by Shana Galen
Jourdain decide what to do with you.”
Bastien cocked a brow. “You want me to surrender?
You’ll have to kill me first.”
“Fine.” El Santo aimed and fired.
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With a curse, Bastien flew back, searing white pain
in his left shoulder. He stumbled to the ground on one
knee and shook his head. He could see a haze of stars in
front of his eyes, and the pain was spreading through his
body like some kind of virulent disease. “Fils de s alope,”
he muttered. The bastard had actually shot him.
If the ball had hit his right shoulder, he’d be doomed,
but he still had his sword clutched in his right hand.
Now he pivoted and came up with a roar. El Santo’s
eyes widened in surprise, and he fumbled for his own
sword. His henchman wasted no time, however. He
raised his own pistol, and Bastien closed his eyes.
Something zipped past him and struck the man
with enough force to cause him to drop his pistol
and clutch his abdomen. Bastien had a moment to
look behind him and saw his cabin girl, his beautiful
cabin girl, standing there with arm outstretched. He’d
known she’d be accurate with that dagger.
He grinned at her, but she gave him a look of horror.
He turned in time to deflect El Santo’s first strike.
Their blades clashed, and Bastien figured if Jourdain’s
other men weren’t in the marketplace by now, they
would be soon. The whole city must have heard the
gunfire and now the clash of sword and cutlass.
But when El Santo thrust again, he had little time
to worry about the future. Bastien had to concentrate
on deflecting the blow. His shoulder was killing him,
the pain making it hard to concentrate or move as
quickly as he would have liked. He could feel a stream
of wetness soaking his shirt and coat, dripping from
his hand onto the ground below. Still, he managed to
push back El Santo and put him on the defensive. But
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the man charged him like some kind of berserker, and
Bastien, worried he couldn’t stand up against such a
strong assault, was forced to sidestep. El Santo pivoted
and went for him again, and this time metal crashed
with metal. Bastien clenched his teeth and forced his
sword back against El Santo’s cutlass. Sweat streamed
down his face and into his eyes, and he blinked. From
the corner of his vision he saw a flurry of green. Was
it just his blurred vision, or had his cabin girl gone to
retrieve her dagger from El Santo’s man?
He saw her crouch beside the wounded man and
doubled his efforts against El Santo. Jourdain’s lieu-
tenant had his back to the man, and Bastien preferred
to keep him occupied until she had the dagger in hand
again. He met El Santo’s blade with his own, the clash
of steel reverberating through his body painfully. But
it wasn’t the pain he thought of. He’d just decided that
if his cabin girl regained that blade, he was going to
have to seriously consider marrying her.
Raeven had thought the man was dead, but when
she reached for the dagger jutting from his abdomen,
he grabbed her hand with his own bloody one. She
let out a small screech, as much from surprise as the
revulsion of his blood on her skin. Her vision wavered
and went dark, then she bit hard on her lip and forced
her hand free. The man reached for her again, but
she punched him hard, and he rolled to the side. She
leaned over him and freed the dagger with a sickening
squelch. She wished she’d kept her gloves on because
she was pretty certain there was some part of the man’s
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intestine on the hilt of the dagger, and it was slippery
on her fingertips.
The sound of clashing swords drew her attention,
and she watched as Cutlass deflected another of El
Santo’s blows. Even in the moonlight, he looked
decidedly gray. His blood dotted the ground, dark-
ening the sand as the men’s feet trampled it. He fought
valiantly, but she could see the tremor in his arm and
hear how heavily he was breathing. He wouldn’t last
much longer.
She didn’t know why she should care. She should
let this El Santo take him, let this Jourdain finish him
off. She was probably too much of a coward to do
it anyway.
But she owed him now. She’d been peeking
through the tent slit when El Santo angled for it.
She had known then she was in trouble and thought
Cutlass was long gone. But then she’d heard him call
out. There was no good reason for him to have done
so, other than to save her.
So now she’d save him and they’d be even. Then
she could kill him with a clear conscience.
“El Santo,” she called.
He turned at her voice, and she raised the dagger.
“Put down the sword, or I give you another taste
of my dagger.” She looked pointedly at the bloodied
tourniquet on his thigh.
El Santo seemed to consider. She could all but read
his thoughts. On his one side, Cutlass stood huffing
and panting. Killing or seriously incapacitating the
wounded man would be easy. He looked at her, at
the dagger. She could see him judging the distance.
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Could he reach her with his cutlass before she could
let go the dagger?
But before he could make his decision, the sound
of boots and men’s voices filled the night air. At first
Raeven tensed, certain El Santo’s other men had
found them, but then she recognized the language
as English. “My father’s men!” she said, recognizing
Percy’s voice among the others. “He’s probably sent
them out to search for me.”
“You’re not hard to find with all the gunfire,”
Cutlass rasped.
“What is this?” El Santo pivoted toward her then
back toward Cutlass.
“Les Anglais sont ici.” Bastien smiled at her. “The
British are here.”
El Santo still looked confused, and the pirate
added, “They’re looking for her. You’ve been chasing
Admiral Russell’s only daughter.”
“I knew she was no whore.”
“I’d run now, while you have the chance.”
But El Santo was already backing up, moving away
from the sound of boots and men’s voices.
“Tell Jourdain we’re not through,” Cutlass called after
the retreating Spaniard. “And the next time we meet,
he’d better be man enough to face me on his own.”
Cutlass lowered his sword, and she saw him lean on
it heavily. She went to him, putting her arm around
him to support him. “I’m fine.” He waved her away.
“You’re shot.”
“I have a good ship’s doctor. I’ll make it.” He lifted
the sword, attempted to sheath it, but missed. She
took it from him and sheathed it for him.
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“Can you make it back to your ship on your own?
If my father’s men find you here—”
“I understand and have no desire to swing from the
Regal’s yardarm.”
And yet she noticed he didn’t move away. He stood
looking at her, his expression unreadable. She looked
back, feeling uncomfortable. For some reason she kept
thinking about the kiss they had shared—not the hard,
perfunctory kiss at the pasha’s palace, but that kiss six
months before on his ship. She wanted him to kiss her
like that again, and yet she knew if he tried, she’d hit
him rather than kiss him back.
“You’d better get out of here.”
He nodded. “I’m waiting to see if you’re going to
kiss me good-bye.”
“Kiss you? I’d rather—”
He took her chin with his clean hand. “Just do it,
Raeven.” He nodded toward the growing commo-
tion. Her father’s men were moments away. “This
might be your last chance.”
It wasn’t. She knew she’d see him again, find some
way to exact her revenge. He was wounded, and she
could kill him now. She could have killed him ten
times over tonight. And yet, she hadn’t.
She didn’t want to.
She was intrigued by him and, truth be told,
she wanted him. And so she stepped into his arms,
wrapped her hands around his neck, and pressed her
lips to his.
His body was hard and warm. She could feel his
muscles tense and bunch then release as his arm came
around her to pull her hard against him. His mouth
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opened for her, and she plundered its depth. He still
tasted of tobacco and champagne, and she thought
the flavors suited him. His mouth slanted over hers,
his tongue mating with hers, and she let out a small
moan. One touch of his mouth and she was breathless;
her head was spinning, and she felt as though she were
sinking in quicksand.
What was wrong with her? Kissing Timothy had
never felt like this…
The horror of what she was doing hit her, and she
pulled away. He allowed it, though she could tell he
was reluctant to release her.
“Get out of here,” she said and raised her dagger.
“While you still can.”
He was still holding one of her hands, and he raised
it, brushed his lips against it. “Adieu, chérie. Until we
meet again.”
He turned and melted into the shadows.
A moment later she heard Percy’s voice. “There she
is! Raeven are you all right?”
She turned and waved. “I’m fine. Glad to see you.”
And she walked to meet him.
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Seven
“Fils de salope! ” Bastien flinched as the needle
cut through his skin. “Don’t I at least get a swig of rum?”
“I used the rum on the wound, Monsieur le
Marquis. You are a big, strong captain, no? It is only
four little stitches.”
And he felt every one of those stitches as the ship’s
doctor closed the hole made by the ball of El Santo’s
pistol. Gaston Leveque, the Shadow’s doctor, sat back
and nodded at his handiwork. “Voilà! Next time you
will be more careful, no?”
Bastien dropped down from the table where
he’d been sitting, still rubbing his left shoulder. “I
think the cure is worse than the ailment,” he said
in French.
“Eh, bien.” Gaston raised one shoulder. It was a
particularly Gallic gesture, and it stabbed at Bastien’s
heart. He turned away and gingerly pulled a clean shirt
over his head.
“As you know, Monsieur le Marquis, this is not my
first profession.”
“And in the two decades I’ve known you, I’ve
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never heard you complain about not having to muck
out stables any longer.”
“Ah, but I do miss having my feet on land. I
grow tired of pitching to and fro.” He made rocking
motions with his hands, and Bastien nodded absently.
He’d heard Gaston’s complaints a hundred, no, a
thousand, times before. He also knew the old man—
for he’d seemed to grow old almost before Bastien’s
eyes—would never leave him. They’d been together
since that horrible summer night so long ago.
“It still troubles you, Monsieur le Marquis.” Gaston
laid a hand on Bastien’s good shoulder. “But you
never speak of it.”
“No.” He shrugged off the hand. He didn’t want
sympathy right now. He wanted a large jug of rum or
three and his bed. “And you never cease calling me
Monsieur le Marquis, though I’ve told you more times
than I can count to call me Bastien.”
“Eh. You will always be Monsieur le Marquis to me.”
Bastien reached for the jug of rum on the table
and swallowed a healthy portion. “I’m no marquis.
Not anymore.”
Gaston frowned at the upraised jug. He crossed
the infirmary and took two goblets from a shelf on
the far side. Taking the jug from Bastien, he filled the
goblets, handed one to Bastien and kept the other for
himself. “You act very little like a marquis. If your
father saw you—”
“My father is dead.” Bastien waved a hand to cut
off the man. “They’re all dead. Even if I wanted to be
a marquis, it wouldn’t matter. The French aristocracy
is dead. Let’s raise a glass to Madame Guillotine.” He
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gave a mock salute with his mug, but Gaston refused
to follow.
“That I cannot toast, Monsieur le Marquis.”
Bastien hadn’t expected him to. He knew he was
being an ass, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
He was frustrated that El Santo had gotten away, and
Bastien was no closer to locating Jourdain. He was
frustrated that he couldn’t seem to get the image of
Raeven Russell’s green eyes out of his mind. And he
was frustrated that his shoulder hurt like hell.
He took another swallow of rum.
Still, that was no excuse for taking out his frustra-
tions on Gaston, his oldest and closest friend. The
old servant had been with him since the beginning,
since he was but a boy in short pants, t
rying to escape
the horror of the revolution and the inevitability of
pursuit and death, by signing on with the first captain
in Cherbourg who would take him. He’d sailed only
once before, the summer before that horrible night,
and it had been a pleasure cruise on the Seine.
When he’d signed on as a crewmember under
Captain Vargas, Bastien had known nothing of tackle
and rigging, bow and stern, port and starboard. He’d
started at the bottom and learned quickly. When he
made a mistake, he was cuffed, and on occasion, he felt
the sting of the lash. It was a shock for a boy who’d
been used to commanding those around him.
But he’d always been adventurous. He and his older
brother Julien had been sneaking out of their parents’
town house and country chateau since Bastien had
been old enough to walk. And he’d been in his share
of scuffles and fights. He could hold his own.
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And he had. So had Gaston.
And he’d never forget the day his captain, Vargas,
gave him a compliment rather than a cuff. Over the
years, Vargas had come to rely on him, made him his
quartermaster, taught him everything he knew about
ships and sailing. When Bastien turned seventeen,
Vargas gave him the Shadow.
It wasn’t exactly Vargas’s to give. They’d spotted
it off the coast of Portugal, its hull low in the water.
Bastien led the attack and the boarding party, fighting
tooth and nail until they’d subdued the crew and
appropriated the silks, spices, wines, and fine tobacco
for their own use. As a reward, Vargas gave Bastien the
ship. They’d sailed into Malaga, taken on a fresh crew,
and he’d begun calling himself Captain Cutlass.
The fanciful name was the only nod to his child-
hood he allowed. It had been a game he’d played with
his twin Armand and their older brother Julien. He
was the pirate, Captain Cutlass, and they were, alter-
nately, British or Spanish ship’s captains. The British
and the Spanish fought valiantly, but Captain Cutlass
always won the day.
Now he was Captain Cutlass in truth, and he’d
almost forgotten the days of Sébastien Harcourt,
marquis de Valère. That had been another life, another
person. The boy with the two extraordinary brothers,
the beautiful maman, and the strong but kind pére was
no more. Gaston was his only tie to that life.
Bastien raised his goblet to his lips, only to find it