The Rogue Pirate’s Bride

by Shana Galen

  She nodded, and he went to the door, opened it, stepped into the companionway. But he turned right back around, surprising her as she leaned over his desk. “And Raeven, I’ll be back. Don’t bother getting dressed.”

  ***

  She did bother to dress. She wasn’t some courtesan, paid to lounge about in her dressing robe.

  Not that she had a dressing robe. She didn’t have much of anything, so she raided Bastien’s trunks once again and donned a black shirt, black breeches, and cinched all in place with a large belt. She wished she could find boots that fit better because the ones she’d borrowed were too large, but she found a pair of woman’s slippers among the gowns. They were still too big for her, but she didn’t think she’d trip over them as much.

  She fully expected a guard at the cabin door, but the companionway was clear. Most of the crew were using the last of the dying daylight to finish repairs to the Shadow. At night she imagined Bastien—Cutlass—would order all portholes covered, all lights extinguished. If Jourdain was out there, Bastien wouldn’t take any chances the Barbary pirate might spot him. She could imagine the conversations in the wardroom at present. The men were probably drinking and smoking and tossing out idea after idea. She could picture Bastien smoking his own cigar, listening patiently, and making his own plans.

  Was the traitor in the wardroom even now, or was he one of the mates? Would he try to help Jourdain again soon or bide his time? It would be easy to “accidentally” leave a porthole uncovered, shine a light on the deck during the watch…

  She missed the safety and security of her father’s ship. In truth, there were many times she’d been in as much danger on the Regal as she was here, but for some reason, she felt more exposed on the Shadow. Perhaps because she didn’t know the crew here, didn’t know the ship’s capabilities yet, didn’t trust the captain.

  But that wasn’t quite true. She did trust Bastien. She’d seen his skills and leadership abilities. She knew he’d protect her. He’d done so in Gibraltar to his own detriment. He was more of a gentleman than he probably wanted to be.

  She did trust him with her body. But not with her heart.

  And she was afraid their lovemaking had touched something in her heart. Something different than Timothy had touched.

  She stood in the companionway and shook her head. Why should she allow Bastien to touch anything inside her? Why couldn’t she be like a man—give her body and nothing else? She knew Bastien wasn’t thinking about how she’d touched his heart.

  The thought made her smile ruefully. And wonder what Bastien was thinking. She didn’t know him well enough to guess.

  But she knew who did.

  A few minutes later, she made her way along the companionway until she reached the infirmary. She couldn’t have said how she knew which it was. Perhaps she could smell the blood or laudanum.

  The door was open, and she peeked inside. Mr. Leveque sat at a table, folding strips of white cloth. The men in his care, there were two, slept on cots. One had a bandage around his head, the other around his arm and leg. She wasn’t certain of their injuries and didn’t want the details. Even the idea of blood made her stomach protest.

  “Can I help you, mademoiselle?”

  Happily, she turned her eyes back to Leveque. “I hope I’m not interrupting, doctor.”

  “Not at all. And you mustn’t call me doctor. As I told you before, Monsieur le Marquis gave me this position, but I have no qualifications.”

  She nodded toward his patients. “They seem well enough.”

  “Eh, well. I knew something about caring for horses. Men are not so very different, and I have been on ships for many years. I have seen almost everything, as I imagine have you.”

  She nodded. She’d seen injuries so horrible she wished she could erase them from her mind. But she had never tried to deal with the injuries. She had never tried to save a man’s life. The most she had done was apply a tourniquet and help the injured soul to the infirmary.

  And she hadn’t stayed to see the doctor work.

  She thought at one point her father hoped she might work as a nurse. When she’d been twelve and her father had been captain of the HMS Titan, he’d brought her to the infirmary one day and offered her as an extra pair of hands. She’d done well for several hours: rolling bandages, sorting medicines, cleaning instruments. But later in the day, a man who’d severed his finger in an accident with a coil of rigging stumbled into the infirmary, his injured hand clutched to his breast, blood gushing over his shirt. She’d gone pale and—she was loathe to even remember this now—she’d fainted.

  It was the first and last time she’d fainted, and it had been the end of her glorious medical career. For some reason, she could draw blood in battle. Oh, her stomach grew queasy when she saw it, but she did not feel lightheaded. But when not in the throes of musket fire and booming cannons, she could not even think of blood without her head swimming.

  “How long have you been sailing?” She eyed the men on the cots. They seemed still enough—unlikely to convulse or begin bleeding out. Gingerly, she stepped farther inside.

  “Thirteen years. You?”

  “Since I was four, and I’ll be twenty this month.”

  He shook his head, a reaction she had not expected. Most sailors were impressed by her many years at sea. She raised her brows. “You disapprove?”

  “You’ve known nothing else,” Mr. Leveque said. “It dismays me.” He set the bandages aside.

  “I love the sea,” she countered.

  “That’s what he says too.” He gestured toward the stern and the captain’s cabin. “But he’s known little else, either. Jumped on board when he was but eleven. It was the only way to escape the bloodshed. He could do anything now, and he chooses this.” The look of disgust on his face indicated he didn’t approve of the choice. “Battles, death, risking life and limb.” Leveque shook his head again.

  “Why do you stay?” she asked.

  “How can I leave him, mademoiselle?” He shrugged. “We have no one but each other.”

  “Surely you have family back in France.”

  “No.” He reached for a pair of wine glasses, but she shook her head. He filled both anyway. “My family was the duc de Valère and his family. I began working for him as little more than a child. I don’t know who my parents were, but the duc took me in. He was a good man.”

  “What happened to him? You said the duchesse is dead. What about the rest of the family?”

  “All killed in the revolution. Monsieur le Marquis had two brothers. One was his twin, and both were killed that night. We heard later his father was guillotined.”

  “I’m sorry.” And she was. The violence in France a few years before was unimaginable to her. Whole families denounced and killed. Children even. “How did you and… er, the marquis escape?”

  The man looked thoughtful then said, “That is a story for him to tell. It is very personal to him. I may have already said too much.”

  She nodded. She could respect the old man’s decision, but she knew it meant she would probably never know Bastien’s story. He seemed unlikely to reveal it to her. “Might I ask one more question? On another topic?”

  The doctor inclined his head. “Why are we pursuing Jourdain? Bastien told me it was because the Barbary pirate killed someone he loved.”

  “His father.”

  She frowned. “But I thought you said—”

  “Not his real father. The man who became his father, Vargas, the captain of El Cuchillo. That’s the ship that took us on, and the man who taught Monsieur le Marquis all he knows about ships and sailing.”

  “What happened? Or is it too personal to reveal?”

  Leveque shrugged. “The story is widely known.” He lifted his glass, sipped, and indicated she should drink also. “Do not make me drink alone, mademoiselle.”

  Obligingly, she lifted the second glass and drank. The wine was good. From what she had seen on board, the crew of the Shadow did not want fo
r what might be considered luxuries aboard the Regal.

  “Jourdain and Vargas were not partners, but they often worked together for this pasha or that. I don’t know the politics of the region, but I know both men became rich.”

  Raeven frowned. It was no mystery how pirates made their fortunes. They ran blockades and robbed merchant ships. “How did Bastien get his own ship, this one?”

  “Vargas and Monsieur le Marquis took it in a raid. He gave it to Monsieur le Marquis as a reward. And that is what caused the rift. Jourdain thought the ship should have been his. He claimed he was instrumental in the fight. Vargas disagreed, and they went their separate ways. Six months later, Jourdain attacked Vargas near Tripoli. He raised the flag for parley, and when he was close enough, blew El Cuchillo to splinters.”

  Raeven bit her lip. “Where was Bastien?”

  “We were out at sea, making our own fortunes. But as soon as word reached Monsieur le Marquis, he began searching for Jourdain. But the coward went into hiding. It took money and time, but now we have him where we want him.”

  Money. Raeven thought about the arms and medicines she’d seen her first time on board the Shadow. She’d thought they were meant to fuel a war between Spain and England, and perhaps they would, but now she considered that Bastien might not have been as interested in war as he was in the profit he could make from selling the cargo.

  And that made him no less of a pirate.

  And for some reason, that status was no longer as unattractive.

  Twelve

  Bastien surveyed the men he’d invited to the wardroom and wondered who the traitor was. He didn’t like this feeling of suspicion. He didn’t like feeling as though he had to look behind him every time he stepped into a shadow. But Jourdain had gotten to at least one of his men.

  He glanced at each man seated at the table. There was Mr. Jackson, the ship’s carpenter. The man was English, built like a bull and with that same animal’s sense of humor. He didn’t mince words, and he didn’t use them frivolously. Beside him sat Mr. Castro, his master gunner. Castro was Spanish and had served with Vargas before Bastien offered him a position on the Shadow. Castro had no love for Jourdain. Beside him sat Mr. Khan. Also an Englishman, he was a former naval officer who had no qualms in telling everyone he was after gold and gems. He wanted his share of any prize. Could Jourdain have got to Khan? How much money would it take to sway Khan’s loyalties?

  He looked at the men standing near the windows, Ridley and Maine. They were the last two men he’d ever suspect of turning traitor. He’d known Alan Maine for years, and the man was as straight as they came. He did his job and did it well. He was well liked and well respected. It was one reason the crew had voted him quartermaster.

  Ridley had sailed on the Shadow for years, as well, but Bastien knew little about the bosun. Still, Bastien had no reason to suspect Ridley would sell him out to Jourdain. Ridley had always been loyal, always fought hard, usually at Bastien’s back.

  So if it wasn’t Jackson or Castro, Khan, Ridley or Maine, who was it?

  Bastien sighed. He was supposed to be listening to a discussion of strategy, but he hadn’t heard a word Khan said. And now the man was looking at him as though he wanted direction.

  “Let me consult my charts again,” Bastien said. “I don’t feel confident we know where the bastard is hiding.”

  He rose and headed back to his cabin. His statements in the wardroom had been no exaggeration. He had no confidence he knew where Jourdain hid. He wondered if Raeven had any ideas.

  And then he wondered why he was relying on her. She was smart, but she wasn’t omniscient. She couldn’t know where Jourdain lurked. And yet, he wanted her opinion. He found he valued her opinion.

  He strode into his cabin, surprised to find it empty. Not only that, but she’d left the bedclothes strewn about the floor. Some cabin girl she would have made. He thought about going to his desk, studying his maps and charts, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate without her. He’d wonder where she was, what she was doing—he eyed the bedclothes on the floor—what she was wearing.

  He stood at his desk and tried to imagine where she might have gone. If he were a woman… no, if he were Raeven, where would he go?

  He smiled and started for the infirmary.

  Five minutes later he found her, sharing a glass of wine with Gaston. The two looked as though they were old friends. And before Gaston, who was facing the doorway, saw him, he heard the word Jourdain.

  “So you’ve got that story out of him,” Bastien said and had the satisfaction of seeing Raeven jump. He’d surprised her and had the feeling it didn’t happen very often. “Anything else?”

  “If you’re concerned the good doctor has told me anything about who you are or where you came from, never fear,” she said with a smile. He noted she’d pulled her hair back from her face and secured it with a ribbon. Where had she found a ribbon? She was wearing a pair of his black breeches and a black shirt. A belt held it all in place, but the garments were ridiculously big on her.

  Still, she looked pretty. And tempting.

  “I wasn’t concerned,” he said. “Gaston will never talk. He can withstand even the worst tortures.”

  “Oui, Monsieur le Marquis. But I have entertained this lady with other stories.” He smiled at Raeven. “Come again when you have time.”

  “I will.” She rose and turned to Bastien. “What is it?”

  “Why do you assume I’ve come with a purpose?”

  “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does anything without a purpose. And I know you’ve just come from the wardroom.”

  He nodded. “Very well. I wanted to go over the charts and maps with you. Have you had time to peruse them?”

  She gave him a look that told him the question itself was absurd. They returned to his cabin in silence, and she went straight to his desk, sorted the maps, and pointed to the one she wanted. “Here,” she said without preamble.

  Bastien leaned close, studying the map of an area somewhat west.

  “Do you see these shoals? He’ll want to stay away from those, keep in open water. But he’s close enough to land, as well, in case he needs to drop anchor and complete further repairs.”

  “And he might think to box me in. The Shadow’s main strength is her speed and agility. If we have land on one side, we lose maneuverability.”

  Raeven nodded. “He has more cannon, and he’s bigger, sturdier. You can outrun him, but he has the advantage if you stand and fight.”

  “But not if we surprise him. Not if—” He glanced at her suddenly.

  “What is it? Did you think of something?”

  “No. I’ve just realized I’ve come farther in planning my strategy with you than I did all those hours in the wardroom.”

  She shrugged. “I told you I could be of service.” She bent to the map again. “Look here. If you want to surprise him, I suggest you come along this way. It will take an extra day, but he won’t expect it.”

  Bastien studied the route, frowned. “Will he wait that long? I don’t want to lose him.”

  “It’s a risk. He has a prime position, so I think he’ll wait. If not, you still have the advantage of surprise. Of course”—she took a seat in his chair—“all the surprise in the world will come to naught if your traitor sabotages you. Have you found his identity yet?”

  He’d watched her study his maps, sit in his chair, and now she leaned back and questioned him as to his own ship and his own crew. For a moment, he felt as though he were a mate again, reporting to his captain. “You look quite comfortable. Can I get you anything? Wine? Cigar?”

  “Oh.” She stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

  “I don’t mind.” Much. He didn’t mind much. “I’m not used to it. No one else on this ship would dare take my seat.”

  “Old habit. I used to sit in my father’s chair and do schoolwork.”

  Her words lit an old memory in his mind. He remembered sitting in his f
ather’s library, his feet dangling from the chair, looking at a book that seemed so big it must hold all the knowledge in the world.

  “Should I assume, from your silence, you haven’t discovered the traitor’s identity?”

  She didn’t miss anything, did she? He sat in his own chair, not because he wanted a seat but because he wanted to remind himself it was his. He was the captain of this vessel. “Not yet. But I will. Soon.” He studied the map again, thought about the plan they’d made. It might just work. He knew from Mr. Jackson the repairs were almost finished. They’d continue throughout the night and could sail at first light.

  He rose, went to the door, then stopped and looked back at her. “I’m going to tell Mr. Khan to set a course. When I return, I want to find you naked and in the berth.”

  She raised a brow. “Is that an order?”

  “Take it as you like it.”

  He shut the door and started up the ladderway. He’d done no more than step foot on deck when Percy Williams stepped in front of him. Bastien halted. He had little choice, as the man stood directly in front of him. “Mr. Williams.”

  “Captain.” Williams didn’t move.

  “Now that the pleasantries are over, might you move to one side or the other?”

  “You’re bedding her, aren’t you?” Williams asked. Even in the twilight, Bastien could see the man’s face turn red. Embarrassment or anger?

  Embarrassment, Bastien decided. “That’s hardly your concern, Mr. Williams. I assure you, I’ve done nothing against Miss Russell’s wishes.”

  “Good.” He didn’t speak, didn’t move, either.

  Bastien sighed. “Was there something more you wished to say, Mr. Williams?”

  “Captain Bowers was a friend of mine.”

  “I see.” Bastien sighed. Apparently, Bowers had been a popular man. “I’m sorry for your loss. But I’ll tell you what I told Raeven, I didn’t attack the Valor. She pursued us, probably looking to press my crew. Nor did I kill Captain Bowers. Not with my own hands, anyway. We didn’t board their vessel. It was a quick skirmish, bloody and damaging, mostly to the Valor. I’m not sorry we won. If we’d lost, my men would be virtual slaves on the Valor, I’d be dead or imprisoned, and my ship would be another of the navy’s prizes. I will say I never intended to kill the ship’s captain, but he attacked in a storm—foolish choice—and he suffered the consequence.”