The Rogue Pirate’s Bride Page 9

  “I understand and have no desire to swing from the Regal’s yardarm.”

  And yet she noticed he didn’t move away. He stood looking at her, his expression unreadable. She looked back, feeling uncomfortable. For some reason she kept thinking about the kiss they had shared—not the hard, perfunctory kiss at the pasha’s palace, but that kiss six months before on his ship. She wanted him to kiss her like that again, and yet she knew if he tried, she’d hit him rather than kiss him back.

  “You’d better get out of here.”

  He nodded. “I’m waiting to see if you’re going to kiss me good-bye.”

  “Kiss you? I’d rather—”

  He took her chin with his clean hand. “Just do it, Raeven.” He nodded toward the growing commotion. Her father’s men were moments away. “This might be your last chance.”

  It wasn’t. She knew she’d see him again, find some way to exact her revenge. He was wounded, and she could kill him now. She could have killed him ten times over tonight. And yet, she hadn’t.

  She didn’t want to.

  She was intrigued by him and, truth be told, she wanted him. And so she stepped into his arms, wrapped her hands around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.

  His body was hard and warm. She could feel his muscles tense and bunch then release as his arm came around her to pull her hard against him. His mouth opened for her, and she plundered its depth. He still tasted of tobacco and champagne, and she thought the flavors suited him. His mouth slanted over hers, his tongue mating with hers, and she let out a small moan. One touch of his mouth and she was breathless; her head was spinning, and she felt as though she were sinking in quicksand.

  What was wrong with her? Kissing Timothy had never felt like this…

  The horror of what she was doing hit her, and she pulled away. He allowed it, though she could tell he was reluctant to release her.

  “Get out of here,” she said and raised her dagger. “While you still can.”

  He was still holding one of her hands, and he raised it, brushed his lips against it. “Adieu, chérie. Until we meet again.”

  He turned and melted into the shadows.

  A moment later she heard Percy’s voice. “There she is! Raeven are you all right?”

  She turned and waved. “I’m fine. Glad to see you.” And she walked to meet him.

  Seven

  “Fils de salope!” Bastien flinched as the needle cut through his skin. “Don’t I at least get a swig of rum?”

  “I used the rum on the wound, Monsieur le Marquis. You are a big, strong captain, no? It is only four little stitches.”

  And he felt every one of those stitches as the ship’s doctor closed the hole made by the ball of El Santo’s pistol. Gaston Leveque, the Shadow’s doctor, sat back and nodded at his handiwork. “Voilà! Next time you will be more careful, no?”

  Bastien dropped down from the table where he’d been sitting, still rubbing his left shoulder. “I think the cure is worse than the ailment,” he said in French.

  “Eh, bien.” Gaston raised one shoulder. It was a particularly Gallic gesture, and it stabbed at Bastien’s heart. He turned away and gingerly pulled a clean shirt over his head.

  “As you know, Monsieur le Marquis, this is not my first profession.”

  “And in the two decades I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you complain about not having to muck out stables any longer.”

  “Ah, but I do miss having my feet on land. I grow tired of pitching to and fro.” He made rocking motions with his hands, and Bastien nodded absently. He’d heard Gaston’s complaints a hundred, no, a thousand, times before. He also knew the old man—for he’d seemed to grow old almost before Bastien’s eyes—would never leave him. They’d been together since that horrible summer night so long ago.

  “It still troubles you, Monsieur le Marquis.” Gaston laid a hand on Bastien’s good shoulder. “But you never speak of it.”

  “No.” He shrugged off the hand. He didn’t want sympathy right now. He wanted a large jug of rum or three and his bed. “And you never cease calling me Monsieur le Marquis, though I’ve told you more times than I can count to call me Bastien.”

  “Eh. You will always be Monsieur le Marquis to me.”

  Bastien reached for the jug of rum on the table and swallowed a healthy portion. “I’m no marquis. Not anymore.”

  Gaston frowned at the upraised jug. He crossed the infirmary and took two goblets from a shelf on the far side. Taking the jug from Bastien, he filled the goblets, handed one to Bastien and kept the other for himself. “You act very little like a marquis. If your father saw you—”

  “My father is dead.” Bastien waved a hand to cut off the man. “They’re all dead. Even if I wanted to be a marquis, it wouldn’t matter. The French aristocracy is dead. Let’s raise a glass to Madame Guillotine.” He gave a mock salute with his mug, but Gaston refused to follow.

  “That I cannot toast, Monsieur le Marquis.”

  Bastien hadn’t expected him to. He knew he was being an ass, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He was frustrated that El Santo had gotten away, and Bastien was no closer to locating Jourdain. He was frustrated that he couldn’t seem to get the image of Raeven Russell’s green eyes out of his mind. And he was frustrated that his shoulder hurt like hell.

  He took another swallow of rum.

  Still, that was no excuse for taking out his frustrations on Gaston, his oldest and closest friend. The old servant had been with him since the beginning, since he was but a boy in short pants, trying to escape the horror of the revolution and the inevitability of pursuit and death, by signing on with the first captain in Cherbourg who would take him. He’d sailed only once before, the summer before that horrible night, and it had been a pleasure cruise on the Seine.

  When he’d signed on as a crewmember under Captain Vargas, Bastien had known nothing of tackle and rigging, bow and stern, port and starboard. He’d started at the bottom and learned quickly. When he made a mistake, he was cuffed, and on occasion, he felt the sting of the lash. It was a shock for a boy who’d been used to commanding those around him.

  But he’d always been adventurous. He and his older brother Julien had been sneaking out of their parents’ town house and country chateau since Bastien had been old enough to walk. And he’d been in his share of scuffles and fights. He could hold his own.

  And he had. So had Gaston.

  And he’d never forget the day his captain, Vargas, gave him a compliment rather than a cuff. Over the years, Vargas had come to rely on him, made him his quartermaster, taught him everything he knew about ships and sailing. When Bastien turned seventeen, Vargas gave him the Shadow.

  It wasn’t exactly Vargas’s to give. They’d spotted it off the coast of Portugal, its hull low in the water. Bastien led the attack and the boarding party, fighting tooth and nail until they’d subdued the crew and appropriated the silks, spices, wines, and fine tobacco for their own use. As a reward, Vargas gave Bastien the ship. They’d sailed into Malaga, taken on a fresh crew, and he’d begun calling himself Captain Cutlass.

  The fanciful name was the only nod to his childhood he allowed. It had been a game he’d played with his twin Armand and their older brother Julien. He was the pirate, Captain Cutlass, and they were, alternately, British or Spanish ship’s captains. The British and the Spanish fought valiantly, but Captain Cutlass always won the day.

  Now he was Captain Cutlass in truth, and he’d almost forgotten the days of Sébastien Harcourt, marquis de Valère. That had been another life, another person. The boy with the two extraordinary brothers, the beautiful maman, and the strong but kind pére was no more. Gaston was his only tie to that life.

  Bastien raised his goblet to his lips, only to find it empty. He reached for the jug again.

  “Why do you drink so much, Monsieur le Marquis?” Gaston asked quietly. “Is it Jourdain? This revenge you seek? Vargas has been dead three years. He knew the risks, no? It was the life he chose. He wen
t down with his ship.”

  That was true, but Vargas’s death at the end of La Sirena’s thirty-two guns was not the only reason Bastien sought the Barbary pirate. “Jourdain has stolen from us more times than I like to remember. I want him stopped.”

  “Eh, bien. You steal, he steals. Who is right? Who is wrong? I think it is the revenge.”

  Bastien swallowed more rum. Little as Bastien wanted to admit it, it was desire to avenge Vargas’s death that fueled his single-minded search for Jourdain. He was more like Raeven Russell in that regard than he liked. Just as his cabin girl loved her British captain, he’d loved Vargas. The man had been as much of a father to him as the duc de Valère.

  The rum had done its work, and Bastien felt the edge of pain in his shoulder dull. He was warm inside and tired. So tired. “You’re the only family I have left, Gaston,” he said. He was just drunk enough not to be embarrassed by the sentimentality of the statement.

  “And you are my family, Monsieur le Marquis, which is why I tell you to be more careful.”

  Bastien laughed. “I didn’t think the bastard would actually shoot me. I should have let him take the girl, and ran when I had the chance.’

  “That does not sound like the man I know. To leave a woman in the clutches of El Santo.” He made claws with his hands, and Bastien laughed again. He’d forgotten how good it felt to laugh like this.

  “She can take care of herself. El Santo would have been sorry to ever lay eyes on the little hellion. I know I am.”

  Gaston raised a brow. “I do not think so. I think you like mademoiselle. I hear she is a rare beauty.”

  “She’s a rare pain in the head.” He massaged his temples. “I’d know Jourdain’s whereabouts now if not for her.” When he would have reached for the jug of rum again, Gaston moved it.

  “You will find him, and you will have your revenge. I have no doubt of that, Monsieur le Marquis. And after you destroy La Sirena, I think it time you make another search.”

  Bastien held up a hand. “No. I don’t want—”

  “I will say it,” Gaston said over his protests. “You will search for your brothers and the duchesse. One of them must have escaped the flames that night.”

  Bastien ground his teeth together. “I don’t want to talk about this.” He pushed up from the table he’d been leaning against and stumbled for the door. When he would have fallen from drink, fatigue, and pain, Gaston caught him, laid him on one of the cots in the infirmary.

  “It is time we spoke of it. It is time you faced your past. You cannot hope to have a future until you have done so.”

  Bastien shook his head. “There’s nothing to face, Gaston. You saw the fire. No one could have escaped that. You saw the papers. My father was executed. Publicly. His head chopped off as the crowds roared.”

  It sickened him to think of it. His good father. His kind father. The man had a smile for every child, a kind word for every woman, and a helping hand for every man. He was no weakling—a powerful, wealthy duc, he’d been one of the most influential peers in France. But he’d used his power to help those in need, and he’d seen the revolution coming, had warned King Louis of the danger. Had advised him to cut his excesses, to show some restraint.

  And this man who had spoken out for the common man, who had tried to help them, this man had been cut down like a common thief at their bloody hands.

  “But we only ever saw notice of the duc’s death,” Gaston said quietly. “I searched every chance I could get for information about the duchesse and your brothers. I found no mention of their executions.”

  “Because they perished in the fire. I’m the last Harcourt.”

  “Don’t you want to be certain of that, Monsieur le Marquis?”

  No, he didn’t. As a boy on Vargas’s ship, he’d had a favorite fantasy, one he had not even shared with Gaston. In it, his brothers and mother were alive and happy somewhere. He was not an orphan. He was not alone in the world because they would find him and bring him home. Their family would be reunited, and he would be happy again.

  But as he grew older, he realized the foolishness of this fantasy. And when Vargas had been killed in the battle with Jourdain, Bastien had faced the facts—everyone he’d ever loved—everyone save Gaston—was dead. It was better for him if he didn’t love again. Better if he hardened his heart.

  He closed his eyes now, allowed the rum to do its work. He wanted to sink into oblivion, escape the pain—all the pain—for a while. Tomorrow he would begin again, begin the search for Jourdain. And when he found the corsair, he would destroy him.

  And after that? He could almost hear Gaston ask the question.

  After that, he might just destroy himself.

  He groaned, rolled over, and the last image he saw as he fell into a dreamless sleep was Raeven Russell scowling at him.

  ***

  Raeven scowled at Percy and tried to refrain from grabbing him about the neck and forcibly shaking some sense into him. “You’re not listening to me, Percy,” she said, her voice deadly calm.

  “No, I am listening to you, Raeven. That’s why I’m saying no.”

  They were seated at the large dining table in the admiral’s cabin. Her father had marched her into his cabin first thing in the morning and ordered her to step foot outside it at her own peril. Then he’d gone to oversee the day’s activities, which consisted of painting and repairing the ship and taking on provisions. Raeven would have liked to be on deck, in the sunshine, climbing the rigging or sitting in the crow’s nest watching the other ships in the harbor, but she’d seen murder in her father’s eyes and decided she’d better do as he said.

  This time.

  Not to mention, he’d had another coughing fit. She didn’t like to think she might have aggravated his illness with her brief disappearance last night. Certainly the stress of wondering where she’d gone couldn’t have helped matters. She hadn’t told him or anyone but Percy the truth about what happened. She said she needed a breath of air after seeing Cutlass, had gotten turned around, and ended up in the marketplace. Coincidentally, a fight broke out in the marketplace about that time. But it had been at the other end of the marketplace. She had been perfectly safe the entire time. She’d tripped over a cat who’d run across her path, and that was the reason her dress was torn and dirty. It didn’t explain the blood—a point her father made repeatedly—but Raeven stuck to her story.

  She didn’t think her father believed her, but she thought he believed her enough to let the incident go. He also knew she was capable of taking care of herself, though at times he could be a bit overprotective.

  Like this morning.

  “I need to get back to my cabin and work on my books,” Percy said now. “We’ve taken on crates of supplies, and I’m impossibly behind on my logs.”

  “Fine. We’ll need a good length of rope, two sharp daggers, and I could use a sword. A rapier would be best.” A rapier was light enough for her to wield effectively. It wasn’t as effective as her own sword, but she would have it back soon enough. She held up a finger. “And don’t say you can’t get them. You’re the purser. You can get anything.”

  Percy shook his head. “Are you mad? Cutlass almost killed you last night. Why would you want to get within a hundred feet of him?”

  Raeven pushed her cup of coffee aside—it was cold anyway—and reached across the table to grip Percy’s hands. “He didn’t almost kill me. He saved me.”

  Percy shook off her grip. “So now you want to repay him by sneaking aboard his ship and slitting his throat?”

  “I’m not going to slit his throat,” she said. She’d like to, but she was beginning to accept the fact that she was too squeamish to do it herself. She did not even think she could kill him with a sword in cold blood. For the thousandth time, she wished she had bested him in that tavern in Brest. She could have done it then. She didn’t know him. She hadn’t kissed his lips, felt his muscular chest push against her breasts, felt his solid legs part her own and press betw
een them…

  “I just want my sword back.” And perhaps another kiss.

  Percy rose, moved toward the door. “You don’t even know if he still has it.”

  “He has it. He said as much.”

  “Yes, as he was trying to get rid of you. Some people will say anything to get rid of you, Raeven.”

  She gave him a hurt look. “Fine then, go. I’ll get the sword back without your help. I’ll figure out who Jourdain is without your help, as well.” She rose, went to the cabin door, and opened it.

  “And get yourself killed.”

  “Well, at least you’ll be safe. Safe and bored in your cabin.”

  “Raeven…”

  She pointed to the companionway. “Your books are waiting.”

  He frowned, looked as though he wanted to say something, then left without another word. Raeven slammed the door behind him. She couldn’t believe he’d actually left. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to help her.

  Or could she? She’d pushed poor Percy too far. He’d never been one for adventure, so the idea of sneaking aboard a pirate ship, infiltrating the captain’s cabin, and stealing back her sword was too much for him. He preferred to stay safe and warm on the Regal.

  Well, she preferred that too. Except she wanted her sword back, and she wanted to know who this Jourdain was and why Cutlass wanted him dead. She wasn’t likely to accomplish any of that on the Regal. She wasn’t about to avenge Timothy’s death by sitting and sipping coffee in her father’s great cabin.

  She put her head down on the mahogany table and let out a long sigh.

  She was tired and sore from her activities last night. Even when she’d returned aboard her ship, she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d been too excited.

  Liar, she told herself. You couldn’t sleep because you couldn’t stop thinking of him.

  And she thought less of how she could destroy him and more about who he was. His enemy, this Jourdain, sparked her interest. He was obviously some sort of Barbary pirate, and equally obviously, Cutlass was searching for him. Wanted him badly enough to go after a dangerous man like El Santo.