When You Give a Duke a Diamond

by Shana Galen

  It was the first time she’d found Captain Cutlass. After six months of searching for the murdering bastard, she was about to meet him… face to face.

  “It’ll be my neck when your father finds out.” Percy swallowed audibly, and she suppressed a smile.

  “Then you won’t be long in following me to meet our maker. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  He gave her a horrified look, which she supposed indicated he didn’t think she’d be a very good envoy. He cleared his throat. “I prefer a little more time on this earthly world.”

  “I’m in complete agreement. Now, tell me which one he is again, but don’t look at him or gesture toward him.”

  “Let’s go sit at the bar,” Percy said. “You can see him better from there, and we’ll be less conspicuous.”

  “Fine.” Remembering to play her role, she swaggered to the bar and leaned against it, trying to look belligerent. Percy ordered ale, and she did as well, though she had no intention of drinking it. She needed all her wits about her.

  When the barkeep moved away, Percy studied his mug and murmured, “See the man in the far corner?”

  Raeven allowed her gaze to roam lazily over the tavern until she focused on the corner he indicated.

  “He’s dressed as a gentleman in a navy coat, white cravat, buff breeches.”

  She saw him now and nodded. “A gentleman pirate.” She shook her head. “Contradiction in terms.”

  “The rumor is he’s a deposed marquis whose family fled France during the revolution.”

  She scowled at him. “Don’t tell me you believe that rubbish. All the pirates concoct romantic stories. Just because one claims he’s a duke doesn’t make him any less of a thief and murderer.”

  “Of course I don’t believe it. I’m telling you the rumor.”

  But she could hear in his voice he had believed the story, and now that she’d set her eyes on Cutlass, she could see why. The man did have the air of the aristocrat about him. It wasn’t simply his clothes—any man could dress up as one of the quality, but there was something in Cutlass’s bearing. He was sitting at a table, his back to the wall, facing the door to the tavern. That much told her he was no fool. There was a man seated across from him, and Cutlass was listening in a leisurely fashion to whatever the man was saying. Cutlass’s arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was one of mild interest. He had a glass of something on the table before him, but she hadn’t seen him drink from it. Nor had she seen any whores approach him.

  He was doing business then. It would have better served her purposes if he’d been drunk and whoring, but she didn’t have the luxury of choosing when to strike.

  Her gaze slid back to Percy. “He’s handsome,” she remarked and watched the purser’s eyebrows wing upward. “I hadn’t expected that.”

  The reports she’d had of him rarely mentioned his appearance. Captain Cutlass was known for his stealth, his agility, and his slippery escapes. It was rumored he’d boarded over a hundred vessels. That was obviously exaggeration, but even if his record was a quarter of that, it was an impressive feat. Of course, he claimed he was a privateer, and she knew he sailed under the Spanish flag and with that country’s letters of marque. She didn’t care for privateers any more than she cared for pirates, and made little distinction between them. Neither pirates nor privateers should dare attack ships of the British Navy. Neither should dare to kill a British naval officer.

  She felt the anger and the blood pump through her and took a deep, calming breath. She couldn’t afford to be emotional right now. She had to put emotion away. And she couldn’t afford a schoolgirl crush on the man either. Yes, he was handsome. His dark brown hair was brushed back from his forehead and would have grazed his shoulder if not neatly secured in a queue. His face was strong with a square jaw, plenty of angles and planes, and a full mouth that destroyed the hard effect and hinted at softness. But the eyes—the eyes did not lie. There was no softness in the man. She couldn’t quite see the eye color from this far away, but under the sardonic arch of his brow his eyes were sharp, cold, and calculating.

  A worthy adversary, and she’d spill his blood tonight.

  “I don’t like the look in your eyes,” Percy said. “Now that you’ve seen him, you can’t possibly mean to challenge him. He’s not a small man.”

  Raeven straightened her shoulders to give herself more height. She was well aware of her short stature, but size and strength were not everything. She was small and quick and deadly. “I do mean to challenge him,” she said, brushing her hand against the light sword at her waist. “I’m only waiting until his business is completed.” Though if it took much longer, she would have to interrupt. She wanted this over and done.

  “I don’t think that’s wise. Perhaps if we wait—”

  “I’m not waiting,” she snapped. “I’ve waited six months, and that’s too long.”

  “Timothy would not have wanted…”

  Her glare cut him off. “Timothy is dead, and his murderer is sitting over there having a chat and sipping wine. Timothy would have wanted justice.”

  And because she knew Percy’s next comment would be about justice versus vengeance, and because she did not want to hear it, she pushed off the bar and arrowed for Cutlass’s table. It was a short trek across the tavern but long enough for her heart to pick up speed and pound painfully in her chest. She tried to calm herself with a deep breath, but she exhaled shakily. Her hands were sweating, and she flexed them to keep them loose.

  When she stepped in front of Cutlass’s table, he glanced up at her briefly and then back at the man seated across from him. Before she could speak, another man was beside her.

  “Move away, lad. The captain’s busy at present.” The man was tall and lanky with a shock of red hair and pale, freckled skin. He was well dressed and spoke to her in fluent, if accented, French. English, she thought, and well bred. Probably Cutlass’s quartermaster.

  She stood her ground. “I think the captain will want to hear what I have to say.” She said it to Cutlass, but he didn’t acknowledge her.

  “I’ll tell him you wish to speak with him. In the meantime…” He made the mistake of taking her arm, and she responded with a quick jab to his abdomen. He grunted in surprise and took a step back.

  “Problem, Mr. Maine?” Cutlass said smoothly. He had one brow cocked and a bemused smile on his lips. Obviously, he didn’t see her as any sort of threat. “Is the lad giving you trouble?” He also spoke in French, but his was sweet and thick as honey. A native speaker, she surmised, and one with a polished accent. No wonder he played the deposed French marquis.

  “No, Captain,” Maine said, stepping forward again. “I’ll get him out of your way.”

  Raeven put a hand on the small dagger at her waist. “Touch me again, and I’ll slice your hand off.” Her gaze met Cutlass’s. “I want a word with you.”

  “Obviously.” He lifted his wine, sipped. “But you’ll have to learn some manners first. Come back when you’ve mastered the art of patience.”

  In one lightning-quick move, she drew her dagger, rounded the table, and pressed it under his jaw. “You want to talk about patience?” She pressed the blade into the bronze skin until a small bead of blood welled up. “I’ve been waiting six long months to slit your throat.”

  “Is that all?” he said, setting his glass of wine on the table. With annoyance, she noted his hand did not even tremble. “There are some who’ve waited far longer.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” she said, looking directly into his eyes. They were cobalt blue and framed with thick brown lashes.

  He raised a brow at her. “I don’t think so.” She should have seen it coming, should have seen his eyes flick down or his jaw clench, but he gave no indication he would move. And before she could react, he had her wrist pinned on the table, the dagge
r trapped and useless. Slowly he stood, his hand warm steel on hers. She watched him rise and rise and had never felt as small as she did in that moment. She realized the tavern had grown quiet as the patrons drank in the scene.

  Percy’s voice broke the silence. “Captain, the boy’s had too much to drink. He’s young. If you don’t mind, we’ll just be taking him back to the ship now.”

  Raeven scowled. She could imagine her father’s men lined up behind her, Percy in the middle, his hands spread in a placating gesture. She kept her gaze locked on Cutlass’s, saw him shrug and exchange a look with one of his men. Devil take her if he wasn’t going to pat her head and shoo her away. She couldn’t allow that. This was her last chance. Even now her father might have noticed her absence, and it could be months—years—before she had another opportunity to confront Cutlass.

  “Coward,” she said loud enough for her voice to carry through the tavern. “Too afraid to fight me, a mere boy?”

  She saw the surprise in his face and then the irritation. “Look, lad, I don’t want to kill you.”

  She laughed. “What makes you think you can? I’m good with a sword. Very good, and I challenge you to a duel.” Now she did look away from him; she swept the room with her eyes, making sure everyone heard the challenge.

  “Now you’ve done it,” she heard Percy mutter. And she had. Cutlass could not back down from a direct challenge.

  Acknowledgments

  First of all, let me simply say I hate writing acknowledgments. I am deathly afraid I will forget someone important. Not to mention, I don’t know all that many different ways to say thank you. So this time I am going to keep it simple.

  Thank you to all of my friends and family. I am so fortunate to have you in my life. I know not every author has a great support group. Thank you to Tera Lynn Childs, my friend and a fellow in the trenches. Thank you for taking time away from your busy schedule and your deadlines to read this book and offer suggestions. I’m so glad I asked you if you knew of anyone looking for a critique partner. Know you are loved and appreciated.

  Thank you to the Sourcebooks team. You do a wonderful job editing me, publicizing me, marketing me, and everything in between. I truly appreciate all you do to make my books a fabulous finished product. I especially want to thank Deb Werksman, because she listens to my awful pitches (and agrees they are awful), and buys the book anyway. Thanks for trusting me, Deb.

  Thank you to Joanna MacKenzie and Danielle Egan-Miller. You clean up those awful pitches for me and have suffered through a few yourself. I really don’t mean to pitch! Somehow, it just happens. Anyway, thank you for always being in my corner. That sounds cliché, but it’s really true. I always know you have my best interests in mind.

  And thank you to my writer friends—the Jaunty Quills, the Casababes, West Houston RWA, Christina Hergenrader, Elise Rome, Sharie Kohler, and Nicole Flockton.

  Thank you, maddee at xuni.com, for all you do for me online.

  Thank you to my readers. I love receiving your emails, your blog comments, your Facebook posts, and your Tweets.

  Lastly, thank you to my husband for your love, support, and help with Baby Galen. Baby Galen, thank you for those two- and three-hour naps so I could finish this book!

  About the Author

  Shana Galen is the author of numerous fast-paced, adventurous Regency historical romances, including the 2008 Rita-nominated Blackthorne’s Bride. Her books have been sold worldwide, including Brazil, Russia, Spain, Turkey, Japan, and the Netherlands, and have been featured in the Rhapsody and Doubleday Book Clubs. A former English teacher in Houston’s inner city, Shana now writes full time. She’s a wife, a mother, and an expert multitasker. She loves to hear from readers: visit her website at www.shanagalen.com or see what she’s up to daily on Facebook and Twitter.

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