw her stiffen then lean forward. Something about the way she moved, the way she… went on alert had his pulse beating.

  “What is it?”

  She didn’t answer at first, and he found himself holding his breath. Listening.

  Listening.

  “There,” she whispered. She’d taken his hand, and hers was warm in his cold one. He didn’t think she even realized she was touching him. “Did you hear it?” she whispered again.

  He shook his head. “Hear what?”

  “Call for the lead, and order silence on deck.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her he was the one who gave the orders, but again, something in her demeanor had him doing exactly as she said. He turned and motioned to one of the yardmen. “Climb up and tell me what you see. Silence on deck!” he called. “And bring me the lead.”

  A moment later, a spyglass was thrust into his hands, and he peered through it, searching the fog for some sign of movement. He scanned the wisps of gray once, twice, and saw nothing. Lowering the spyglass, he said, “I don’t see—”

  And then he heard it.

  The faint tinkling of a bell.

  It could have been his imagination. But he knew it wasn’t. He knew looking at the way Raeven Russell leaned forward, listening with her whole body, that the bell was as real as the oak rail under his hands.

  “What do you see…?” He squinted at the yardman on the mizzenmast. It was Jolivette. “What do you see, Jolivette?”

  “Fog and clouds, sir. Nothing more. Nothing—wait!”

  But Bastien had seen the orange and red burst from the fog bank, as well. “All hands down! Down!” He dove for the deck, taking Raeven with him. He wrapped his arms around her, cushioning her fall and rolling to position his body over hers. His wounded shoulder howled with pain, and his vision grayed for a moment.

  Under him, Raeven let out a soft “oof,” and then the world around them exploded. He kept his arms around her, and they flew across the poop deck, landing hard against the rail together. Wood splinters showered them, a loose piece of canvas slapped him in the face, and he felt the Shadow lurch. More pain to his shoulder, but he bit down and pushed through it. He lurched to his feet.

  “Aux postes de combat!” Bastien ordered before turning to Mr. Jackson, his carpenter, who was scrambling toward him. “Damage report, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Right away, Captain.”

  “Mr. Khan.” He turned to his sailing master, who was at the helm. The man’s cheek was bleeding, and he looked somewhat dazed.

  “Yes, Captain!”

  “Turn this ship starboard. We’re going to hit them full on.”

  He could hear the shouts of “topmen aloft,” “hard to starboard!” and Mr. Castro’s order for his gunners to “be ready now, boys!” All around him, men scrambled to do what they knew best—sail and fight.

  And Raeven Russell was right beside him. “I see a brig, thirty-two guns. Is that La Sirena?”

  He turned and looked off the stern. Merde. It was La Sirena, and she was gaining on them.

  “He must have hidden in the fogbank,” Raeven was saying. “And when we passed him, turned to port and fired.”

  He’d already pieced together what had happened, but he didn’t object to hearing her opinion, especially as it mirrored his own.

  “He couldn’t see, so it was a blind shot, but I’d say he didn’t do half bad.” She leaned over the rail, watching as one of the Shadow’s men climbed down a rope to inspect the rudder. “He’s coming up on our starboard side. He’ll fire as soon as he’s broadside.”

  Mr. Jackson was beside him a moment later. “Not much damage on deck, Captain. Masts are fine. A few sails torn…”

  “Mr. Jackson!” came the voice of the mate hanging over the stern. Bastien and his carpenter ran to peer over the rail. “The rudder is damaged, sirs!”

  Bastien turned to look at Khan. “How is the steering?”

  The man shook his head. “I haven’t much, Captain.”

  And indeed
the ship was not answering. It hadn’t turned to starboard, and La Sirena was gaining on them. Another five minutes, and she’d be alongside. “Damn it!” It was up to his gun crews now. He raced down the short ladderway to the main deck, giving the order, “Prepare to repel boarders!” as he went.

  The gun crews were at the ready, as he knew they’d be. His master gunner, Felipe Castro, was an experienced sailor and a veteran of the Spanish navy. “We don’t have much steering,” he told Castro. “It’s up to you and your men to do as much damage as you can. If not, we might all be making a visit to the slave auctions at Gibraltar.”

  It was a very real threat, for if the crew of La Sirena boarded them, Jourdain would kill Bastien, but he’d take the men and sell them as slaves. For a fleeting instant, Bastien wondered what would happen to Raeven, and then he shouted, “Stand fast. She’s not close enough. Now! On the up-roll…”

  The ship rose, and through the gun ports, he could see La Sirena coming beside them. He could see Jourdain’s men, faces blank, eyes hard, at their cannons.

  “Fire!” Mr. Castro ordered, and his own cannons boomed even as La Sirena answered. To his right, a cannon and its crew took a direct hit. Men and metal flew back, and Bastien raised his hand involuntarily to shield his face from the flying debris.

  The men lay wounded, but he could see the cannon might still fire. La Sirena was directly across from them now, but even as he scrambled to take over at the cannon, he was pushed aside by Castro and… his cabin girl?

  He watched as Castro blinked at the girl, but she merely ordered, “Help me get this cannon into the gun port. Quick now!”

  The two of them pushed the heavy weapon back into position. Bastien couldn’t help but notice that Raeven slipped on the blood of one of his men, but she didn’t falter, didn’t waver. He watched in awe as she covered the air vent then rammed the sponge rod into the barrel as though she had done so a thousand times.

  Perhaps she had.

  He turned back to his crew, watched as they primed their own weapons. “Ready!” he called. “On my word…”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Castro insert the heavy cannon ball into the barrel. Raeven inserted the fuse, prepared to light it…