The Rogue Pirate’s Bride Page 4

  He didn’t have time for such niceties. The cargo was loaded, and he needed to be on his way. He had his own agenda, and it didn’t allow for deviation. Especially not those due to silly girls who fancied themselves avenging their dead lovers.

  Merde, but it was like some ridiculous fairy tale. And, somehow, he had ended up playing the villain.

  Well, if he was the villain, then he need not have any qualms about Miss Russell. He’d set her ashore and be done with her. As he reached his cabin door, he checked his pocket watch. Still forty minutes or so until the tide would come in.

  He replaced the watch, took out his key, and unlocked his cabin. He pushed the door open, prepared for anything except an empty room. “What the…” He spent five minutes searching the tiny cabin only to conclude it was, as he’d first noted, empty.

  “Maine!” he called. “Maine!

  When a deckhand came running, Bastien waved his hand and roared, “Get me Mr. Maine.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  While he waited, Bastien stood with hands on his hips. How the hell had she done it? How he she gotten out? If someone had assisted her…

  But he knew no one on his crew would dare speak to the girl, much less help her escape. Still, he would have Maine organize a search of every inch of the ship, question every crew member.

  His gaze caught on the white bowl on his bed. His chamber pot, which, for all his insistence she empty had been, ironically, already empty. But he did not usually keep it on his berth.

  He strode to it, glanced down. Inside was a slip of paper from his desk. In small, feminine handwriting she’d scrawled: I am afraid you shall be obliged to empty your own chamber pot, pirate. But take heart. You shall not live so long that the task becomes tedious. The next time we meet, I will have my revenge.

  Bastien crumpled the paper and threw it against the wall.

  Three

  He was going to be sorry he’d tried to make her empty his chamber pot. He was going to be sorry for quite a few things, the least of which was that abominable kiss he’d forced on her. Raeven swiped at her mouth, but she could still taste him. Could still feel his lips there. She’d kissed him back, but only because she’d realized that was the way to beat him. And it had been working. He’d been distracted and had even released her hands. A moment more and she could have kneed him between the legs, incapacitated him, then slit his throat.

  And she would have done it too.

  She could have done it. For Timothy.

  She clenched her hands. It was ridiculous to feel any qualms about killing the pirate. After all, had he paused even a moment before murdering Timothy? Most decidedly not.

  But then again, he didn’t know Timothy. He’d ordered his cannons to fire, and Timothy had died after one of the explosions. It hadn’t been a personal thing, like between her and the pirate. Now she’d stood eye to eye with the man. She’d liked the idea of killing him more before she’d been so… intimately acquainted with him.

  She took the much-discussed chamber pot, opened the lid, and noted it was empty. Too bad. She would have emptied it on his berth. She set it there anyway and went to the pirate’s desk. He had paper and quill, which meant he was literate, and that shouldn’t have surprised her.

  But he did surprise her. She looked about his cabin and had to admit she was impressed. She’d seen many great cabins, and while this one was small, it was well appointed. The furniture was mahogany and polished until it gleamed. The berth was large and adorned with a plush coverlet. The desk was solid and practical, but the legs had a decorative arch, and the feet were fashioned as lion’s paws. The wardrobe was tall and stately, and his trunk looked as though it were new.

  On the floor, on top of the gleaming wood, was a thick Turkey rug in blues and greens, the green of which matched the coverlet on the berth. On the walls hung pictures of landscapes and countrysides. She was no judge of art, but she thought they were well done.

  The entire cabin was quietly tasteful and surprisingly neat and tidy. The man did not need a cabin boy.

  It seemed everything about the man was different from what she had imagined. He wasn’t ugly or stupid. Loathe as she was to admit it, he was actually quite handsome and intelligent.

  And, if she was honest—and she was always honest with herself—Raeven had to admit he’d mastered the art of kissing. She had not enjoyed the kiss, but if she hadn’t hated him so much, she might have.

  As it was, she could only lie there and think of poor Timothy and what he would have said had he seen her in such an embrace with a man who was not only a pirate but his murderer.

  She wouldn’t think of that. Instead, she put quill to paper and scrawled out a note to the murdering pirate bastard. Satisfied, she placed it delicately in his chamber pot and tugged a hairpin from the nest of curls around her shoulders. She didn’t have to imagine that she looked a fright. Cutlass had a mirror nailed to the wall next to the large wardrobe she supposed housed his expensive clothing. She’d caught a glimpse of her reflection earlier and had no desire to look again. She looked like a banshee.

  She twisted the hairpin and knelt in front of the cabin door. With a smile, she saw the keyhole was similar to those on the Regal. She was in luck—not that she needed it. She could pick any lock, a talent she had learned at age thirteen from a young pickpocket her father pressed into service. She’d had six years to practice the skill. Mostly she picked locks for fun, but found it a useful skill when her father ordered her locked in her cabin and she would rather be enjoying a sunny day, high in the rigging.

  She went to work quickly now, unsure how much time she had before Cutlass returned. The Shadow was most likely sailing with the tide, and that would be out soon. She had no desire to be stranded on a ship with a band of rogues. She had to be off the pirate ship before it sailed, or the only way back to the Regal was a long swim, and the sharks would get her if the currents didn’t.

  She heard a snick as the lock gave way, and she twisted the hairpin again, ever so gently, until the door popped open. She stood, dusted off her hands, and pocketed the hairpin. She eased the cabin door open and peered into the companionway. A sailor was disappearing up a ladderway; but for him, the companionway was empty. Raeven could not have picked better timing. The crew would be busy on deck, making the final preparations. No one would notice one small boy—she tucked her hair in her collar—shimmying across a dock line. If only she had her dagger, she could cut a piece of rope, knot it, and make her escape where she chose. As it was, her best bet was the anchor cable.

  She skulked up the stairs and onto the deck, ducking behind a gun carriage then peering out to survey the deck. It swarmed with activity. Men were aloft preparing the sails; others lowered the ship’s boats or stowed provisions. The pirate crew looked unexpectedly efficient and orderly. Still, it was a pirate crew. She wished she had her sword. Her thigh felt naked without the familiar weight against it. But whatever Cutlass had done with the sword, he had been smart enough not to leave it in his cabin. She had no choice but to depart without it.

  Yet another reason to detest the man.

  She scurried forward along the deck, glancing over the side, looking for the lines mooring the ship to the quay. She only wished she could see Cutlass’s face when he discovered his cabin was empty.

  But she would see him again—soon. And then she’d make him pay both for Timothy’s death and the theft of her sword.

  She edged along the deck, smiling as she caught sight of the forward dock line made fast to the quay. The crew hadn’t cast off yet. Luck was with her tonight, and she had one leg over the side when she glanced over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of the open cargo hold. She paused, leg dangling precariously.

  She’d seen the crew loading cargo when she was brought on board, but she had been too busy cursing the men dragging her up the gangplank to note it. It was probably only foodstuffs and rum. Perhaps powder and solid shot. But then why hadn’t the Shadow anchored in the harbor and had the pr
ovisions delivered via cutter?

  Because the cargo was too heavy or too difficult to load from a cutter. Cutlass had needed the dock cranes to load it. And that meant it was more than salt pork and ship’s biscuit.

  She pulled her leg back over the rail then hesitated. Was it worth risking capture again to investigate this cargo?

  Probably not.

  On the other hand, if she discovered something of use to her father or the navy, then her little excursion might be more easily forgiven. And at this point, she had little hope her absence from the Regal had not been noted. She might need an extra measure of forgiveness.

  She took another quick glance about the ship to be certain she hadn’t been spotted then ducked down and dashed toward the cargo hold. Several crates were stacked on deck, still waiting placement, and Raeven stooped behind these. Cautiously, she lifted her head and peered over the crates and into the hold. The men working there had lanterns, but the light was far too weak for her to ascertain the nature of the cargo.

  Devil take it! She had risked capture for nothing. Now she would…

  She stared at the crate right in front of her. Nondescript and unlabeled, it could be anything. Peering about the deck, she saw a mallet one of the deckhands had set aside. She had to venture out from her hiding place to snatch it, and she did so quickly, dropping back just as two sailors walked past. One was the man Cutlass called Maine. He was shouting orders, telling the crew to finish securing the hold and prepare to cast off. That meant the mallet and these crates would have to be stowed soon. She had better hurry.

  She’d opened a fair number of crates in her time, and she made quick work of this one. Some men found her skill with men’s tools and her less-than-soft, pretty hands unattractive, but Timothy had only laughed when she did something women were not supposed to. He would laugh now if he could see her hiding on the deck of a pirate ship and hoisting open a crate of… medicine.

  She studied the little vials, packed securely in straw. Pulling one out, she noted it was morphine. Another, laudanum.

  She sat back on her haunches and considered. Of course a pirate ship had as much need of medicines as any other vessel. But usually the ship’s doctor took charge of it. She moved that crate aside and opened another. More vials.

  These two crates alone were worth several hundred pounds, and she counted seven more of the same size yet to be stowed in the hold. Beyond that were the larger crates the sailors were handing down into the hold. She did not think they were medicine vials. Weapons and ammunition? But how many weapons did a pirate ship need?

  “Is that the last of the rifles?” one of the sailors loading the cargo asked another.

  “Should be. Then we just have those.” He gestured to the crates sheltering Raeven, and she tried to squeeze herself into a shadow. It didn’t surprise her that her guess had been correct. She’d seen too many boxes and crates of rifles, bayonets, swords…

  They were the trappings of war. And that begged the question: was Cutlass going to war?

  She shook her head, knowing she needed to shimmy along that dock line before it was cast off but unable to stop staring at the Shadow’s cargo hold.

  Its too-full cargo hold.

  Perhaps Cutlass wasn’t going to war. But Cutlass sailed for Spain, at least under its letters of marque. Had he acquired this cargo for Spain? Why? Spain had signed the Treaty of Amien, just as Britain had. But perhaps Spain did not intend to honor that treaty. Perhaps while it made gestures of peace with one hand, with the other it gathered the weapons of war, supplied by its privateers, of course.

  Could Spain be looking to attack Great Britain? The treaty returned Minorca to the Spanish, but Britain kept Trinidad.

  She fisted her hands, fresh anger at Cutlass churning through her. The sailors finished loading the last of the rifles, and she knew she had to move. As much as she wanted to punish Cutlass, it would have to wait.

  With a last look around, she crept back to the deck rail. She hoisted one leg over, grasping the dock line with one hand. Perhaps she could…

  “Maine!” she heard Cutlass’s voice cut above the din of the sailors working. “Maine!”

  Devil take it! She released the dock line and ducked down again.

  The thump of boots shook the deck as men scrambled to get out of Cutlass’s way.

  “He’s on the fo’c’sle, Captain,” one sailor offered.

  “Go get him,” Cutlass ordered, and more boots thumped. “And search the ship. I’ve lost my cabin girl.”

  Raeven ground her teeth to keep from spewing venom at him. She was not his cabin girl. Not his anything.

  But she was out of time. She peered over the rail again, saw the dock line and, beneath it, the long drop to the water. But she’d been raised on a ship and was a veritable monkey. She easily latched onto the line with both hands, her feet swinging up to wrap around the rope. She made her way across the line toward the quay, hand over fist, looking behind her several times to judge the distance to the bollard.

  Finally, she dropped her feet into the water beside the quay and, transferring her grip from the dock line to the dock, she swung her legs onto it. But she must have been more fatigued than she realized, because she misjudged the distance and smashed her knee. With a curse, she crawled onto the quay and rolled into a ball, closing her eyes against the scream of pain in her knee.

  Finally, she groaned and stared up at the Shadow. The next time she saw the vessel, she vowed it would be in pieces.

  Cautiously, she rose to her knees. She was bruised but not badly injured. She was relatively certain her knee would be sore for a week, and her gloveless hands were raw and bleeding. But nothing was broken. She limped away from the ship, heading for the cutters ferrying sailors to and from the ships in the harbor.

  She couldn’t wait to tell her father what she’d seen on the Shadow. Now he’d have a reason to pursue and destroy the pirate ship. Despite her throbbing knee, her battered hands, and a dull headache, she smiled.

  ***

  “I don’t care if the rogue planned to assassinate the King!” Admiral Russell boomed, hands cutting the air in front of Raeven. “I don’t care if the blackguard plotted to kidnap the Regent—though we might all be better off if he did,” he muttered. “It’s no excuse for your reckless behavior. Your behavior is impulsive, undisciplined, unrestrained, un…” He gestured violently, face red, too angry to form the words.

  Raeven pursed her lips and waited. “Unacceptable?” she ventured.

  “Damn it, girl!” He slammed a fist down on the cherrywood desk in his cabin, sending a sextant crashing to the floor and several maps flying into the air like startled seagulls. From behind the admiral, Percy gave her a pained look. She knew what he was thinking: why did she try to help? Why didn’t she keep her mouth shut? There was no reasoning with her father when he was in this state. In her opinion, there was never any reasoning with him.

  It had taken her three hours to return to the Regal, and as she’d feared, in the five or six hours she’d been away, her absence had been noted. From her chair on the opposite side of the desk, she could just see the face of her father’s little clock. Devil take it, but he’d been railing for almost thirty minutes.

  He shoved his palms down hard on the desk and leaned over until his face was level with hers. “Do you find this tedious, girl? Am I keeping you from another, more pressing engagement?”

  “No, but—”

  “Good, because you and Mr. Williams will be busy swabbing the decks and emptying the buckets all day.”

  Percy closed his eyes and shuddered. It wasn’t the first time her actions had caused him grief. But she’d find a way to make it up to him. Just as soon as she had Cutlass.

  “Fine, but—”

  “Fine? Fine?” He was about to speak again, but before he could form the words, he erupted into a storm of hacking coughs. It was three or four minutes before he recovered, and drawing the handkerchief from his purpling face, he wheezed, “You don�
�t feel even a moment’s remorse. Do you comprehend the trouble you might have gotten into? The pirate could have raped you, girl! Worse, he could have decided to have you keelhauled or flogged or—” He dissolved into another coughing spell.

  “No, he couldn’t. He was too eager to be underway,” Raeven said, taking advantage of her father’s incapacitation.

  “Oh, well that’s even better! At this moment you could be somewhere in the middle of the Channel with no one but Mr. Williams the wiser. That blackguard could sell you into slavery or take you to—”

  “Sir.”

  But he was still listing all the horrors that might have happened. Horrors of which she was well aware. Horrors she had escaped. Easily escaped, at that.

  “Sir… Father!”

  “What?” He stared at her, arms locked at his sides. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “He’s getting away.”

  Behind her father, Percy closed his eyes and sighed heavily, like a man doomed to the gallows and resigned to his fate. Her father, obviously similarly exasperated, sat heavily in his chair. “Since we’re not chasing the rogue, dear daughter, he can’t be getting away.” He dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief.

  “But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Now she stood and braced her hands on his desk. “We should be chasing him. He has arms and medicines for Spain to use against us.”

  “That may be.”

  “May be? I’m telling you what I saw with my own two eyes!”

  “And it’s valuable intelligence. I will grant you that, though the manner in which it was obtained is completely un—”

  “—acceptable. Yes, I know. I know.” She pressed her fingers lightly over her eyes. It was almost dawn, and she was exhausted. Her headache had developed into a full-blown military tattoo. She was tired of talking, tired of arguing. She wanted something to eat, a glass of wine, and her warm berth, and she knew she was unlikely to have any of them for some time. Worst of all, Cutlass was getting away. She could feel the distance between them growing, and the farther he ventured, the more tense she became. She felt like a ship straining against its anchor. She had waited six months for the opportunity to challenge him as she had last night. Now it might be years before their paths crossed again. If she didn’t avenge Timothy’s death, no one would.