by Shana Galen
“I need you to say it,” she whispered.
He traced a finger down her cheek, kissed her nose. “I want you to stay with me. I want you to be my wife.”
She hadn’t anticipated the last, and a tremor of shock tore through her. He laughed. “You didn’t expect that.”
“No. I—why? Because I can fire a cannon?”
He laughed again, and she wished he would stop, because she suspected he was laughing at her. “Among other things. I can always use another gunner.”
“I see.” She tried to wriggle out of his embrace, but he pulled her close.
“And because you’re beautiful and intelligent and almost as good as I am with a sword.”
“Almost!” She fought to escape his arms, but he laughed and held on. “I’ll fight you right now, and then we’ll see who’s better.”
“You can challenge me back in our cabin,” he whispered in her ear.
The our was not lost on her, but her back was still up. How like a man to think he was always better at swordplay. Still, if he continued to nuzzle her ear in that way, she might be willing to put the discussion on hold.
“Why do I want you as my wife?” His hand slid over her back, cupped her bottom. “I wanted you in my bed the first time I saw you.”
She waved a hand at him. “Yes, yes. You told me—when you pulled the cap off my head. But you said something about marriage.”
“Did I?”
She pushed away from him. “Never mind.” She struggled to rise, and when she did, she watched in horror and fascination as he dropped to one knee before her. “What are you doing?”
“Proposing.” He took her hand and she tried to snatch it away, but he held on tightly. “Mademoiselle Russell, I hope I am not too bold, but would you allow me the honor of asking for your hand in marriage?”
It was a formal proposal, one she might receive from any gentleman of the ton, but he grinned the whole time as though making a mockery of it. She didn’t quite know what to think. Was he serious?
She feared, for all his melodramatics, he was deadly serious.
“I…” she began and didn’t know what to say. Finally, she settled on, “Why?”
“I believe I made a promise to myself in the marketplace in Gibraltar,” he said, still on one knee, still holding her hand. “I realized I’d met my match, and I’d better marry you before you killed me.”
“I was never going to kill you. Not after Brest, at any rate.”
“And why is that?” His grin was cocky, and she almost didn’t tell him.
“Because I wanted you to kiss me too badly. You couldn’t very well kiss me if I slit your throat.”
“Not to mention, you’re afraid of blood.”
“I am not!”
He laughed. “Raeven, the floor is hard, and my knee is starting to ache. Will you give me an answer, ma belle, or do I have to kneel here forever?”
She wanted to say yes. She opened her mouth to do so, but the words stuck in her throat. How could she agree? How could she become the wife of a pirate? The wife of Captain Cutlass? The wife of the man who’d killed Timothy?
And how could she not? He wasn’t Captain Cutlass anymore. He was Bastien, and little as she liked to admit it, she loved him.
Did he love her? He hadn’t said so…
“I…”
His jaw tightened, and he began to rise. “If you need time to think about it—”
“No.” She sank down beside him, joined both of her hands with his. “But before I agree, I need to know what happened. I need to hear it from you. The truth.”
“Are you ready for the truth?”
He knew exactly what she was talking about. She had known he would, had known he would understand without her having to explain. “I thought I knew the truth. One of the men from the Valor told me the story. But I’m willing to hear your version now. I want to know what happened.”
Bastien nodded, squeezed her hands. “We were off the coast of Greece, and our holds were full of cargo.”
“Stolen from other ships, I’m certain.”
He flashed her a quick grin. “Not British ships, ma belle.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I think you like that about me.” He put a hand on her waist, and her whole body tingled. “But as I was saying, we were low in the water, and I think the Valor must have thought we’d be… what is the term you English use? Easy pickings?”
She nodded. She could see the Shadow in her mind, see it as Timothy might have—an easy target. Except he didn’t know Bastien.
“I could see the Valor was not fully manned. I think your Captain Bowers saw an opportunity to press sailors and take a prize. I did not approach him.”
She looked away. The story she had heard had been very different. Bastien clenched her waist. “Why would I, Raeven? A British ship-of-the-line? There’s no profit in that for me or my men.”
“Perhaps you wanted the glory.” The words were out even before she could think. And she regretted them immediately.
“You know me better than that.”
She looked at him, looked at his face, so familiar to her now. “I do.”
Bastien wasn’t seeking glory. She didn’t imagine he ever had. But Timothy… he had needed to prove himself if he hoped to advance in the ranks of the navy. The glory would have been his. “Go on,” she whispered. “Tell me the rest.”
“The Valor went straight for us. If we hadn’t been so laden with cargo, I would have turned and run. I wasn’t looking for a battle. But when he came for us, I didn’t shy away. I don’t need to tell you, if he’d won, I’d be dead and my men part of the British Navy—whether they liked it or not.”
She didn’t agree with the British practice of impressment. She knew ships needed to be manned, but taking a man against his will seemed wrong. And when her father had impressed sailors, they usually caused more trouble than they were worth. And still it was a sort of slavery. She could see why the men of the Shadow would fight it. What man, or woman, wouldn’t want to be in control of his own destiny?
“I think he expected me to run,” Bastien continued, “but I turned and came alongside him. The weather was stormy, the seas rough, and he had to close his lower gun ports. We closed with him amidships. I fired my guns, and he his. But as I said, he was undermanned and cocky. I’m sorry, but there it is.”
She nodded. Timothy could be cocky. He was a good sailor, but he had always enjoyed easy victories.
“Still, we took a beating. Damage to the bowsprit, the sails, a few of our guns taken out. But we kept them spitting, and we had the weather gage. He couldn’t maneuver as quickly. When the tide turned against him, he couldn’t get away, and we damn near blew him out of the water.” He tightened his grip on her waist, and she looked up at him. She realized she’d been staring at the floor, envisioning the battle, picturing it in her mind.
“I could have sunk him, but I didn’t. Merde. I didn’t need the whole of the British Navy after me. I spanked him and limped away to lick my wounds, which were fortunately few. I didn’t intend to kill Bowers. One of the men told me later he’d seen the captain go down, and the next time we were in port, I heard he’d died. It wasn’t my intention to kill him, but neither do I apologize.” He released her now and stood. She sunk down onto her heels. He’d been holding her up, and she felt weak.
“He asked for a fight, and I gave him one.”
She nodded, stared at the oak floors beneath her. It wasn’t the story she’d been told, but considering that story had been related by a sailor from the Valor—the losing ship—she could see why it had been altered. No one would want to highlight mistakes the lost Captain Bowers had made. Especially not to his grieving fiancée. Much better to paint him as a hero and Cutlass as a villain.
But perhaps no one was hero or villain. Perhaps both men had done what their natures dictated. Bastien emerged the victor.
“You loved him.” Bastien was turned away from her, staring out
the dark windows at the endless ocean. “For that I’m sorry—sorry I killed someone you loved.”
Her head jerked up, and she stared at his back. The tenor of his voice, the way he said it—she wanted to tell him she loved him. She wanted to tell him no one, not Timothy, no man had ever touched her, body or soul, as he had. But he had not said he loved her…
She rose, went to him, and wrapped her arms around him. He was solid, his body warm and hard against hers. She pressed her cheek to his back, inhaled, and smelled sea salt and tobacco.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll marry you.”
She felt him stiffen, realized he was surprised. He hadn’t expected her to agree. But when he turned to take her in his arms, his face showed nothing but confidence. “We’ll marry in France.”
“Brest?” she said with a raised brow. “It would be appropriate.”
“Brest then. I’ve already told Mr. Khan to set a course. We’ll sail directly. If the winds are favorable, we should reach the harbor in a few weeks.”
“If my father doesn’t find us first.”
He looked at her long and hard. “And if he does? What then?”
She knew what he was asking, knew he wanted to know whom she would choose. But she didn’t know the answer. If it came to a battle between the two men, the two ships, she could not bear to lose either.
So instead of answering, she wrapped a hand around his hair and tugged his face to hers. The kiss was hard and meant to distract. She felt his initial resistance, felt it melt away as his arms came around her.
***
It was enough, Bastien told himself as he buried his face in Raeven’s long, dark hair. Having her with him now, holding her, feeling her warm body press eagerly against his. It was enough for now.
Her loyalties were divided. Understandably so. But what she did not realize, or perhaps did not want to acknowledge, was at some point she would have to make a choice between father and husband. Between navy admiral and privateer. Between duty and love.
Or at least passion. There was love between them, though neither wanted to acknowledge it. He suspected she feared the fragile emotion as much as he did. What neither feared was passion, and that bloomed effortlessly between them.
She had kissed him, long and hard, but he quickly wrested control from her. She didn’t give it easily. She grasped his hands and tugged his shirt over his chest, kissing his chest and licking her way to the waistband of his breeches.
Just when things were about to get interesting, he pulled her up, yanked her own shirt over her head. Rather, it was his shirt, and he was disappointed to see she’d bound her breasts. She reached for his waistband, but he captured her wrists in one of his hands and reached for her bindings with the other. “I want you naked,” he growled.
“I want you naked first,” she countered. She tried to snatch her hands away, but he held fast, grasped the knot of her bindings with his free hands, and yanked it loose. He spun her around, and the fabric fell away. When it fell to the floor, he took her in his arms again. Her warm, soft flesh pressed against his bare chest.
She looked over her shoulder toward the door. “Perhaps we should lock it.”
“There’s no lock,” he murmured, taking one of her rosy nipples in his mouth. Bon Dieu, he loved the taste of her. He could not seem to get enough.
“Mmm…” She arched her back, offered the other breast. “But what if the crew should… oh, yes… I mean, the crew… if they…”
“It’s a small ship, Raeven,” he murmured against her, cupping her now and tasting her. “I think the men know what’s going on, and if they value their lives, they won’t interrupt. Now wriggle your hips so I can slide these breeches off.” His hands slid down the curve of her bare hips. “Why don’t you wear a dress once in a while? Then I could just toss you on the table and lift your skirts.”
“That’s too easy.” She stepped out of the breeches, gloriously naked before him. “But you can still toss me on the table.”
He lifted her without a word and did just that. With the swipe of a hand, he cleared the dishes away—Salviati would have something to say about that, but Bastien would worry about it later—and set her down. She sat up, reached for his breeches, but he pushed her back on her elbows, took a long moment to enjoy the sight of her, then kissed her.
Every inch of her.
He knew her body now, knew what she enjoyed—what made her laugh, what made her moan, what made her buck and claw and cry out. And when he was finished, he did it all again. But somehow she managed to take control long enough to divest him of his boots and breeches. And when she touched him, he couldn’t stop a growl of pleasure. She clamped her legs around his waist, and he sank into her warmth.
He had intended to take her hard and fast, but once inside her, he slowed, savored and enjoyed. In couplings with other women, he had always sought release—not that he didn’t make sure they enjoyed the experience, but he made love because he enjoyed the end result.
But with Raeven, time seemed to stand still. It wasn’t simply about his release or hers. It was about them, together, the connection between bodies and—he looked into her eyes—hearts. She felt it too. She hadn’t been a virgin with him, and he wondered if it was as different for her as it was for him.
“Mon coeur,” he whispered as he moved inside her. “Mon amour.” He’d never said those words before, barely realized he was saying them now. But at that moment, at every moment since the first time he’d held her, she’d been his heart. His love. How could he not love her? She fit him. It was as though she’d been made for him, and he for her.
“Bastien,” she whispered against his neck and arched against him. And he could contain himself no longer. With a groan, he went over the edge, holding her tightly, taking her with him.
Sixteen
He gathered her into his arms, held her tightly, and Raeven wished they’d waited until they were back in his—their—cabin so she could lie against him, rest her head on his chest and listen to his heart.
That’s what he’d called her. My heart. My love. Had he realized he’d said those things, or did he say them to every woman?
No, he’d never said them to her before. He’d called her many pretty endearments in French and English and even Spanish, but he’d never called her his love.
She took a deep breath, bolstering her courage. If she didn’t tell him now, it might be days before she gathered her courage again. And who knew if they had that much time. She’d never expected to lose Percy or Timothy. “Bastien,” she began, hating the way his name stuck in her throat. She sounded like such a girl.
“Hmm?” He’d pulled her into his lap and was rubbing his hands along her bare back, keeping her warm. In a moment, he’d put her down, suggest they dress, and her chance would be lost. She needed to say it now, while his face was buried in her neck and she didn’t have to look him directly in the eye.
Lord, she was such a coward.
“Bastien, I-I wanted to tell you… I mean, I wanted you to know…” She could feel him smiling. Irritating man! “I think I…” No. That was no way to say it. She should sound confident. Sure. He hadn’t said, I think you’re my heart.
“I’m listening.” He pulled away, looked into her eyes.
Damn it! Now she was going to have to say it while he was looking at her. She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She took another deep breath and made herself say it. “I love you.” She stood up, paced away from him. “There. I said it.”
He didn’t answer right away, and she risked a glance over her shoulder. He was smiling. But then she was walking around naked. Of course he was smiling.
“Come here, mon coeur.”
She felt the tightening in her heart ease. She hadn’t misheard him then. She went to him, happy when his arms came around her. He kissed her neck. “Raeven—”
“Cap’n!”
She recognized Ridley’s voice outside the cabin door. Bastien stiffened immediately, released her, and reache
d for his breeches. “What is it, Mr. Ridley?”
“We spotted something. Want you to come take a look.”
She hastily pulled on his shirt as he strode to the door and yanked it open. She was half naked, but to his credit, Ridley’s eyes never wavered from his captain’s face.
“Why haven’t we beat to quarters?”
Now Ridley’s eyes strayed, just for a moment, to lock with hers. “Oh, God,” she breathed. She bent, fumbled with the breeches and pulled them on. Her hands were shaking, her body was shaking, and her heart was pounding so hard she thought the whole ship could hear it.
“Are you certain?” Bastien asked. “It’s the Regal?”
“I doan know the ship well. Can’t tell from this distance. But it be a British man-of-war. Dat much I knows.”
“I’ll go look,” Raeven said, pushing past Bastien. “I’ll know instantly.”
Ridley moved out of the way, and she rushed up the nearest ladderway, stumbled her way to the poop deck. Mr. Khan was there, and without a word, he handed her the lead.
She put it to her eye, scanned the horizon, and her breath hitched in her throat. With shaking hands, she lowered the spyglass. Bastien took it from her. She hadn’t even heard him come up behind her.
He didn’t say a word, but she knew he recognized the vessel as the Regal. It was still miles away and would take a day, possibly more, to catch them. The Shadow was fast and sleek, and the wind was in their favor. But that would not matter. It might take weeks, it might take years, but her father was nothing if not dogged. Now he had found them, he would pursue them to the ends of the earth or the ends of time—whichever came first.
Bastien was looking at her, the question in his eyes clear. What did she want him to do?
She bit her lip, knew they could continue running. They could run for months or years. But eventually her father would catch them. Eventually Bastien would tire of running, turn and fight, and she might be holding his hand in the infirmary when he took his last breath.
She looked at Mr. Khan, at Ridley, at the other men. She did not want to be responsible for their deaths. She did not want to see them in Mr. Leveque’s infirmary, their blood staining the sand on the floor.