Rogue Pirates Bride

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Rogue Pirates Bride Page 12

by Shana Galen


  empty. He reached for the jug again.

  “Why do you drink so much, Monsieur le Marquis?”

  Gaston asked quietly. “Is it Jourdain? This revenge

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  you seek? Vargas has been dead three years. He knew

  the risks, no? It was the life he chose. He went down

  with his ship.”

  That was true, but Vargas’s death at the end of

  La Sirena’s thirty-two guns was not the only reason

  Bastien sought the Barbary pirate. “Jourdain has stolen

  from us more times than I like to remember. I want

  him stopped.”

  “Eh, bien. You steal, he steals. Who is right? Who

  is wrong? I think it is the revenge.”

  Bastien swallowed more rum. Little as Bastien

  wanted to admit it, it was desire to avenge Vargas’s

  death that fueled his single-minded search for Jourdain.

  He was more like Raeven Russell in that regard than

  he liked. Just as his cabin girl loved her British captain,

  he’d loved Vargas. The man had been as much of a

  father to him as the duc de Valère.

  The rum had done its work, and Bastien felt the

  edge of pain in his shoulder dull. He was warm inside

  and tired. So tired. “You’re the only family I have left,

  Gaston,” he said. He was just drunk enough not to be

  embarrassed by the sentimentality of the statement.

  “And you are my family, Monsieur le Marquis,

  which is why I tell you to be more careful.”

  Bastien laughed. “I didn’t think the bastard would

  actually shoot me. I should have let him take the girl,

  and ran when I had the chance.’

  “That does not sound like the man I know. To

  leave a woman in the clutches of El Santo.” He made

  claws with his hands, and Bastien laughed again. He’d

  forgotten how good it felt to laugh like this.

  “She can take care of herself. El Santo would have

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  been sorry to ever lay eyes on the little hellion. I know

  I am.”

  Gaston raised a brow. “I do not think so. I think

  you like mademoiselle. I hear she is a rare beauty.”

  “She’s a rare pain in the head.” He massaged his

  temples. “I’d know Jourdain’s whereabouts now if not

  for her.” When he would have reached for the jug of

  rum again, Gaston moved it.

  “You will find him, and you will have your revenge.

  I have no doubt of that, Monsieur le Marquis. And

  after you destroy La Sirena, I think it time you make

  another search.”

  Bastien held up a hand. “No. I don’t want—”

  “I will say it,” Gaston said over his protests. “You

  will search for your brothers and the duchesse. One of

  them must have escaped the flames that night.”

  Bastien ground his teeth together. “I don’t want

  to talk about this.” He pushed up from the table he’d

  been leaning against and stumbled for the door. When

  he would have fallen from drink, fatigue, and pain,

  Gaston caught him, laid him on one of the cots in

  the infirmary.

  “It is time we spoke of it. It is time you faced your

  past. You cannot hope to have a future until you have

  done so.”

  Bastien shook his head. “There’s nothing to face,

  Gaston. You saw the fire. No one could have escaped

  that. You saw the papers. My father was executed.

  Publicly. His head chopped off as the crowds roared.”

  It sickened him to think of it. His good father. His

  kind father. The man had a smile for every child, a

  kind word for every woman, and a helping hand for

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  every man. He was no weakling—a powerful, wealthy

  duc, he’d been one of the most influential peers in

  France. But he’d used his power to help those in need,

  and he’d seen the revolution coming, had warned

  King Louis of the danger. Had advised him to cut his

  excesses, to show some restraint.

  And this man who had spoken out for the common

  man, who had tried to help them, this man had been

  cut down like a common thief at their bloody hands.

  “But we only ever saw notice of the duc’s death,”

  Gaston said quietly. “I searched every chance I could

  get for information about the duchesse and your

  brothers. I found no mention of their executions.”

  “Because they perished in the fire. I’m the last

  Harcourt.”

  “Don’t you want to be certain of that, Monsieur

  le Marquis?”

  No, he didn’t. As a boy on Vargas’s ship, he’d had

  a favorite fantasy, one he had not even shared with

  Gaston. In it, his brothers and mother were alive and

  happy somewhere. He was not an orphan. He was not

  alone in the world because they would find him and

  bring him home. Their family would be reunited, and

  he would be happy again.

  But as he grew older, he realized the foolishness

  of this fantasy. And when Vargas had been killed in

  the battle with Jourdain, Bastien had faced the facts—

  everyone he’d ever loved—everyone save Gaston—

  was dead. It was better for him if he didn’t love again.

  Better if he hardened his heart.

  He closed his eyes now, allowed the rum to do its

  work. He wanted to sink into oblivion, escape the

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  pain—all the pain—for a while. Tomorrow he would

  begin again, begin the search for Jourdain. And when

  he found the corsair, he would destroy him.

  And after that? He could almost hear Gaston ask

  the question.

  After that, he might just destroy himself.

  He groaned, rolled over, and the last image he saw

  as he fell into a dreamless sleep was Raeven Russell

  scowling at him.

  Raeven scowled at Percy and tried to refrain from

  grabbing him about the neck and forcibly shaking

  some sense into him. “You’re not listening to me,

  Percy,” she said, her voice deadly calm.

  “No, I am listening to you, Raeven. That’s why

  I’m saying no.”

  They were seated at the large dining table in the

  admiral’s cabin. Her father had marched her into his

  cabin first thing in the morning and ordered her to

  step foot outside it at her own peril. Then he’d gone

  to oversee the day’s activities, which consisted of

  painting and repairing the ship and taking on provi-

  sions. Raeven would have liked to be on deck, in the

  sunshine, climbing the rigging or sitting in the crow’s

  nest watching the other ships in the harbor, but she’d

  seen murder in her father’s eyes and decided she’d

  better do as he said.

  This time.

  Not to mention, he’d had another co
ughing fit.

  She didn’t like to think she might have aggravated

  his illness with her brief disappearance last night.

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  Certainly the stress of wondering where she’d gone

  couldn’t have helped matters. She hadn’t told him or

  anyone but Percy the truth about what happened. She

  said she needed a breath of air after seeing Cutlass,

  had gotten turned around, and ended up in the

  marketplace. Coincidentally, a fight broke out in the

  marketplace about that time. But it had been at the

  other end of the marketplace. She had been perfectly

  safe the entire time. She’d tripped over a cat who’d

  run across her path, and that was the reason her dress

  was torn and dirty. It didn’t explain the blood—a

  point her father made repeatedly—but Raeven stuck

  to her story.

  She didn’t think her father believed her, but she

  thought he believed her enough to let the incident go.

  He also knew she was capable of taking care of herself,

  though at times he could be a bit overprotective.

  Like this morning.

  “I need to get back to my cabin and work on my

  books,” Percy said now. “We’ve taken on crates of

  supplies, and I’m impossibly behind on my logs.”

  “Fine. We’ll need a good length of rope, two sharp

  daggers, and I could use a sword. A rapier would

  be best.” A rapier was light enough for her to wield

  effectively. It wasn’t as effective as her own sword, but

  she would have it back soon enough. She held up a

  finger. “And don’t say you can’t get them. You’re the

  purser. You can get anything.”

  Percy shook his head. “Are you mad? Cutlass

  almost killed you last night. Why would you want to

  get within a hundred feet of him?”

  Raeven pushed her cup of coffee aside—it was cold

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  anyway—and reached across the table to grip Percy’s

  hands. “He didn’t almost kill me. He saved me.”

  Percy shook off her grip. “So now you want to repay

  him by sneaking aboard his ship and slitting his throat?”

  “I’m not going to slit his throat,” she said. She’d like

  to, but she was beginning to accept the fact that she

  was too squeamish to do it herself. She did not even

  think she could kill him with a sword in cold blood.

  For the thousandth time, she wished she had bested

  him in that tavern in Brest. She could have done it

  then. She didn’t know him. She hadn’t kissed his lips,

  felt his muscular chest push against her breasts, felt his

  solid legs part her own and press between them…

  “I just want my sword back.” And perhaps another kiss.

  Percy rose, moved toward the door. “You don’t

  even know if he still has it.”

  “He has it. He said as much.”

  “Yes, as he was trying to get rid of you. Some

  people will say anything to get rid of you, Raeven.”

  She gave him a hurt look. “Fine then, go. I’ll get

  the sword back without your help. I’ll figure out who

  Jourdain is without your help, as well.” She rose, went

  to the cabin door, and opened it.

  “And get yourself killed.”

  “Well, at least you’ll be safe. Safe and bored in

  your cabin.”

  “Raeven…”

  She pointed to the companionway. “Your books

  are waiting.”

  He frowned, looked as though he wanted to say

  something, then left without another word. Raeven

  slammed the door behind him. She couldn’t believe

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  he’d actually left. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t going

  to help her.

  Or could she? She’d pushed poor Percy too far.

  He’d never been one for adventure, so the idea

  of sneaking aboard a pirate ship, infiltrating the

  captain’s cabin, and stealing back her sword was too

  much for him. He preferred to stay safe and warm

  on the Regal.

  Well, she preferred that too. Except she wanted

  her sword back, and she wanted to know who this

  Jourdain was and why Cutlass wanted him dead. She

  wasn’t likely to accomplish any of that on the Regal.

  She wasn’t about to avenge Timothy’s death by sitting

  and sipping coffee in her father’s great cabin.

  She put her head down on the mahogany table and

  let out a long sigh.

  She was tired and sore from her activities last night.

  Even when she’d returned aboard her ship, she hadn’t

  been able to sleep. She’d been too excited.

  Liar, she told herself. You couldn’t sleep because you

  couldn’t stop thinking of him.

  And she thought less of how she could destroy

  him and more about who he was. His enemy, this

  Jourdain, sparked her interest. He was obviously some

  sort of Barbary pirate, and equally obviously, Cutlass

  was searching for him. Wanted him badly enough to

  go after a dangerous man like El Santo.

  Why? What had this Jourdain done to Cutlass?

  Somewhere in her tossing and turning, she’d real-

  ized Jourdain interested her because he had a personal

  connection to Cutlass. She wanted to know more

  about the captain of the Shadow.

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  And as dawn was breaking, she gave up all pretense

  and admitted to herself she wanted to see Cutlass

  again. She wanted to kiss him again. She wanted… she

  wanted to do much more than that.

  But she wouldn’t. She’d used her father’s spyglass

  to spot the Shadow. It was anchored on the other side

  of the harbor, nearer the open ocean. She supposed

  pirates often needed to make quick exits.

  It was too far to swim from the Regal, but she could

  borrow one of the Regal’s longboats, row closer, and

  swim from there. Only it would be a true test of her

  strength to row the boat, then swim to the Shadow,

  then shimmy up the anchor cable.

  She flexed her arm muscles. She was strong. But as

  Percy had pointed out, she was not as strong as a man,

  and her plans would exhaust even the most robust

  sailor. It was then she’d asked Percy to help, and then

  he’d balked.

  She raised her head now and rested it on her wrists.

  She’d only wanted him to row the longboat…

  She sat straighter. She was not going to give up

  just because Percy wouldn’t help. Her father’s men

  were loyal to her. She just had to convince one of

  them to assist.

  But after six hours of trying—her father hadn’t

  really expected her to stay in his cabin, had he?—she

  was more than discouraged. None of her father’s

  men was willing to help her off
the ship. She hadn’t

  even mentioned rowing to the Shadow, and still they

  refused. Apparently, after the incident in Brest, her

  father had threatened flogging or court-martial to any

  man who assisted her.

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  The best offer she’d received was from the ship’s

  bosun, Dickey Pickering. “Show me yer tits, and I’ll

  help you right enough.”

  “Help me and then I’ll show you,” she’d countered.

  But he’d shaken his head. “I require payment in

  advance.” He’d winked lasciviously, and she’d had to

  struggle not to vomit. Instead, she’d turned her back

  and returned to her cabin.

  At midnight, she’d gone on deck, taken out the

  pilfered spyglass, and found the Shadow. It boasted few

  lights, and she wondered what the pirate crew was

  about. Were they drinking and wenching? Were they

  sleeping, as most of the crew of the Regal was?

  She felt someone beside her before she saw him.

  “Do you still want to go?”

  Raeven blinked at Percy. Like she, he was dressed in

  black trousers and a black shirt. “What are you doing…?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it.

  But I figure you have a better chance of survival if I

  help. And you don’t even have to show me your…”

  He indicated her bound breasts.

  “Oh, Percy! I knew you’d help!” She gave him a

  quick hug, but he pushed her away.

  “This is the last time I help you, Raeven. Everything

  I’ve done, I’ve done for Tim. But even he would have

  me draw the line somewhere. And he would have

  punched Pickering for what he said to you.”

  Raeven laughed. Men had said far worse, but it was

  sweet of Percy to be so protective of her.

  “Agreed. This is the last time I ask for your help,

  and Timothy would have punched Pickering. Now

  here’s my plan—”

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  He raised a hand. “No, here’s my plan. I already

  bribed a couple of the boys to lower a longboat over

  the side.”

  She blinked. “You did?”

  “They’re waiting now.” He took her arm and

  ushered her across the deck, keeping to the shadows

  as much as possible. “Once in the water, I’ll row you

  within swimming distance of the Shadow. If you make

  it aboard, I’ll wait one hour for you.” They were on

  the port side now, and Raeven saw the boys standing

 

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