by Shana Galen
she couldn’t stay away from him. She wanted to be
here in his bed. She’d known it would end this way
the first time he’d kissed her.
And he must have known it too.
He put a hand to his cheek briefly where her hand
had left a red print. “I must have hit pretty close to the
mark to earn that.”
“Shut up,” she hissed. “Give me my dagger.
I’m leaving.”
He held out the dagger, tip pointing toward her. “I
don’t think you’re leaving. Neither of us is yet satisfied.”
“I’m satisfied I never want to see you again. I have
my sword.” She spared a brief glance about the cabin.
Where had she dropped it? “That was what I came for.”
“So you keep telling me.” He lowered the dagger so
the point was aimed at her heart. “But I think there’s
more. Perhaps you like the adventure.” He touched
the dagger to her skin, and she felt the cool, sharp blade
at the juncture of her breasts. He pressed lightly, almost
tickling her. “Perhaps you enjoy the danger.”
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He slid the dagger point over the exposed curve
of her breasts—first one, then the other. He traced
their contours, and God help her, she couldn’t stop
from shivering.
“Oui, ma belle. You like the danger.” He slid
the dagger back to her cleavage, lowering it until it
touched the thin, rose-colored material of the gown.
“But more than that, you like this.” With a flick of
his wrist, he slid the sharp blade down, neatly slicing
open the material. It gaped, and she caught it to stop
her breasts from spilling out.
“You like”—he used the dagger to coax first one
hand then the other away—“me.”
The material split open, but he was there to catch
her flesh. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth
to the valley between her breasts. She could feel the
stubble there, and she liked its roughness against the
softness of her skin. His lips were cool against her flesh,
teasing her until she was warm—warm and writhing
against the ministrations of his tongue, his teeth, his
so-very-skilled lips.
He took one nipple inside his mouth, twirled it
about with his tongue, and she could not stop her head
from lolling back. One hand caught her at the waist
and held her to him, held her so the sweet torment
could continue.
And she didn’t want it to stop. She wanted him to
rip the dress from her body and take her hard and fast.
She wanted him to do it now so she wouldn’t have
time to think about what she was doing. She didn’t
want to think about who she was with.
But Cutlass was not so obliging. He moved slowly,
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seemingly in no hurry to explore farther than her neck
or her shoulders. Gradually, he peeled away the mate-
rial of the gown and eased her back on the berth. He
rose over her, and she looked up at him.
A piece of his long, dark hair had fallen over his
forehead, and it enhanced his already roguish look.
His blue eyes were hooded, dark with desire. His
hands were everywhere—on her body, in her hair, his
fingers in her mouth. When he looked at her, she felt
a jolt of need and arched to kiss him.
But he looked away, bending to her breasts again.
She felt the cool blade of the dagger and the whisper
of satin as he slit the dress to her waist. He pressed a
cool, stubbled cheek to the flesh of her belly, and she
moaned. He turned the cheek slightly, pressing his
lips against her. Her hands fisted in his hair, and she
whispered, “Yes.”
And then his teeth scraped against flesh, lightly,
teasingly, and she couldn’t stop a small laugh. Instantly,
he was on his elbows, staring down at her. “Do that
again, ma belle.”
She squinted at the decadent angel looking down at
her with undisguised need. “Do what?” she murmured.
“Laugh.” He touched a finger to her mouth, and
she could not help but wonder where he’d dropped
her dagger and how quickly she could reach it. “I do
not think I have ever heard you truly laugh.”
She smiled, brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I think
you might find more ways to make me laugh.”
“Oui, je suis—”
The sound of drums had both of them stiffening.
He was the first on his feet, but she was right behind
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him, gathering her dress closed and darting her gaze
about the cabin for dagger and sword.
“Aux postes de combat! ” came the shout from some-
where above them. She translated silently. On the
Regal, the order would have been “beat to quarters,”
and she would have reported to her father’s cabin to
assist him with strategy.
“Branle-bas de combat! ” came the next order, and this
time the voice was closer.
“What’s going on?” Raeven shouted. Were they
under attack? Had her father realized she was on
board? Was the whole harbor under some kind
of threat? She peered out the bank of windows
behind the berth and saw the harbor was still dark.
No signs of fire or smoke, no sound of gunshots or
cannon fire.
Someone pounded on the door, and Cutlass had it
open before the man could rap twice. In the compan-
ionway, she could see men rushing to their stations,
could hear the scrape of cannons moving into position
on the deck above them.
“Report,” Cutlass ordered, strapping on a pistol.
Raeven recognized the man as Mr. Maine, the
Shadow’s quartermaster.
He must have recognized her too, because he gave
her a brief glance then another before stuttering,
“Lookouts have sighted La Sirena. She must have
hidden in a cove. But she’s sailing past the harbor,
trying to make a run for it.”
“Well, she won’t get far.” From the wall, Cutlass
pulled the weapon that bore his name and secured it
about his waist. “What’s the weather gage?”
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“La Sirena has it, sir. But the wind is picking up.
We can catch her if we act now.”
“Good. Set a course to intercept her.” He started
out the door, but Raeven caught his arm.
“Release Percy and lower us in one of your long-
boats. We’ll be away in minutes.”
“No time,” he said, walking away from her.
“There is time.” She ran after him, one hand
securing her dress closed, the other lifting the skirts so
she could run. “I must return to my father’s
ship. If
you keep me as prisoner, you’ll have the whole of the
British navy after you.”
“They’ll have to catch me first.” He strode up a
ladderway and onto the gun deck, and Raeven tried
to ignore the startled glances of the gunners as she ran
by. She tried as well not to notice how efficiently they
moved, how quickly they were in place. Why, their
timing was as good as or better than the crew’s on the
Regal, and she knew her father drilled the gun crews
almost every day.
She followed Cutlass to the poop deck, jumping
aside as men rushed to positions. The wind whipped
at her dress, threatening to tear it free. She grasped
at the bodice with both hands. But aboveboard, she
could see her pleas were hopeless. The Shadow had
caught the wind, the anchor was up, and they were
moving out of the harbor. Without any real hope,
she followed Cutlass onto the poop deck, saw the
helmsman with his hands on the wheel, turning it hard
to starboard to catch the wind.
All hope vanishing, she turned to stare back at
the dark harbor. If she looked hard enough, she
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thought she could just make out the main mast of
the Regal. And as she watched, it grew smaller then
faded away.
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Nine
Six hours later, Bastien stormed into his cabin,
threw his cutlass down on his berth, and cursed. He
didn’t know where the fog had come from, didn’t
know and didn’t care. They’d lost La Sirena. The
brigantine had vanished like some sort of phantom,
and they were sailing blind, searching for one tiny fish
who could have swum anywhere in this vast sea.
Or could she?
Bastien went to his desk and pulled out the chart he
wanted. He put his finger on Gibraltar. They’d been
sailing west, following La Sirena. He moved his finger
westward on the chart. Where could she be headed?
Was she…?
With a start, he jerked his head up and stared at his
berth. The bedclothes were mussed and a reddish gown
thrown over them. He knew he was alone, but he
turned in a complete circle anyway. She wasn’t here.
He tried to remember the last time he’d seen his
petite cabin girl. She’d been arguing with him, telling
him to lower a longboat so she and the boy she’d
come with could be away.
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He’d refused her… That had been on the main
deck. Had she followed him to the poop deck? He
couldn’t remember. Hell, remembering her state
of dress—or undress, rather—when the drums had
sounded, he hoped not.
He focused on the torn dress again. She’d come
back to the cabin, taken off the gown, and then…
He’d find her in the hold, no doubt. She’d be
with Mr. Williams. He crossed the room, prepared
to order her to be brought to him, but decided to go
himself instead.
The brig was located in the hold and was nothing
more than several sets of chains fastened to a bulwark.
Bastien went down the ladderway, feeling the air
chill as he made his way lower. The hold was dark,
foul, and infested with rats and other vermin. It was
no place for a lady. He lifted a lantern and shone it
over the cargo and barrels of water, chains, cables,
and spare rigging. An area had been set aside for the
prisoners. In one set of chains, fastened to the ship,
sat Jolivette, knees drawn to his chest, head down
between them. He glanced up once then looked back
down dejectedly.
Bastien had half a mind to release him. His petite
cabin girl was a crafty one, and he could hardly expect
poor Jolivette to keep a hold on her when he himself
had yet to do so. Just beyond Jolivette sat the cabin
girl herself. The hold was dark, but her eyes must have
adjusted by now, and she was already watching him.
He scowled. He didn’t want her here, in the dark
and cold.
She’d obviously helped herself to one of his trunks.
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She wore one of his white linen shirts and a pair of
tan breeches with boots. He didn’t know where she’d
appropriated the boots, as his would have swallowed
her feet. Even so, she’d belted his shirt at the waist,
which only made it look that much bigger on her.
Across from her and in chains, Mr. Williams sat
cross-legged on the floor. Bastien appraised him
quickly: scared but trying not to show it, indignant but
not for himself… for Raeven. Hopelessly in love with
the little hellion.
Bastien’s fist clenched, but one look at Raeven’s
actions toward Williams, and Bastien relaxed. The boy
was little more than a puppy to her. She even stroked
his arm as though petting him. The two captives had
been talking, but now the only sound was the creak
of the boards and the muffled shouts of “Look lively
now, lads!” from above.
“Am I interrupting?” Bastien would have liked
a cigar, but the powder magazines were aft, and he
didn’t want to risk any sort of spark.
“If I say yes, will you leave?”
He grinned at her. “No. How are you faring,
Mr. Williams?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.
Raeven—Miss Russell—tells me we’ve left Gibraltar.”
“Indeed, we have.”
“And our course, sir?” The sir was given in a
mocking tone.
Still, it was a good question. In the bilge, water
dripped, and he listened to the plink, plink, plink.
“I heard the crew talking about La Sirena,” Raeven
said finally. “That’s Jourdain’s ship, isn’t it?”
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“And what do you know about Jourdain?” Bastien
asked.
“Barbary pirate, your enemy, headed”—she paused,
lifted her head—“west, I should think.”
“Very good.” Now if he only knew precisely where…
“Why are we chasing him?”
“You said yourself. He’s my enemy.” Bastien
was aware Jolivette had raised his head, and Bastien
wondered how many of the crew knew why he hated
Jourdain. Wondered how many followed him out of
loyalty and not because they remembered Vargas.
To her credit, his cabin girl didn’t ask any more
questions. She merely waited, allowed the plink of the
water to grow louder.
“Why do you hate me?” Bastien asked.
“You know why. You killed…” She paused,
and he could see her tilt her head, knew she was
thinking. “So this Jourdain killed someone you
cared for.”
He didn’t answer, didn’t affirm or deny.
“Who?” she asked finally.
“Not a lover, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or
a fiancée,” he added, because he’d seen her stiffen
and knew she was about to protest. “But someone
important to me. So you see, you are not the only one
with a vendetta, chérie. We have more in common
than you realize.”
If she disagreed, she didn’t voice it. Instead, she
turned back to Mr. Williams, and they seemed to
exchange some sort of silent signal. Bastien reached
for the keys at his belt and unlocked Jolivette’s chains.
“Report to your station, Jolivette.”
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The man was instantly on his feet, knuckling a salute.
“Yes, Cap’n. I won’t let you down again. I won’t—”
“I know, Jolivette.”
The man knuckled another salute and dashed up
the ladderway as easily as he scampered up the rat
lines. Bastien moved forward, and when the girl saw
his intent, she rose to move out of his way. “Are you
releasing him or imprisoning me?”
Bastien chuckled. “I’m not certain yet. Which do
you prefer?” He would rather have his fingernails
pulled out than lock her down here, but he wasn’t
prepared to admit as much.
“If he has to be locked up for the duration of this
voyage, I want to be, as well.”
Bastien leaned forward and whispered in her
ear. “Coward.”
She stiffened. “I don’t know what—”
“Much safer down here than up there”—he pointed
toward his cabin—“with me.”
He stepped to the lock, inserted the key, and freed
the boy from his chains. “Mr. Williams, it’s almost
noon. Will you join us for some refreshment? I think
Salviati, our cook, has something special prepared.”
The man looked at Raeven first, and Bastien had
the distinct feeling she had all the men on board the
Regal eating out of her hand. He knew it. There was
no other way she could have engineered a plan to
escape her ship and infiltrate his with the help of this
one boy alone. The men might be loyal to her because
she was the admiral’s daughter. But more likely, they
admired her strength, her skills with dagger and sword,
and her cunning.
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