Rogue Pirates Bride

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Rogue Pirates Bride Page 17

by Shana Galen


  you know the duc and duchesse?” she asked.

  “Assurément. I—”

  “Why don’t we speak of something else?” Cutlass

  interjected.

  “Oh, no.” Raeven was intrigued now. “You won’t

  tell me why you’re after this Jourdain. I think I deserve

  to know something about you.” Even if it was a lie.

  She turned back to Gaston. “Are you the duc of

  something or other?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “No, I was their

  servant. Monsieur le Marquis and I escaped the night

  of the fire.”

  “Gaston, enough.”

  From the looks of the others at the table, Gaston’s

  remarks were revelations to them all. Most had

  forgotten to eat and were staring at the old man. The

  food was not very good, but she knew few sailors who

  didn’t eat what was given them.

  Gaston shrugged. “He doesn’t like me to speak of

  it, mademoiselle. Would like me to call him Bastien,

  but he is still the marquis to me.”

  Raeven felt a prickle run up her spine. Was it

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  possible this man spoke the truth? He was certainly

  speaking it as he believed it to be true. And she knew

  the revolution in France had killed and displaced

  much of the aristocracy. She glanced at Cutlass. Could

  he be a marquis?

  She looked at Gaston again. “Bastien?”

  He nodded and indicated the captain. “His name.

  His real name is Sébastien, but the family always called

  him Bastien.”

  She blinked again, amazed at the amount of infor-

  mation she’d gleaned about this man who had been

  such a mystery only a few short minutes before. “And

  I suppose Cutlass is not his real surname.” She knew

  it was not, but she was interested to hear what old

  Gaston would say.

  “Cutlass? Oh, no! That was—”

  “Mr. Maine,” Cutlass—Bastien—interrupted.

  “Does the fog show any sign of lifting soon?”

  “No, Captain. But I expect it will burn off in

  the morning.”

  They continued their discussion of winds and

  weather, a conversation Raeven would have found

  interesting at any other time, but she could only

  stare at the captain and wonder how much of what

  the doctor had said was true. She didn’t know if she

  believed he was a marquis, but why would the old

  man lie about having been the family’s servant?

  Sébastien… She studied the pirate. He did look

  something like a Sébastien. His features were refined,

  his smile charming, his voice smooth. And yet the way

  he sat, the leisurely way he smoked, and that intense

  look on his face when he spoke of Jourdain—that was

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  when she could see Bastien was a better name for him.

  He was no lily-white aristocrat. She glanced at his

  hands. She’d felt them on her skin, knew they were

  roughened from work. Her own were rough as well

  from furling sails and climbing rat lines.

  Interesting. A deposed marquis . She wondered

  what other secrets he hid. And she worried she might

  just find out.

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  Ten

  Bastien stood at the taffrail and stared into the

  gray dawn. The fog hadn’t lifted as Mr. Maine

  expected, and he scowled at Jourdain’s shield. The

  man had the devil’s own luck, but one of these days

  it would fail.

  He heard a light footstep behind him, and without

  turning, said, “Miss Russell, you’re up early.” He’d

  given her his cabin last night, as he didn’t intend to

  sleep. Ridley had posted a guard outside the door to

  make sure she didn’t hatch one of her schemes and

  attempt something like commandeering the ship while

  his crew slept. Now it was morning, and she must

  have talked the guard into allowing her on deck.

  “I’m not accustomed to lounging in bed,” she said,

  coming to stand beside him. She still wore his white

  shirt and breeches, but he saw she’d taken a comb to her

  hair—most likely his comb—and it hung in a neat black

  ribbon the length of her back. “The fog hasn’t lifted.”

  He stared at the grayness.

  “Jourdain could be just on the horizon or several

  hundred miles away,” she said, stating the obvious.

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  “In any case, you’ve lost him. Perhaps it’s best if we

  turn back.”

  He glanced at her, arched a brow. “Is that what

  your father would do? If he had orders to… say…

  burn, sink, or take a ship— this ship, for instance—a

  prize, would he turn back at the first hindrance?”

  Her lips thinned. “No, of course not.”

  “And you think me any less determined?”

  She sighed, and they stood in silence for a long

  while. He listened to the water slap the sides of the

  boat, the wind pulling the sails tight, and the creak of

  the rigging.

  “If you don’t turn back,” she said, “Jourdain will be

  the least of your worries. My father will find you—fog

  or not—and when he does, he’ll destroy you.”

  Bastien nodded. He had no doubt the admiral would

  piece all of the events together once he realized his

  daughter was missing and the Shadow gone, as well.

  But he had at least a half a day on the Regal, and the

  fog would hinder the man-of-war as it now hindered

  him. The Regal might find them, and he’d deal with

  that problem when it arose. He seriously doubted the

  admiral would fire and risk injuring his daughter. There

  would be negotiations and bargains struck. And then, no

  matter what the admiral promised him, once he had his

  daughter back, Bastien would get the hell out of there.

  He had a fast ship. He’d outrun the British Navy

  before. With luck—a lot of luck against a 110-gun

  first-rate ship of the line—he could do it again.

  “Bastien.”

  He looked at her, saw her eyes were wide. “That

  really is your name.”

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  “I prefer you call me Cutlass or Captain.”

  “Not Monsieur le Marquis?”

  Her tongue fumbled over the words, pronouncing

  marquis in the English fashion, marquess. “Your accent

  leaves something to be desired,” he drawled, changing

  the subject. “Where did you learn French?”

  “Oh, here and—” She paused, and he saw her

  stiffen then lean forward. Something about the way

  she moved, the way she… went on alert had his

  pulse beating.

  “What is it?”

  She didn’t answer at first, and he found himself
/>   holding his breath. Listening.

  Listening.

  “There,” she whispered. She’d taken his hand, and

  hers was warm in his cold one. He didn’t think she

  even realized she was touching him. “Did you hear

  it?” she whispered again.

  He shook his head. “Hear what?”

  “Call for the lead, and order silence on deck.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her he was the one

  who gave the orders, but again, something in her

  demeanor had him doing exactly as she said. He

  turned and motioned to one of the yardmen. “Climb

  up and tell me what you see. Silence on deck!” he

  called. “And bring me the lead.”

  A moment later, a spyglass was thrust into his hands,

  and he peered through it, searching the fog for some

  sign of movement. He scanned the wisps of gray once,

  twice, and saw nothing. Lowering the spyglass, he

  said, “I don’t see—”

  And then he heard it.

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  The faint tinkling of a bell.

  It could have been his imagination. But he knew it

  wasn’t. He knew looking at the way Raeven Russell

  leaned forward, listening with her whole body, that

  the bell was as real as the oak rail under his hands.

  “What do you see…?” He squinted at the yardman

  on the mizzenmast. It was Jolivette. “What do you

  see, Jolivette?”

  “Fog and clouds, sir. Nothing more. Nothing—wait!”

  But Bastien had seen the orange and red burst

  from the fog bank, as well. “All hands down! Down!”

  He dove for the deck, taking Raeven with him. He

  wrapped his arms around her, cushioning her fall and

  rolling to position his body over hers. His wounded

  shoulder howled with pain, and his vision grayed for

  a moment.

  Under him, Raeven let out a soft “oof,” and then

  the world around them exploded. He kept his arms

  around her, and they flew across the poop deck,

  landing hard against the rail together. Wood splinters

  showered them, a loose piece of canvas slapped him in

  the face, and he felt the Shadow lurch. More pain to

  his shoulder, but he bit down and pushed through it.

  He lurched to his feet.

  “Aux postes de combat! ” Bastien ordered before

  turning to Mr. Jackson, his carpenter, who was scram-

  bling toward him. “Damage report, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Right away, Captain.”

  “Mr. Khan.” He turned to his sailing master, who

  was at the helm. The man’s cheek was bleeding, and

  he looked somewhat dazed.

  “Yes, Captain!”

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  “Turn this ship starboard. We’re going to hit them

  full on.”

  He could hear the shouts of “topmen aloft,” “hard

  to starboard!” and Mr. Castro’s order for his gunners

  to “be ready now, boys!” All around him, men

  scrambled to do what they knew best—sail and fight.

  And Raeven Russell was right beside him. “I see a

  brig, thirty-two guns. Is that La Sirena?”

  He turned and looked off the stern. Merde. It was La

  Sirena, and she was gaining on them.

  “He must have hidden in the fogbank,” Raeven

  was saying. “And when we passed him, turned to port

  and fired.”

  He’d already pieced together what had happened,

  but he didn’t object to hearing her opinion, especially

  as it mirrored his own.

  “He couldn’t see, so it was a blind shot, but I’d

  say he didn’t do half bad.” She leaned over the rail,

  watching as one of the Shadow’s men climbed down a

  rope to inspect the rudder. “He’s coming up on our

  starboard side. He’ll fire as soon as he’s broadside.”

  Mr. Jackson was beside him a moment later. “Not

  much damage on deck, Captain. Masts are fine. A few

  sails torn…”

  “Mr. Jackson!” came the voice of the mate hanging

  over the stern. Bastien and his carpenter ran to peer

  over the rail. “The rudder is damaged, sirs!”

  Bastien turned to look at Khan. “How is the steering?”

  The man shook his head. “I haven’t much, Captain.”

  And indeed the ship was not answering. It hadn’t

  turned to starboard, and La Sirena was gaining on

  them. Another five minutes, and she’d be alongside.

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  “Damn it!” It was up to his gun crews now. He raced

  down the short ladderway to the main deck, giving the

  order, “Prepare to repel boarders!” as he went.

  The gun crews were at the ready, as he knew

  they’d be. His master gunner, Felipe Castro, was an

  experienced sailor and a veteran of the Spanish navy.

  “We don’t have much steering,” he told Castro. “It’s

  up to you and your men to do as much damage as you

  can. If not, we might all be making a visit to the slave

  auctions at Gibraltar.”

  It was a very real threat, for if the crew of La Sirena

  boarded them, Jourdain would kill Bastien, but he’d

  take the men and sell them as slaves. For a fleeting

  instant, Bastien wondered what would happen to

  Raeven, and then he shouted, “Stand fast. She’s not

  close enough. Now! On the up-roll…”

  The ship rose, and through the gun ports, he could

  see La Sirena coming beside them. He could see

  Jourdain’s men, faces blank, eyes hard, at their cannons.

  “Fire!” Mr. Castro ordered, and his own cannons

  boomed even as La Sirena answered. To his right, a

  cannon and its crew took a direct hit. Men and metal

  flew back, and Bastien raised his hand involuntarily to

  shield his face from the flying debris.

  The men lay wounded, but he could see the

  cannon might still fire. La Sirena was directly across

  from them now, but even as he scrambled to take over

  at the cannon, he was pushed aside by Castro and…

  his cabin girl?

  He watched as Castro blinked at the girl, but she

  merely ordered, “Help me get this cannon into the

  gun port. Quick now!”

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  The two of them pushed the heavy weapon back

  into position. Bastien couldn’t help but notice that

  Raeven slipped on the blood of one of his men, but she

  didn’t falter, didn’t waver. He watched in awe as she

  covered the air vent then rammed the sponge rod into

  the barrel as though she had done so a thousand times.

  Perhaps she had.

  He turned back to his crew, watched as they

  primed their own weapons. “Ready!” he called. “On

  my word…”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Castro insert the

  heavy cannon ball into the barrel. Raeven inserted the

  fuse,
prepared to light it…

  Bastien studied the sea, watched the roll of the

  waves… “Fire!”

  La Sirena returned fire, and this time the damage

  was forward. Bastien ran to inspect it, knowing his gun

  crews would have little opportunity to do much more

  for the moment. Jourdain’s ship was pulling ahead,

  and without steering, Bastien could do nothing more

  than he had.

  But once on the fo’c’sle, he could see the whole

  picture. Yes, his foremast was damaged. Yes, several

  men were down and looked to be mortally wounded.

  Gaston would have a busy day ahead.

  But that was nothing compared to the havoc aboard

  La Sirena. Their main mast was damaged. Badly. It

  looked as though it might topple at any moment. It

  was less of a hindrance than his own trouble with the

  rudder, but he did not think Jourdain knew his rudder

  was damaged.

  As he stood and watched La Sirena shear off

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  starboard, he saw the man he sought. Jourdain stood

  on deck, hands on hips, head held high—much in the

  same way Bastien stood.

  The two men eyed one another, and Jourdain

  raised a hand in mock salute. With a curse, Bastien

  watched as the pirate and his ship sailed away.

  The damage was not as bad as she had initially

  thought, Raeven decided several hours later. And she

  knew much of the reason the ship remained so intact

  was her captain. If she had any doubts before as to his

  abilities, she did not harbor them now. The way he’d

  leapt into battle, the way he’d issued orders and raced

  to the areas where his leadership was needed most had

  more than impressed her.

  She adored her father and thought him an able

  leader, but she had often thought that he should be

  more involved when the Regal was engaged in battle.

  He tended to rely on his lieutenants to bring him

  reports and devised strategy from their suggestions. But

  she had always wondered how much more effective

  he might be if he saw for himself the state of the ship.

  Now she had glimpsed that type of leadership, and

  she could not fail to be impressed. Cutlass—Bastien—

  whatever his name—had saved them only because he

  had been where the most leadership was needed at the

  time. Oh, they easily might have lost the battle. If La

  Sirena had noted their damaged rudder, she might have

  turned, assuming she had enough maneuverability

  with her damaged mast, and fired again. The Shadow

 

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