by Shana Galen
“You have family there, no?”
“Yes, but…” She blinked again. “You can’t sail to England.”
“Why not? I have a letter of marque from Spain. We’re not enemies. At present.”
“B-but you’re a pirate, and now you’ve undoubtedly been accused of kidnapping the daughter of one of His Majesty’s admirals. If you manage to make it to England, you’ll never leave again.”
He lifted a shirt, inspected it for wrinkles. “What other options do we have? As you mentioned, your father is no doubt pursuing us, so I can’t turn and sail back to Gibraltar. And I’ve always wanted to see England. Surely there are secret coves and harbors where I could drop anchor. Surely the daughter of an admiral knows some of these.”
She watched him don the shirt and considered. She did not want to leave at all, but neither could she stay. Her father would come after them, and she would not be responsible for another person’s death, even if that person was Captain Cutlass.
And Bastien was right. Her father would hunt them down. That hunt might be suspended if he were to find his daughter safe in England. She wouldn’t be able to stop the admiral from going after Bastien, but she might delay him. Give Bastien time to get away.
And why exactly did she want to help a pirate escape the British Navy?
She sighed. Because she loved the pirate, damn it.
Bastien was watching her. “What does that sigh mean?”
“It means I’m going to help you.”
His grin was quick and cocky. “Was there ever any doubt?”
She ignored him. “But I still think England is too much of a risk. Why not sail somewhere neutral? Why not France? I can contact my father from—”
But he was shaking his head. “No. Not France.”
“Why? We met in France.”
“And that’s the last time I’ll ever set foot on that godforsaken soil; I will never return to France.”
She sat on the bed and watched him pull his hair roughly into a thong. “Because of what happened to your family?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” His eyes stayed steadily on the mirror.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like to remember.”
“But it might help you to talk about it. It might—”
He rounded on her. “Do I ask you to talk about Bowers?”
She bit her lip. “No.” But what she did not add was she did not need to talk about Timothy. She loved Bastien now. She would always love Timothy, but that love was different than this one. Not less, just different.
“Then do not ask me to talk about my family. There is nothing to say. They are all dead.”
“Are you certain?”
He scowled. “You sound like Gaston, and I don’t discuss the matter with him, either.”
She rose. She could see the hurt in him. “Bastien.” She laid a hand on his shoulder, but he pushed it away.
“I have duties,” he said and walked away. She watched the door close behind him, sat on the berth, and wished she could talk to Percy.
***
Ridley stood at the helm, looking every bit the pirate with his white shirt blowing in the breeze and the gold hoops in his ears. Bastien stood beside him and stared at the ocean, stared at the spot where La Sirena had made her last stand. Now she was gone, rotting at the bottom of the ocean, her captain with her. And good riddance. On the Shadow, repairs went on around him as the men prepared to set a new course. Bastien knew Mr. Khan was waiting for that course. He could see several of the men looking at him from time to time, waiting for him to inform them of their next adventure.
This wasn’t life on a navy vessel. He might suggest a course and his men object. They never had, and Bastien didn’t expect they would now—not with their pockets full of booty from La Sirena. But this was not a dictatorship, and he owed the men some explanation of what was next.
But for the first time in his career, Bastien didn’t know what was next. He didn’t know what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go. He no longer cared about seeking fortune and adventure. He had done that with great success.
He no longer cared about revenge. The man he hated was at the bottom of the sea.
What was left?
“What is left?” a familiar voice said from beside him.
Bastien turned to see Gaston. His clothes were stained with blood, his eyes shadowed and weary. “Am I intruding, Monsieur le Marquis?”
“No.” But Bastien hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud. He raked a hand through his wind-tangled hair.
“You’ve had adventures, made and lost fortunes, and now you’ve had your revenge. Eh, bien. Is that all you want?” Gaston gestured to the endless blue ocean, churning and rolling as it had for an eternity, as it had before Bastien was born and as it would long after he was gone. “The sea doesn’t love you.”
“Love.” Bastien shook his head, but he thought of Raeven, the hurt in her emerald eyes when he left her. She was the kind of woman he could love. He thought he might even be half in love with her already.
“You’re thinking you can’t have her—Mademoiselle Russell.”
“I can’t. I’d have to fight her father, fight the whole of the British Navy. And even if I was willing to do that…”
He couldn’t risk his heart again. He didn’t want to, and he suspected neither could she. They’d both loved and lost, and he was not willing to lose again.
“And even if you were willing?” Gaston prompted.
“I’d lose her.” Resourceful as she might be, she was also far too adventurous. “Merde. If she outlives me, I’ll eat my boot.”
Gaston nodded. “She will die one day. You’ve faced your death many times, Monsieur le Marquis, and never shied away.”
“I’m not afraid of death.”
“Are you so afraid of life? You have a chance at love. You have a chance to live. Are you so much the coward you will not even take the chance?”
He thought of his family, his twin, Armand, and his older brother, Julien. Gaston had said he’d never found any record of their deaths. But Bastien had seen the chateau burn. He knew they’d died inside.
But he should have died inside, also. He lit a cigar, stared vacantly through the smoke.
He would have died if he hadn’t been out playing adventurer that night. He would have died if he hadn’t used the secret passage to sneak out. He’d only intended to head down to the creek and see if he could catch a frog or two. His nanny, Madame St. Cyr, would not allow him to play with frogs… or spiders or snails or anything remotely interesting. He disliked the country, vastly preferred the exciting city, even at the age of eleven. But if he was forced to live in the country, the least Madame St. Cyr could do was allow him a pet snake. So he’d thought to sneak out and catch a frog or snake, take it back to his room, and perhaps surprise Armand with the creature in his bed.
He remembered looking back at the chateau as he’d made his way toward the nearby creek. He’d seen the light in Armand’s room still burned. His brother was probably reading, and if Madame St. Cyr caught him, he’d be in big trouble. He couldn’t see his brother Julien’s room from that vantage point, but he suspected Julien was fast asleep. Julien usually followed the rules. Madame St. Cyr always said, “Sébastien, why can’t you be more like your brother, Julien?”
He’d been on his way back from a successful foray at the creek, two plump frogs in his pockets, when he’d seen the torches and heard the singing. He’d hidden in the trees, waited to see what would happen, and had been shocked when the peasants set the chateau on fire. He’d run straight into Gaston, who’d been coming from the stables, and Gaston had pushed him back into the trees.
“Not that way, Monsieur le Marquis!” Gaston had been out of breath, his eyes frantic with panic. “If they catch you, they will kill you.”
“But ma mére and my brothers! I must go and help them.” He fought Gaston, but the groom held him fast.
“They will have t
o help themselves. You and I will escape, and we will find them later, no? We will all be reunited later.”
“No!” Bastien struggled, but Gaston pulled him away, hid him in the trees, and when one of the horses from the stables came upon them, Gaston and he rode for a city far from Paris. On the way, Bastien realized the situation in France was far more serious than he had known. His parents had told them there was some trouble with the lower classes, but he had not understood they wanted him and his family dead.
Gaston told him they would need to leave France in order to survive. He’d promised they’d return when order was restored, and find the rest of Bastien’s family. And so they’d traveled to Cherbourg, and Bastien found himself standing before Captain Vargas.
And here Bastien stood now. He looked at his old friend. “Have I ever told you I’m grateful for what you did that night? I’m grateful you saved me.”
“Are you?” Gaston gave him a hard look. “I sometimes think you wish you had died with them.”
Bastien flicked ash into the water. It was true. There were days he wished he’d gone back, even if it meant he would be dead now. “I felt like a coward for running,” he said. “I feel like a coward for leaving them.”
“Then perhaps it is time you stop running. You were a boy then. Now you are a man. Perhaps it is time you seek the truth of what had happened that night. Perhaps it is time you stop looking for ways to die and start looking for how you can live.” Gaston shrugged. “Eh, bien. You know what is best, Monsieur le Marquis.” He moved away, and Bastien stared after him. The old man moved stiffly, hunched over. It would not be long before he, too, was gone, and Bastien would be truly alone.
So perhaps the old servant was right. Bastien wanted to know what happened to his family—even if it meant the death of his favorite fantasy. Even if it meant he found out, without doubt, he was the last Valère.
He smelled cherries even before he saw her, and when he turned, she was standing tentatively behind him.
Perhaps the time had come to start living.
He studied her, knew she was probably waiting for him to order her below decks. Instead, he signaled Ridley. “Mr. Ridley, inform Mr. Khan and the crew I’d like to set a course for France. I have business there.” He saw Raeven’s eyebrows wing upward, but she didn’t speak.
“Yes, Cap’n. Doan mind telling you some of the men not goin to like dat.”
“Tell them they’re free to disembark in Brest, find another ship. There’ll be ships aplenty in those waters right now, taking advantage of the truce.”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
Bastien turned to Raeven. “Would you like to join me for a meal?”
Her brows winged up yet again, but she nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” He took her hand. “I have a story to tell you.”
Fifteen
“I don’t know what this is,” Raeven told Bastien an hour later, “but it’s delicious.”
Bastien nodded, sipped more of his champagne. She suspected he’d saved it to celebrate the defeat of Jourdain and had probably imagined sharing it with his quartermaster, Maine. She would never buy that dinner and wine for Percy. The celebration and victory were bittersweet for both of them. She looked about the wardroom. It seemed empty with only the two of them.
But at least the food was delicious. It was some sort of fish, spiced and seasoned in a way the cook on board the Regal would never have managed. Salviati, the Shadow’s cook, might not be much on presentation, but he more than made up for it with taste. She forked up another bite, noted Bastien was not eating.
“I think there are crepes for dessert,” he told her.
She smiled. “How very French. Speaking of France…” The subject had to be raised at some point. “What changed your mind?”
His sipped the champagne again. “I said I had a story.”
She laid down her fork, reluctantly, and reached across the table to take his hand. “I’d like to hear it.”
He poured more champagne for both of them. “I am a marquis. Actually, I might be a duc. I might be the duc of Valère.”
Raeven nodded. She didn’t doubt his claims, not anymore. Anyone could look at him and see noble blood flowed through his veins. She, on the other hand, was a sailor’s daughter through and through. Nothing special. “Valère.” She tapped her finger to her chin. “That name sounds familiar.”
“Gaston mentioned it to you, I’m sure. We’re an old family—we were an old family. Now I’m all that’s left.”
She felt his hand tremble slightly and squeezed it tightly. “What happened?”
He told her. He told her about his kind father, a man who was gentle and giving. A father very different from her own, but someone she could see loving. She wished she might have met him. He told her about his mother—how beautiful she’d been, how playful, and how strict. “She never let us get away with anything,” he added. “Somehow, she always knew what we were up to.”
She smiled sadly, wondering what her own mother would have been like. In the portrait her father kept in his cabin, she looked gentle. She looked like the kind of woman who would have pulled Raeven onto her lap and kissed away all her hurts. As it was, no one had ever done that for her. She’d never been neglected, but she’d never felt cherished. She watched the tender way Bastien twined his fingers with hers, thought of the way he held her at night when he thought she was asleep, the endearments he whispered to her. He had never told her he loved her, but he made her feel cherished.
“And then there was Julien.” Bastien smiled, and she could see the little boy in him, see the admiration he held for his older brother. “He was always so serious, so dedicated to his studies. He was a little duc from the day he was born. I wasn’t the best student—too distracted thinking about all the fun things I could be doing to pay attention to our tutors.”
She laughed because she’d been the same way. The hours she’d spent in her father’s cabin with tutors had seemed like months when the sun was out and the wind blowing. She would have rather swabbed the decks than be forced to learn Latin and Greek, which was probably why her grasp of the classics was so poor.
“But Julien always helped me with my studies. He had infinite patience. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I can see I must have been a trial to him.”
“You’re a twin,” Raeven said. “What about your twin brother?”
Bastien laughed. “We looked exactly alike, but otherwise we couldn’t have been more different. Armand was quiet and serious. He actually liked to read and preferred to stay indoors rather than run around and play. I remember him with his nose in a book. He was the tutors’ favorite. He spoke four languages by the time he was ten and had read all of Homer—in the original Greek.”
Raeven blinked. She hadn’t even read Homer in English. In fact, she wasn’t certain if he was the one who had written about Aeneas or Helen of Troy. She always got them confused.
“It sounds like Julien was something of a cross between you and Armand.”
Bastien nodded. “Exactly so.” He was speaking in French now, and she didn’t know if he realized he’d switched. He sounded comfortable speaking in French, but the more he reminisced, the more she heard the aristocrat in his voice. Sitting across from her—his shirt open at the throat, his hair long and carelessly pulled back—he looked every inch the pirate rogue. But in his straight nose, the high cheekbones, the arch of his brows, she saw the aristocrat. She saw the marquis.
“Julien and I would play pirate, but Armand never wanted to cross swords—fallen tree limbs, in actuality—with us. He’d rather read about pirates than play like one.”
“And now you no longer play pirate. Tell me your play pirate name wasn’t Captain Cutlass.”
He gave her a quick grin, and she groaned and rolled her eyes. But when she looked back at him, his eyes were unfocused, and she could tell he was far, far away. “When I was a child, sleeping in a hammock on the gun deck and feeling homesick—more homesi
ck than I can express because I had no home to go back to—I used to pretend they were still alive. I used to dream they’d escaped and were waiting for me.”
She felt her throat close up and hot tears sting her eyes. She would not let them fall. He would not want her tears, but she stood and went to him, put her arms around him. He pulled her onto his lap and cradled her as though she were the homesick child.
“Maybe they did escape, Bastien. Gaston thinks there’s a chance.”
Bastien shook his head. “I saw the chateau burn.” His voice rumbled in his chest where her ear pressed against his heart. “No one could have survived that.”
“Did you see your father pulled out? You know he did not burn. Did you see him carted away to Paris?”
“No.” And she could hear the sliver of hope in his voice.
“What if others escaped without you seeing? Perhaps your brother Julien, or Armand…”
She felt him stiffen and prepared for him to set her aside, but he continued to hold her. She looked up at him.
“I’ll go back and make inquiries, and I’ll put this to rest,” he said, his gaze meeting hers. “The only question is what to do with you.”
She twined her arms around his neck. “I’m going with you, of course.” She said it as though it were fact, but she knew it was nothing of the sort. And to her horror, she felt fear well up inside. Fear of losing him. What was wrong with her? Was she turning into a lovesick ninny?
She drew her arms down, but he pulled them back. “I’d like that, Raeven, but what about your father?”
Yes, what about her father? Was she leaving the admiral to take up with Captain Cutlass? And if she was, could she live with herself if her decision resulted in the destruction of the Shadow and its captain?
“He’ll come after us—you, I mean. He’ll try to destroy you.”
“I can outrun him. The question is, do you want me to?”
He was looking into her eyes, and she could feel her heart pound at the intensity of his gaze. “What are you saying?” she asked.
“Raeven, don’t play games.” He spoke in English now, his voice chiding and his accent surprisingly light.