The Rogue Pirate’s Bride

by Shana Galen

  Bastien studied the sea, watched the roll of the waves… “Fire!”

  La Sirena returned fire, and this time the damage was forward. Bastien ran to inspect it, knowing his gun crews would have little opportunity to do much more for the moment. Jourdain’s ship was pulling ahead, and without steering, Bastien could do nothing more than he had.

  But once on the fo’c’sle, he could see the whole picture. Yes, his foremast was damaged. Yes, several men were down and looked to be mortally wounded. Gaston would have a busy day ahead.

  But that was nothing compared to the havoc aboard La Sirena. Their main mast was damaged. Badly. It looked as though it might topple at any moment. It was less of a hindrance than his own trouble with the rudder, but he did not think Jourdain knew his rudder was damaged.

  As he stood and watched La Sirena shear off starboard, he saw the man he sought. Jourdain stood on deck, hands on hips, head held high—much in the same way Bastien stood.

  The two men eyed one another, and Jourdain raised a hand in mock salute. With a curse, Bastien watched as the pirate and his ship sailed away.

  ***

  The damage was not as bad as she had initially thought, Raeven decided several hours later. And she knew much of the reason the ship remained so intact was her captain. If she had any doubts before as to his abilities, she did not harbor them now. The way he’d leapt into battle, the way he’d issued orders and raced to the areas where his leadership was needed most had more than impressed her.

  She adored her father and thought him an able leader, but she had often thought that he should be more involved when the Regal was engaged in battle. He tended to rely on his lieutenants to bring him reports and devised strategy from their suggestions. But she had always wondered how much more effective he might be if he saw for himself the state of the ship.

  Now she had glimpsed that type of leadership, and she could not fail to be impressed. Cutlass—Bastien—whatever his name—had saved them only because he had been where the most leadership was needed at the time. Oh, they easily might have lost the battle. If La Sirena had noted their damaged rudder, she might have turned, assuming she had enough maneuverability with her damaged mast, and fired again. The Shadow would have been little more than a fish in a barrel.

  But Cutlass hadn’t given La Sirena opportunity to think of doing anything but escape. He hadn’t shied away from a direct confrontation, ordering his cannons to fire even as she could see La Sirena’s men looking at her across the expanse of water between the ships. That had taken guts.

  But it had paid off for him. They were now paused, making repairs to the ship’s rudder and sails, but they would be after La Sirena again before the dawn. She found, as she worked to repair a damaged shroud, she was almost excited about the prospect of another battle. She’d been escorting merchantmen too long, she decided. It was foolish to look forward to an event which very well might kill her. And yet, she always felt a rush when she heard the call to “beat to quarters.”

  She knew she’d surprised the captain and his master gunner when she’d fired the cannon. But what did the crew expect her to do? Sit and embroider handkerchiefs? No, if they went down, she went with them. The gun deck was where she was needed, and that was where she’d been.

  Now she could see some of the men eyeing her with a grudging respect. No one had objected when she’d asked Mr. Jackson, the ship’s carpenter, how she might be of assistance. He’d only paused a moment before pointing out the damaged shroud. It was an easy task, but she knew she’d have to earn the men’s trust before they gave her anything more substantial to do.

  She looked up, frowned, and shook her head. And why should she want to earn the trust of a crew of pirates? They’d kidnapped her and were taking her God knew where.

  She should hate them. She did hate them.

  And yet when Mr. Jackson gave her another task, she set to it with alacrity. It was only when the quartermaster, Maine, found her several hours later, she realized how long she’d been working and how late it was.

  “Miss Russell?”

  She turned and saw the red-haired man behind her. So strange to see an Englishman, all stiff and formal, aboard a privateer.

  “Yes, Mr. Maine?”

  “The captain has requested your presence in his cabin, miss. Would you care to accompany me?” Though it was phrased as a question, she knew it was no request. He offered his arm, and she stood, aware her muscles ached and protested.

  She rolled her shoulders and tried to work some of the stiffness from her back before nodding to Maine and following him.

  “Mr. Maine,” she said, walking by his side as they arrowed for the stern and the captain’s great cabin. “How did you come to serve under Captain Cutlass? You’re obviously a former subject of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

  He squinted at her over his shoulder. “That obvious, is it?”

  She smiled, noncommittal. From the corner of her eye she spotted Percy working to repair sails damaged by cannon and grape shot. He didn’t see her, too engrossed in his conversation. For a moment her heart tightened, but she didn’t know if it was because he had made other friends so quickly or because she had not.

  “I suppose the easy answer is the pay is better on the Shadow. I grew tired of being paid a pittance or nothing at all for my hard work. I have a wife and a child to support.”

  Raeven blinked and tried not to look shocked. But truth be told, she was shocked. She had never considered pirates might have families.

  “Do they live in England? Your wife and…”

  “Son. They live somewhere safe,” he said.

  She waited for him to continue then realized he had said all he would on the subject. Apparently, she could not be trusted with even the name of a city. Did the man think she would run to England at the first opportunity and seek out his family to denounce them as—what? Relatives of pirates? Did he think she wanted his family arrested?

  Yes, in fact that was probably exactly what he thought, and who could blame him? She had done nothing but threaten this man’s captain and his ship since the first time he’d seen her. If she were in his place, she’d want to protect her family, as well.

  He led her down the ladderway to the great cabin, knocked briskly on the door, and at Cutlass’s “Come!” opened it for her. She stepped inside, and Maine closed the door behind her, leaving her alone with Cutlass.

  He was seated at his desk, his head down. She stepped forward and saw he was studying charts. He had a magnifying glass and was staring at the print it enlarged. He didn’t look up or speak, and if her own father had not done the same thing a hundred times, she would have thought Cutlass did not realize she was there.

  “You know how to fire a cannon,” he said, moving the magnifying glass a fraction of an inch and studying the result.

  She nodded, realized he couldn’t see, and added, “I do.”

  “Mr. Jackson tells me you know how to mend a shroud, furl a sail, and swab the decks.” He leaned close to the chart and squinted.

  “Of course. I’ve lived almost all my life on a ship. I know how to do everything.”

  “You’re not one to sit idle.” Now he looked up at her. “Are you?”

  She’d forgotten the effect of his direct gaze on her. She’d forgotten how handsome he was, how effortlessly seductive. His mouth was turned in a sardonic smile, his black hair fell disheveled about his face and shoulders, and his cobalt eyes seemed to disrobe her. He looked every inch the pirate, and why that should make her heart thump in her chest was beyond her. She hated pirates.

  He leaned back, drawing her attention to the breadth of his chest and the vee of bronze flesh at his open collar.

  She hated pirates.

  He raised a brow, and she realized he was awaiting an answer to his question. Of course, she couldn’t remember the question now. She’d been too busy admiring his impossibly blue eyes to pay much attention. Now she wondered what it would be like to touch her tongue to the bronze sk
in of his neck. She’d felt his skin on hers before. He was always warm, hard, and a little rough.

  “You didn’t have to do that today.”

  “Hmm?” She blinked. “I mean, pardon?”

  He smiled. Was it her guilty conscience, or was his smile knowing? “You seem distracted, Miss Russell.”

  “I’m tired,” she said immediately. Then his words registered. “And when did I become Miss Russell?”

  “When someone has my respect, I show it.”

  Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows. “Is this a new ploy to get me into bed?”

  He burst out laughing, making her face heat with embarrassment. “No. Why? Is it working?”

  “Of course not.” But she was already seduced by him. She had the feeling if he but crooked his little finger, she’d come running.

  But he didn’t know that, she reminded herself. He thought she hated him. And she did. Hate him. Only, she wanted him, too.

  He was smiling, probably still thinking about getting her into bed, so she cleared her throat. “What have I done to earn your respect? I did nothing the other members of your crew weren’t doing.”

  “Yes, but you aren’t a member of my crew.”

  Weary of standing before him, of feeling his direct gaze, she moved aside and studied one of the paintings on the wall. “No, but I’m not a member of Jourdain’s crew either, and frankly, I like my chances with you better.”

  “Smart girl.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re certainly full of compliments.”

  He rose now, moved toward her. “I told you, you earned my respect.” He was standing at her side and put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. “Don’t think I did any of it to earn anything from you. I’m in this to save my own neck.”

  “And see a noose about mine.”

  She turned back to the painting, not trusting herself to lie convincingly when he was standing so close. She could smell him, the scent of sea and sand and clean air, and she could feel him, the heat of him. He was like a fire burning bright beside her.

  “What’s this, ma belle?” He leaned close, all but burying his face in her hair. “Am I to assume from your uncharacteristic silence you don’t want to see a noose about my neck?”

  She leaned away from him. “Don’t do that.”

  His hand was on her waist, drawing her back. “Do what?”

  “Put your face in my hair. My hair smells bad.”

  “On the contrary, ma belle, it smells as it always does.”

  She looked at him, couldn’t help it. Immediately, she regretted the action because she was drawn in by those blue eyes. “What do you mean, ‘as it always does’?”

  To her surprise, he drew a lock of it through his fingers, put it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. “Like cherries,” he said. “Did you know that?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. His hand was still at her waist, and now he turned her to face him, turned her into his arms. It was a small movement really. She was halfway there already. “You’re a beautiful woman, Raeven. Desirable. But I’m sure many men have told you so.”

  She nodded. It didn’t feel like arrogance to admit as much to him.

  “I’ve known a lot of beautiful women.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “If you’re trying to seduce me, you’re sailing in the wrong direction.”

  He laughed. She loved how he was always laughing. He did it so lustily, the sound starting in his chest and seeming to reverberate throughout his body. He wrapped a strand of her hair about his finger until she bent her face close to his. “Give me a moment. Now what was I saying?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’ve known many beautiful women…”

  “Ah, yes.”

  She could feel his breath on her face. He’d been drinking wine again. She could smell its sweetness.

  “But I was going to add—before I was interrupted—I’ve known very few women who impressed me. You impress me.” His lips were so close to hers, his last words had their mouths brushing together. “When I saw you at that cannon…”

  She wasn’t certain if he was speaking to her or kissing her. She only knew she was trembling. She wasn’t cold. Could one tremble from desire?

  “When I saw you, I had half a mind to grab you and take you right there.” His hand moved down from her waist and cupped her bottom. She could feel its warmth, its sureness in the way he pulled her body closer to his.

  “No, you didn’t,” she whispered. “I saw you. Like any good captain, you were focused on the battle with a single-minded intensity.”

  He looked into her eyes, and she saw wonder there. “Now it’s my turn to ask. Are you trying to seduce me?”

  Yes. “No. I recognize leadership when I see it. You had no more thought of bedding me at that moment than you did of eating a roast of mutton.”

  “Perhaps that’s true,” he finally conceded. “But the thought came to me shortly thereafter.”

  He lowered his lips to her ear, nuzzled it enticingly. She began to tremble more violently.

  “Raeven, I want you,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I pulled that ugly cap off your head in the tavern in Brest. I want you more now—more than I think I have ever wanted any woman. But if you say no, I’ll leave you in peace.”

  She drew back, gazed into his eyes. There was passion in their depths, but behind it was also control. He meant what he said. This was her last chance.

  A small part of her still resisted him, the part of her still loyal to Timothy. Another part of her yielded to… whatever it was between them. She’d wanted Bastien the first time she laid eyes on him. Somehow she’d known, even in her haze of rage, he could give her pleasure no other man ever had.

  She opened her mouth to tell him to take her, but the words would not come. There had been only one other man: Timothy. How could she betray his memory by giving her body to this pirate, to Timothy’s murderer?

  “I see the war within you,” Bastien said. At some point in her most private thoughts, he’d become Bastien to her. “Which side is winning?”

  “Yours,” she said. “But I feel disloyal and… and wanton.”

  He grinned, and she felt as though she should be angry he was all but laughing at her. But all she could think of was his smile. It was infectious.

  “Well, far be it from me to discourage any wantonness on your part, but I’ve always thought life was for the living. We can’t guess what someone who’s gone from us would want. I like to think your fiancé would want you to be happy. But then you knew him, and I didn’t.”

  “Would you want me to be happy if our positions were reversed? Say you had been my fiancé and Timothy killed you. Would you want me to share his bed?”

  He laughed. “Merde. You have me there. I’d want you to kill him.” He touched her nose with a finger then kissed that same spot with his lips. “But there’s no reason you can’t bed me and then kill me.”

  She shook her head. “You know I’m never going to kill you.”

  “I know.” He kissed her lightly. “I’ve known it all along, but I didn’t think you’d realized it yet.” He kissed her again, and she found her lips, her body, responding without even meaning to.

  “What else do you know?” she whispered, wrapping her arms about him and digging her hands into his thick hair.

  “You’re going to make love to me.”

  “Have I realized that yet?”

  He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the berth. “I think you might have an inkling.”

  Her head was spinning, and she didn’t know if it was because she had forgotten to eat or because he’d scooped her up so quickly. She suspected it was a bit of both and also because her heart was pounding in her chest. He put her down gently, keeping his hand behind her head, so as soon as she touched the pillow, his mouth was on hers and his body was pressed against hers.

  She felt herself responding immediately to his warmth,
to his touch, to everything he was she shouldn’t want.

  Pirate. Rogue. Seducer.

  She pulled him hard against her, buried her face against his neck and licked the swath of bronze skin she’d been eyeing earlier. She could feel his strong muscles and taste sea salt and something indefinable but definitely him, something definitely masculine.

  He made a sound low in his throat then pulled back, cupping her face. “Aren’t you going to even make a show of protesting?”

  She stared up at him and knew this was what fallen angels looked like. “Protesting?” Did he think she could actually refuse him? She ran a finger along the hard planes of his cheeks, down the smooth bridge of his nose.

  “Oui—protesting. ‘No, no, monsieur, we shouldn’t,’” he said in a high-pitched voice. “And finally you give in because you are overwhelmed by my caresses.”

  “I am overwhelmed by your caresses. But I might be more overwhelmed if we were both wearing less clothing.”

  He laughed, as she’d hoped he would. “I like you more and more,” he murmured. She could feel his fingers loosening the belt at her waist. “No pretension. Now let me see if I can do something about the clothing issue.”

  A moment later, her belt dropped to the floor, and he pulled her up, taking his shirt over her head. She’d bound her breasts again, but when he reached for the cloth, she pushed his hands away. “I’ll do it. You deal with your shirt.”

  “Gladly, mademoiselle. Any other orders?”

  She paused in the act of reaching for the binding cloth. “Oh, am I…?”

  “No, no. I’m teasing you. This can be fun, no?”

  Fun. She pondered the idea as she unwrapped the long cloth. It had never been fun with Timothy. The few times they’d been alone together had been furtive and rushed. He’d been so intense, so eager to be inside her. They’d not exchanged two words during the act.

  But Bastien had not stopped talking and acted as though they had all the time in the world. And she supposed in a sense they did. No one would dare interrupt him. But she wasn’t certain she knew how to have fun in the way he meant.