The Rogue Pirate’s Bride Page 12

  “Aux postes de combat!” came the shout from somewhere 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 companionway, 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?”

  “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 longboats. 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 thought she could just make out the main mast of the Regal. And as she watched, it grew smaller then faded away.

  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 there.

  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.

  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. 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?”

  “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.”

  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.

  Her beauty didn’t hurt either.

  He led them up a ladderway and to his wardroom. In smaller vessels, the captain’s cabin and wardroom were often one, but Bastien had wanted a separate space and had a wall erected between the two. His officers had yet to arrive, and he had a few moments alone with his guests. He drew a cigar from a box on the table used for consulting maps, strategizing, and dining, and offered one to Mr. Williams. Williams declined.

  He turned to the cabin girl and waved one at her. “Never let it be said I’m not equitable in all things. Cigar, Miss Russell?”

  “Thank you, but I don’t smoke,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He raised a brow, studying his trousers and shirt. “Too masculine a pursuit?”

  She shook her head, went to one of the windows. “Too disgusting.”

  With a chuckle, he leaned forward, lit his cigar on a candle and nodded to Williams. “I understand you’re the Regal’s purser, Mr. Williams.”

  “Yes… Captain. I’ve been serving with Admiral Russell in one capacity or another for two years.” He stood straight, making it patently obvious he hated being interrogated but was prepared to withstand it if necessary.

  “And so you’ve known Miss Russell for some time.” Bastien leaned back in the chair, watched his petite cabin girl stare out the window and pretend not to listen.

  “We were friends even before I joined the Regal.”

  “Ah. And does she always cause you this much trouble?” He saw her shoulders stiffen, but she didn’t look at them.

  “Not usually this much.”

  Bastien grinned. “You’ll be flogged for certain.”

  The man nodded. “Flogged and court-martialed. The Admiral’s consequences for helping Raeven with any more of her schemes.”

  Bastien rose, uncorked the wine on the table, and poured three glasses. He handed one to Williams, set one down, and swirled the liquid in the third. “And yet you were not dissuaded.”

  “Someone would have helped her. I figured she’d be better off with me.”

  She turned from the window now, scowling. “I wasn’t going to show him anything!”

  Bastien raised his brows and looked to Williams for an explanation. The man was flushed with what looked to be embarrassment and took a drink of the wine. “The ship’s bosun offered to help, but she had to—er—”

  “I had to show him my tits. But I wouldn’t have.”

  Bastien laughed, strolled to her, and handed her the glass of wine. She took it without turning away from the window, and he leaned down, whispered in her ear. “You showed me, ma belle.”

  “Much to my regret.”

  He laughed and went back to the table. “I imagine with those consequences hanging over your head, you’re not in much of a hurry to return to the Regal.”

  “You’d be mistaken,” Williams said stiffly. “I don’t shirk my duty or my punishments. But I wouldn’t mind returning with the Shadow as our prize.”

  Bastien laughed again, but from the corner of his eye he saw his cabin girl turn, glance at Williams, and look thoughtful. So now she was planning a mutiny, was she? He’d like to see how far she’d get. She might have the crew of the Regal wrapped around her little finger, but it would take more than spunk and a pretty face to turn the hearts of his crew. Now if she were rich, he might worry. His crew’s greed knew no bounds.

  “Do you mind if I ask your plans, Captain?” Williams said. He’d been toying with his wine glass, drinking little. He looked pale and tired. Bastien was certain he was wishing he’d never laid eyes on Raeven Russell, much less allowed her to convince him to come along on her latest adventure.

  Bastien sat back, put his feet on the table, and stared at the ceiling. “We search out La Sirena, destroy her, take the survivors captive, and sail back to Gibraltar. We’ll sell Jourdain’s men, resupply, and sail on for Spain.”

  “Bastard,” he heard the girl hiss behind him.

  Without looking away from the ceiling, he inquired, “To what exactly do you object, mademoiselle?”

  “You call yourself a privateer, but you’re nothing more than pirates with a piece of paper from Spain. In another month, you’ll be attacking English vessels again.”

  Bastien threw his head back and laughed long and hard. So long, in fact, she came to stand beside him, arms crossed, frown deep. “What is so amusing, pirate?”

  Bastien winked at her. “You. You don’t care if I sink a vessel, kill hundreds of men or plan to sell the survivors into slavery. You’re only concerned I might survive to attack one of your British ships. No worries, mademoiselle. England and Spain are friends at the moment. Your ships are safe from me. Much safer than you.” He reached out, snaked an arm about her waist, and drew her close. With a look of alarm, she wriggled and scampered away to stand beside her Mr. Williams. “Do you think he’ll be able to protect you, mademoiselle?”

  The man stood. “I will do whatever is needed to protect her virtue, Captain. I would rather die than see you molest her.”

  Bastien nodded solemnly at the boy’s grave expression. “Understood, Mr. Williams. I assure you I will not do anything Miss Russell does not agree to. Her virtue, if she has any, is quite safe with me.”

  That riled up the boy. He stomped to Bastien and stared down at him. “Sir, I’m afraid I cannot allow a slight like that to be said of Miss Russell. I have no choice but to challenge—”

  Bastien stood, looked down at the boy. “Say on.”

  He cleared his throat. “I have no choice but to—”

  “Wait!” His cabin girl wormed her way between them. She pushed Bastien, but when he didn’t move, she turned her attention to her friend. “Just wait a moment.”

  “Pistols or swords, Mr. Williams?” Bastien asked.

  The boy paled but nodded. “Swords, I think.”

  ***

  Raeven let out a small scream of frustration and rounded on Cutlass. “There will be no pistols or swords. He didn’t even issue a challenge, and he’s not going to.”

  “Yes, I—”

  She rounded on
Percy and shoved him into the far corner. “Stubble it! I’m not going to let you fight Cutlass. I’m responsible for enough of your trouble right now. I won’t have your death on my conscience, as well.”

  He gave her a hurt look. “What makes you so certain I’ll lose?”

  She made a herculean effort not to roll her eyes. “I’ve seen him fight, Percy. You are good,” she lied, “but he is better. Besides, I don’t need you to defend my virtue. I can more than handle Cutlass.”

  Not that she’d done a very good job of handling him so far. He’d almost had her much-vaunted virtue in his cabin earlier. And, unfortunately, Cutlass was correct in saying there was little left of it. She’d given her maidenhead to Timothy, hadn’t seen any reason to wait until the wedding, especially when they were so often apart. She wanted some memory of him to keep her warm on the long nights while she waited for their wedding day.

  Now he was dead, and she didn’t regret her actions. Everything she’d shared with Timothy had been special. But she certainly didn’t want Percy killed defending her nonexistent virginity.

  She turned to Cutlass, who was standing across the room, looking slightly amused. He always seemed to look slightly amused. Except when they’d heard the order to beat to quarters. He’d gone deadly serious then.

  “There was no challenge issued. Nor will there be. Mr. Williams and I would like to remain on board as your guests. We’ll depart at the first port or when we return to Gibraltar, whichever comes first.”

  Cutlass smoked his cigar, his cobalt eyes appraising her. “Very well. I assume Mr. Williams has some degree of seamanship. He can sleep with the men. I’m certain an extra hammock can be located. But you”—he lifted his wine glass—“you present more of a problem. I can’t exactly put you among the men in their hammocks.”

  “I’ve slept in hammocks and among the men before. I can do it again.”

  Cutlass smiled. “No doubt you have, and while I trust my men implicitly, you don’t dangle a steak before a starving dog and expect the creature not to at least take a small bite.”