by Shana Galen
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because her father sighed loudly. A gruff, bold man who had served on a ship since the age of eight, George Russell was uncomfortable with the emotional proclivities of women. Raeven was well aware he’d been surrounded by men for as long as he could remember. From what she could determine, he’d loved his wife but hadn’t minded the long voyages away, either. And then she’d died in childbirth, and it had been Raeven and the admiral for as long as she could remember.
Raeven wasn’t the kind of woman given to tears or fainting spells. If she had been, she would never have made it ten minutes on a ship, much less the last fifteen years. Still, she could feel the tears—tears of exhaustion and frustration, not weakness—pricking behind her eyes. She would rather die than allow them to fall. So she swallowed and looked her father directly in the face. “I saw medicines, sir. Crates of them. I saw crates of what the crew identified as rifles. There may have been other arms, as well. It was dark, and I didn’t have the time or opportunity to explore the cargo hold.”
“You damn well shouldn’t have been on the vessel in the first place. If I ever get my hands on that Cutlass—”
“That’s precisely what I’d like to give you the opportunity to do, sir. I can’t prove the medicines and arms were meant for Spain, but he sails under their letters of marque. Perhaps the Spanish and the French are forming an alliance and will soon attack Britain. It’s worth investigating, if nothing else.”
“I agree.”
Raeven’s heart leapt.
“And I shall report it to the Secretary as soon as we return, but we are not going to chase after this pirate. We have our orders, which are to escort merchant ships across the Channel. We have a duty to keep their crews and cargo safe, and I will not disregard my orders.”
Her stomach tightened, and she could feel the ball of icy despair lodged there growing. It had been wedged in her belly since Timothy’s death but had shrunk when she knew she’d have the opportunity to challenge Cutlass. Now it was growing again. The tears stung her eyes, but she gave a curt nod and kept her voice level. “Yes, sir. I understand. If you’ll give me leave, I’ll start on the decks right away. No need to punish, Mr. Williams, Admiral. He’s not to blame for my foolish actions.”
“You have my leave, and Mr. Williams will assist you.”
She nodded and started for the door. Percy was through it and waiting in the companionway for her, but her father’s voice caught her before she reached him. “I know Bowers’s death is painful, Raeven.”
She didn’t turn to face him, too afraid the tears would break loose if she saw any hint of sympathy on his ruddy, lined face.
“It will be painful for some time. But we’re not vigilantes. We are His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and we will do our duty. Now, go get a few hours of sleep before your punishment.”
She turned abruptly. “With your permission, sir, I’d like to begin now.”
“No, you need your rest and…” He frowned and shook his head. “Never mind. Permission granted. I can see you need to do something to keep your mind—and hands—occupied.”
She glanced down and saw that her hands were twisting the tails of her shirt. The materials was stretched and wrinkled where she’d worried it. She released it and put her hands at her sides. “Thank you, sir.”
A few moments later they were on deck, watching a glorious morning unfold. Raeven supposed she had been out and about this morning when the sun rose, but she hadn’t even noted it. She paused to take in the harbor. From this vantage point, she couldn’t see the place where the Shadow had been docked, but she knew it would be empty. Cutlass was gone.
“I’m sorry you have to swab the decks,” she told Percy. He was standing beside her, looking every bit the officer he was in his crisp wool navy coat and stark white breeches.
He sighed. “What were you thinking, Raeven? You told me you only wanted to see the man. I should have known better. You might have gotten yourself killed.”
She put both hands on the ship’s rail and stared out and over the water. She never tired of seeing it lapping on the ship’s hull, never tired of the smell or the sound. “I might have.”
He made a sound of disgust, but she didn’t turn from the view of the water. “And then what would your father have done? It would have broken his heart.”
As mine is broken, she thought and clenched the rails more tightly.
“Do you think putting yourself in danger would have made Tim happy?”
She looked up at Percy now.
“Tim was my friend too, or have you forgotten? And he would have wanted me to look out for you. He would have wanted you to live a long life, not die at the hands of some pirate in a tavern brawl.”
He was right. She knew Percy was right.
“I’m going to get started on the decks.” He turned to go, and she reached out and grasped his sleeve.
“I’m sorry, Percy.”
He shook her hand off. “You always are. Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself?”
His rejoinder stung, but she couldn’t argue with it. She didn’t think of others. Not anymore. Maybe she never had.
No, that wasn’t true. She had thought of Timothy often enough. She would have done anything for him. She had done.
Her hands were aching from her white-knuckled grip on the rail, so she let it go, tried to allow some of her anger and hurt to go as well. But like the mist on the harbor, it clung and permeated. She wished she could let Timothy go so easily. It had been six months since his death. Why could she not put it behind her?
Because she had loved him more than herself, more than life, more than… well, not more than the sea. But then he had probably not loved her more than the sea or his ship, either. And that was just one reason they had been so perfect for one another. They understood one another. He understood her the way no man ever had. Rather, the way no man had ever tried.
She knew she was pretty. Some had even called her beautiful, and so there had been men trying to understand her for quite a few years now. When she’d been a few years younger than her now wise nineteen, she had sometimes mistaken their lust for genuine love. But something would always happen—she would swear or best them at swordplay or don breeches and scamper up the rigging like a monkey. Then their true feelings were revealed.
What kind of woman was she? Women didn’t drink rum or chart a ship’s course or know how to prime and fire a cannon.
But Timothy had appreciated her talents. He didn’t think women were to be seen and not heard. He didn’t think she should wear dresses all the time, though he complimented her when she did. At twenty-six, he was one of the youngest captains in the navy; and no son of fortune, he had worked his way up through the ranks. Her own father, though born into a well-off family, had also worked his way up through the ranks. He’d refused to buy a commission and was proud of what he’d accomplished on his own. He’d drilled that work ethic into Raeven, and it was one of the qualities that drew her to the young, handsome Captain Bowers.
If pressed, she might also admit she was drawn to Timothy’s recklessness. He was brave and daring, which was one of the reasons he’d been given command of the fifth-rate ship-of-the-line. Timothy had wanted to advance quickly, and the glamorous frigates offered the best opportunities for engaging enemy ships, acquiring prize money from their capture, and all-out glory. But duties assigned a frigate captain could be mundane, as well—convoy duty, reconnaissance, and ferrying her father’s orders to the fleet.
Timothy, of course, preferred the action and would, more often than not, seek it.
With a sigh, she leaned her elbows on the oak rail and stared into the water rippling against the ship. She thought she must be a disappointment to her father. How could she be otherwise?
He’d wanted a son. He might never have said so, but what man didn’t want a son? And instead he had been saddled with an unruly daughter. Timothy might have been his son, had she married him. She might h
ave been able to give him grandsons. Now she couldn’t imagine what the future held for her.
Nothing. No one.
With a shake, she straightened from the rail and rolled her shoulders back. She wasn’t usually prone to maudlin moods, and she certainly wasn’t about to mope around the ship like a lovelorn puppy. The crew would tease her unmercifully.
No. She notched her chin up. She would do her duty, just as her father and the rest of the crew would do theirs. And when the next opportunity arose to punish Cutlass—and she had no doubt that it would—she would make sure the murdering, thieving pirate got what he deserved.
Four
Gibraltar, six months later
Bastien surveyed the pasha’s ballroom, taking care to appear to do so leisurely. He held a smoking cigar in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other. The white marble gleamed coldly in the candlelight, but the silk draping falling in waves from ceiling to floor and the jewel toned velvet pillows scattered about on low benches created an air of sumptuousness. He sipped his champagne again. It was fine champagne. As any good sailor, he preferred rum, but he would take champagne if it were offered.
And Kemal Muhammed Mustafa, the local pasha, was offering. Cigars, champagne, a rich meal of delicacies, if the trays Bastien had seen servants carrying toward the ballroom earlier were any indication. There were perhaps fifty men and women in attendance tonight. The majority hailed from Britain, as the pasha was smart enough to court their good graces. The others were locals, most of Arabic descent.
There were several other privateers making an appearance. Two Americans and a Moroccan. They studied Bastien as closely as he studied them. The pasha had yet to explain why he’d invited them, but Bastien had no doubt the man wanted some favor or other. Probably to run the American blockade of Tripoli or some other errand for Yusef Karamanli, Tripoli’s pasha and Kemal’s superior. Bastien would have been happy to oblige, if he were not otherwise employed.
And that was the reason he’d agreed to attend. The little information he garnered in Spain and then Greece indicated Jourdain was in Gibraltar. And so Bastien was in Gibraltar and had been for a fortnight. Unfortunately, despite the money he’d spent paying local boys to find Jourdain’s whereabouts, he’d come up empty-handed. This ball was his last hope. The cargo he’d delivered in Almeria fetched him enough to outfit the Shadow as he’d hoped. He had cannon, powder, and cartridges aplenty. He had foodstuff, medicines, cutlasses, and rifles spilling out of the holds.
He had everything he needed to sink La Sirena, except the ship and its captain.
And he was running out of time. He’d spent the past three months searching for Jourdain, and he was well aware his crew tolerated the diversion only because of their deep respect for him. But he couldn’t expect them to sit twiddling their thumbs indefinitely. Not when there were blockades to run and profitable cargoes to sell. His band of—oh, hell, he might as well call them what they were—pirates had limited amounts of patience and unlimited greed.
But they possessed loyalty, and that was what he was riding on these past few weeks.
He saw his quartermaster approaching and finished his champagne. “Well?”
“I’ve been through the entire ballroom and inspected each and every guest, sir,” the Englishman said with his usual matter-of-factness. “He’s not here. Yet.” The last sounded like an afterthought. It was late, and obviously Maine didn’t think Jourdain was coming.
“Let’s give him another quarter hour.” Bastien offered Maine a cigar he’d pocketed for later.
“Yes, Captain.” Maine took the cigar and put it in his coat. A man of few, if any, vices, he would probably sell it to a crewmember later.
“Bastien.”
“Sir?”
“We’re not onboard. Call me Bastien.”
Maine gave him a perplexed look and scanned the room again. A waiter passed with a tray of champagne, and Bastien took another glass and one for Maine. “Here. Drink this.”
The quartermaster glanced at it as though it were poison. Bastien sighed. “Alan, how long have we known one another?”
“Four years, six months, and…”
Bastien waved a hand. “Close enough. My point is we’ve known one another long enough to be friends. And friends can enjoy a glass of champagne and”—he reached into the man’s coat—“a cigar together.”
“Yes, sir—Bastien.”
Bastien sighed.
“It’s just that I’m on duty. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Then I relieve you of duty for the next ten minutes. This isn’t the British Navy, mon ami.”
“Old habits die hard, I suppose.”
They drank and smoked in silence for a moment, watching the room as the last of the polished and plumed guests arrived. The range of colors and the dress reflected the diverse guest list. The Brits wore their silks and satins, their cravats and waistcoats. The locals wore the loose-fitting robes common to the region. Good Muslims, they left their wives and concubines at home. The other privateers dressed as gentlemen, as did Bastien. His coat was of the finest wool, his shirt the best linen, his leather boots highly polished. He’d forgone the formality and stuffiness of a cravat, but he thought the spill of lace at his throat and wrists worked to good effect. He wanted to look wealthy without pretension. And perhaps he wanted to look a little bit dangerous. He’d worn his sword—his dress sword, of course—and his pistol was tucked under his coat. If they did meet Jourdain, he’d be ready.
He listened idly as the pasha made a welcoming speech. Dinner would be served at ten. Bastien checked his pocket watch. It was half past nine, and he would not be staying.
“Are you ready?” he asked his quartermaster, though he knew the man had probably been ready twenty minutes ago.
“We’re leaving? You haven’t spoken to the pasha.”
And he wouldn’t. Not tonight. “I hadn’t intended to, but perhaps I will call on him tomorrow. After all, if his endeavor is lucrative, we might take him up on it.”
Maine raised his eyebrows. “But we haven’t found Jourdain.”
Bastien shrugged, as though the failure meant nothing to him. “Peering into cobwebbed shadows and chasing every stray rumor won’t make our fortune. And”—he held up a hand when his quartermaster would have objected—“the crew has been more than patient. Tomorrow we embark on more profitable ventures. I’ll want to speak with the crew at…” He trailed off, his gaze caught by a flash of emerald. The gown was in perfect harmony with the pasha’s jeweled theme, and the woman wearing it the loveliest creature in the room. But that wasn’t a fair description in a room of less than fifteen ladies, most of whom were well past childrearing age. This woman would stand out in any room, and several other men turned their heads appreciatively as she entered.
“Oh.” Maine wheezed out the sound, and Bastien glanced at him, surprised. Alan had told him once that he was married, and Bastien had never known the quartermaster to show interest in other women. But now he was staring.
“She’s pretty,” Bastien said.
“She’s more than that, sir.”
With a frown, Bastien glanced back. She was moving through the crowd now, her dress rippling like a lagoon. “She looks… familiar.”
“Yes, sir. You’re acquainted.”
And as he watched, someone near her made a remark that had her green eyes flashing, and Bastien groaned. Why here? Why now?
It was his cabin girl. How had he not recognized her immediately? He hadn’t forgotten her. On the contrary, he thought of her daily. He’d hung her delicate yet deadly sharp sword on his cabin wall: a reminder that appearances could be deceptive. But he hadn’t thought to ever see her again.
In particular, he hadn’t thought to see her looking so… feminine. So… glorious.
It wasn’t just the lavish gown she wore, though the emerald green silk matched her eyes perfectly. She was glorious. The kind of woman who turned every man’s head. And she had—she was, he corrected as he wa
tched her move through the room.
Her dark hair was swept up in what looked like a careless mass of curls. Long tendrils had escaped their moorings to caress a neck and shoulders of exposed honey-colored flesh. Her face was that same honey color with just a little blush about the high cheekbones. Her mouth was full and lush, something he did not remember from before. But perhaps that was because right now she was relaxed and smiling whereas before… well, she had not smiled that he could remember. She still had the snub nose and the sharp chin, but it didn’t look quite as sharp when she wasn’t jerking it at him. And then, of course, there were those amazing eyes. Impossibly green, impossibly expressive.
Now that she wasn’t dressed as a boy, he could admire her other features as well. She was petite but voluptuous. The dress showed her rounded shoulders, her creamy skin, and the soft, half moons of her breasts. It didn’t taper to her natural waist, as the style currently favored higher waists, but he imagined her waist was trim and flared nicely to accent shapely hips.
He already knew she had a shapely bottom and lovely legs. Her masculine dress had shown him that much. But how refreshing to see that, in spite of her precision with a sword and her rough language, she was soft and very female.
“Sir, I think it best we leave before she sees us. If I’m not mistaken, that’s Admiral Russell with her.”
Bastien’s gaze focused on the older man at her side. He’d never seen Admiral Russell before, but the man with the salt-and-pepper hair, the ruddy complexion, and the bowlegs had to be he. He looked every bit the British naval officer, even out of uniform as he was now.
