The Rogue Pirate’s Bride

by Shana Galen

  Raeven glanced back at him, and he forced himself to breathe.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “As I’ll ever be.” He dismounted then helped her down, as well. She felt warm and soft in his arms. He’d missed holding her. He would miss holding her.

  He’d wanted to marry her, but he realized now how selfish an idea that had been. He was a pirate with several prices on his head. He could never give her a family and home like the one they stood before.

  He started up the walk and felt Raeven hesitate beside him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She glanced down at her black breeches and the belted black shirt she wore. “I look a fright.” Indeed, her hair was streaming down her back, and she had scrapes on her hands, dirt on one cheek, and there was a tear in the material on her thigh.

  She looked beautiful.

  “We make quite a pair.” He glanced down at himself—his torn coat, his dusty breeches, his bloody shirt. He wasn’t sure if the blood was hers or his or one of the soldier’s. He took her hand. “Come on. Let’s scare the servants.”

  She shook her head but followed him with a laugh. At the door, he lifted the ornate lion’s head and banged three times. Bastien could have sworn he heard the echo of the knocker in the silence. A moment later, the door creaked open, and an equally creaky butler stood in the entryway. “May I help you?” The butler’s eyes skimmed over the pair of them, and the disdain showed clearly on his face.

  “We’re here to see the duc,” Bastien said.

  “The duc and duchesse are not home at present. If you’d care to leave your card”—his tone indicated he doubted they possessed cards—“I will give it to His Grace at the first opportunity.”

  “What’s your name?” Bastien asked.

  The butler raised his brows. “Grimsby, and yours?”

  “Bastien. I suggest, Grimsby, you go get the duc. We’ll wait for him in the parlor or the drawing room. Better yet”—he pushed his way past this Grimsby—“we’ll wait in the dining room. Miss Russell and I are famished.”

  “Sir!” Grimsby argued. “You cannot shoulder your way into this house. I will call the footmen and have you bodily removed.”

  Bastien stood nose to nose with the butler. “And what will Julien say when he hears you’ve had servants lay hands on his brother?”

  “Brother?” Grimsby sputtered. “You are not the comte!”

  Bastien’s eyes narrowed, and he grabbed Grimsby’s shirt and jerked him close. “Armand. Is Armand alive? Is he here in London?”

  “N-no!” the butler squeaked as Bastien lifted him off the ground. “His lordship is at his estate in Southampton.”

  Bastien’s fingers slipped, and he released Grimsby and turned to Raeven. She looked as shocked as he felt. “Did you know about this?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No.” She reached out, touched his sleeve. “Bastien, both of your brothers. They’re both alive.”

  Bastien heard a sharp intake of breath and turned to see Grimsby staring at him. “You… I didn’t see it before. But you look just like the comte.”

  Bastien nodded. “I’m his twin. Now, where is Julien? I don’t have any time to waste.”

  Grimsby swallowed. “He is not at home. The duchesse and your mother—”

  “My who?”

  Grimsby jumped back even as Bastien reached for him. Grimsby stuttered, “The dowager duchesse, sir—er, my lord. They have all gone to Lord Astley’s ball. They left the little boy at home, of course…”

  Bastien reached behind him, searched for a chair, and when he didn’t find one, sank down onto the floor. “My mother. And I have a nephew.”

  Raeven knelt beside him.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he told her. “I don’t know what to do.”

  She nodded. “I do. We go to this Lord Astley’s and find them. We know the soldiers are looking for us, and we might be able to trust this butler, but we might not. I’d rather keep moving than sit here and wait for the soldiers to turn up.”

  “Madam,” the butler said stiffly. “I do not know what kind of trouble you are in, but I assure you, I would never betray one His Grace’s family members. I—”

  “All the same, Grimsby.” Raeven stood and faced him. “Tell us how to reach Lord Astley’s ball. We’ll see the duc for ourselves.”

  Grimsby’s gaze swept over her. “Madam, you cannot attend Lord Astley’s ball dressed in this fashion.”

  “It’s no good, Grimsby.” Bastien stood. “You won’t talk her out of it, and I agree with her. We’ll go to the ball.”

  Grimsby sighed. Loudly.

  “Give us the direction,” Bastien ordered.

  ***

  Raeven could hear the strains of the orchestra even as they stood outside the glittering town house. She had thought the Valére house enormous, but this was even larger, even more ornate. She stood beside Bastien on the lawn and watched the carriages pull into the drive. Women dressed in silks and velvet, jewels sparkling in the glow of the torches, stepped regally from each conveyance.

  She looked down at her men’s clothing and blew out a breath. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea.”

  “We have little choice,” Bastien said. “We can’t trust the butler, and I want to see my family before I have to go into hiding. Maybe they can help hide me.”

  Raeven nodded. “You’re right.” She bit her lip as another well-appointed carriage clattered up to the house. “How should we do this? Walk in the door there?” She gestured to a door where two liveried footmen were assisting a woman in a white gown and diamonds from her coach.

  Bastien considered then shook his head. “I think we go in the back. Perhaps there’s a terrace.”

  Raeven smiled. “Good idea. One other problem. Once we’re inside, how will we find your brother? You haven’t seen him in years. Will you recognize him before we’re spotted and thrown out?”

  “I’ll know him,” Bastien said. She glanced at him, and his expression was pure confidence. “And we’ll move quickly.”

  They scaled the gate and entered the back garden. Fortunately, the terrace was well lit with Chinese lanterns strewn in long lines. Several couples walked arm and arm, and several had veered off the path. Bastien and Raeven almost stepped on one amorous man and woman. Raeven apologized profusely before Bastien grabbed her arm and pulled her away.

  They climbed the stone steps to the French doors leading into the ballroom. Raeven was thankful for the dark because it masked their tattered appearance, but they still garnered more than their share of curious looks. Raeven ducked her head. Bastien took the steps two at a time, and Raeven hurried to keep up, but when they stood before the French doors and she glimpsed the dazzling ballroom, she balked.

  She had been to balls before. She had worn pretty gowns and her mother’s jewels. She had spent an hour pinning her hair and applying subtle rouge. But she had never seen a ball like this one. The men and women looked as though they were kings and queens. The ladies’ dresses alone awed her. She had never seen so many rich fabrics or sumptuous styles. Jewels flashed, fans waved lazily, and the women all but glided across the ballroom floor.

  The men were almost as impressive. They stood straight and regal, their navy coats brushed to perfection, their cravats stiff, and their gazes imperious. She wanted to shrink rather than walk before those imperious glances. She had never felt so much the sailor’s daughter as she did now.

  “Raeven, let’s go,” Bastien urged. When she looked at him, she saw no trace of worry on his handsome features. But then he belonged here, among these gods and goddesses. One glimpse of him, even in torn breeches and a dirty coat, hair loose about his shoulders and a smear of dirt or blood on one cheek, and he looked a part of the ensemble before her. Even in disarray, he was regal and imperious.

  But, of course, he did belong. He was no pirate’s son. He was the son of a duc—he was a marquis—and when he stepped through the French doors, he would only be reclaiming what
was rightly his all along.

  She, however, had no place here. And when Bastien stepped through those doors, she knew she would lose him. She’d thought to hold on by rescuing him from prison. She’d thought to hang on by bringing him to his family. But now she could see she had only widened the chasm between them. She had known it was there, but she had never acknowledged it until now, when it gaped, wide and inaccessible.

  “Perhaps you should go alone,” she said, aware her voice trembled slightly. She cleared her throat. She was not afraid—not of the ton, not of Bastien’s brother, the duc, not of losing Bastien. She would go on.

  Bastien scowled at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to leave you here.” He grabbed her arm. “Hurry.”

  And with one yank, he pulled her into the glittering ballroom. She squinted at the bright lights from the chandeliers and lowered her head again, feeling strangely self-conscious. At their sudden appearance, she could hear the hum of conversation dim then hush. From the corners of her lowered eyes, she saw heads turn, women lean to their partners to whisper, and muffled exclamations.

  Oh, how she wanted to disappear!

  Instead, she raised her head and looked directly in the eyes of those they passed. Let them stare. Let them whisper. She didn’t live her life in stuffy ballrooms. She had seen the world. She tried to let them see her defiance in her gaze. She wanted them to know she didn’t care if they mocked her.

  A man stepped out before Bastien, and before he could speak, Bastien said, “The duc de Valére. Where is he?”

  The man looked surprised then gestured toward the house’s interior. “I believe he’s with Lord Astley in the library. Some matters of business to discuss.”

  “Good. I’ll join him.” And Bastien, still holding her hand, plunged onward. The orchestra was still playing and people were still dancing, but Raeven was very much aware they were the main entertainment at the moment. Like the Red Sea before Moses, the guests parted as she and Bastien made their way across the ballroom.

  But one woman stepped into the breach. She was smiling tenuously. “Armand?”

  Bastien stopped, and Raeven felt the tremor of shock course through his body. “No,” he managed.

  The woman stepped closer, and Raeven studied her. She was beautiful—tall with dark hair coiled elaborately on her head, dark eyes, and full lips. She was slim, her willowy figure accented by the wispy white gown she wore. And, like the other women, she sparkled. No one would ever call the diamonds at her neck and ears garish, but they whispered wealth and taste.

  She nodded and moved closer, almost touching Bastien now. “No, you’re not Armand. He’s… you’re… You must be Sébastien.” Her eyes glowed, and the smile she flashed was as bright as the lights in the chandelier. “Oh, I cannot believe it!”

  Bastien’s fingers tightened on Raeven’s, and then he released her.

  So soon, she thought. She’d hoped he would hold on just a little longer.

  Raeven watched as the lovely woman in white offered her hand and Bastien took it, kissed her gloved knuckles. He looked as though he’d been born to do such things. “I am Bastien,” he said. “And you are?”

  “Sarah, the duchesse de Valére. I’m Julien’s wife.” She spoke quickly, her voice a little breathless.

  If Bastien was surprised to meet his sister-in-law, he didn’t show it. He drew Raeven forward. “Your Grace, this is Miss Russell.”

  Raeven took the woman’s gloved hand, and Sarah squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Russell.”

  Raeven watched as Bastien casually took the duchesse’s arm and give her a charming smile. “Would you take me to your husband? I’m in something of a hurry.”

  Sarah nodded. “Trouble?” She waved a hand. “Of course there is. It seems to follow you brothers like a hungry puppy. This way…” She gestured for them to follow then turned back and gave Bastien a quick hug. “I’m sorry, but I simply can’t believe you’re here. I’m so thrilled. Your brother will be—oh! But your mother. She will want to see you. We must seek her out.” She looked from guest to guest. “Can someone find the dowager…?”

  “No.” Bastien shook his head firmly. “My mother will have to wait, I’m afraid. We haven’t any time to waste.”

  The duchesse nodded, her expression more grave now. “Very well. But I’m going to have to answer for this later,” she said as she led them past the staring guests. No one made any pretense of not watching them now. At some moment Raeven couldn’t pinpoint, the music had stopped and the last vestiges of the ball halted. She could feel heat creeping up her neck and cheeks, but she ignored it and held her head high. So what if she looked like a street urchin?

  She could set, reef, and furl a sail.

  She could fight with a sword, rapier, cutlass, and dagger, and wasn’t a bad shot with a pistol.

  She could plot a course halfway across the world. And be sure her ship actually reached its destination.

  What could these men and women do but stand about, dance, and look pretty?

  Finally—finally—they left the ballroom and stood in the house’s large foyer. To Raeven it seemed cavernous as a tomb with its high, domed ceiling, marble statues, and stark, imposing walls. A footman or butler materialized immediately and bowed to the duchesse. “Your Grace, how may I be of service?”

  “I need to see my husband. Is this the library?” She gestured to one of the closed doors.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Shall I announce you and your… companions?” His tone had just the slightest sneer of derision, but Sarah ignored it.

  “No. We want to announce ourselves,” she said, more than a hint of excitement in her tone.

  She went to the door, knocked briskly, and opened it.

  ***

  Bastien held his breath as the door swung open. He heard the duchesse—strange to think of anyone but his mother as the duchesse de Valére—call out something. Perhaps a greeting. And then the two men inside swung around to face them. The men were well dressed in all but matching coats, breeches, and pumps. They both held crystal glasses filled with amber liquid. Bastien had never seen one of the men.

  And when his gaze met that of the other, the years fell away.

  The duchesse moved to the side, and Bastien stepped forward. He opened his mouth to say something. He thought he might say something amusing or pithy, but no words came.

  Instead, he watched his brother hand his glass to the man he’d been speaking with, take two steps, and then enfold Bastien in a firm, hard embrace. Bastien stood immobile, hardly knowing what response he should make. An hour or so before, he had not known his brother was alive, and now here was Julien, in the flesh, hugging him fiercely.

  Julien stepped back, put his hands on Bastien’s shoulders. Too late, Bastien realized he should have embraced his brother in return. “I knew you were alive,” Julien said in French.

  The voice.

  The voice was almost the same. Older, deeper, but Bastien knew that voice. “I’ve been looking for you, looking for Captain Cutlass.”

  Bastien had a thousand questions. He wanted to ask about his twin, their mother, his father, his nephew, this Sarah, how long Julien had been searching for him, how he had known Bastien survived, how Julien survived…

  Instead, he said, “I think most of the soldiers in London are searching for Captain Cutlass. Raeven and I just escaped those transporting me to Newgate.”

  He reached for Raeven and noted, again, she stood behind him, off by herself. She seemed to want to shrink away, to avoid notice. He took her wrist and pulled her forward. “This is Raeven Russell, daughter of Admiral Russell. She aided my escape, and I imagine her father has noticed her absence by now.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time to reminisce. I take it the navy may be after you, as well?”

  Bastien shrugged. “I’m a popular man at the moment.”

  Julien laughed. “If that’s another way of saying you’re in trouble—again—my answer is this s
eems like old times. And, once again, dear brother, I am going to come to your aid.”

  Bastien bristled, just as he had as a child. “I can handle myself. I only stopped to say hello before making my escape.”

  “Oh!” The duchesse gripped his arm. “But you can’t leave now. You haven’t even seen your mother.”

  Lord Astley, who had been standing quietly near the bookshelves, stepped forward. “I’ll fetch her. I think it best if I inform the servants we might have military company. If the soldiers knock on my door, Valére, you can be assured we’ll do everything we can to stall them.”

  “Thank you,” Julien said. When Astley was gone, Julien gestured to the couch and chairs clustered on one side of the room. “Now, quickly, tell me everything.”

  Bastien led Raeven to a chair before taking one himself. “It’s not an easy matter to fix. You won’t be able to snap your fingers and right the wrong.”

  Julien sat on the couch across from him and smiled. “These days, I have more than fingers to snap. Start talking.”

  So Bastien did, and for the first time since Maine’s betrayal, he had someone at his back again. He was not on his own. Bastien could handle himself, but he couldn’t stop the smile that rose to his lips when he thought of his older brother looking out for him again.

  Nineteen

  Everything happened in a whirlwind. One moment Raeven was at some lord’s ball, and the next she was ferried back to Berkeley Square in a carriage so sumptuous she was afraid to sit on the squabs, lest she dirty them.

  She had argued now that Bastien was back with his family, she should return to the Regal, but Bastien wouldn’t allow it. She thought Julien might have agreed her return to the Regal was best, but he didn’t protest when Bastien told her no. And so she found herself in the lavish carriage with the dowager and the duchesse de Valére.

  Before she and Bastien had parted, Raeven had witnessed the reunion between mother and son. The dowager had rushed into Lord Astley’s library and practically mowed Bastien over with the enthusiasm of her embrace. It was difficult to believe the stately woman seated across from her now was the same woman who’d cried and babbled and hugged Bastien until he must have felt more loved and adored than any other man on earth.