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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Shana Galen
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
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