by Shana Galen
“I’m curious,” she said, avoiding his topic of conversation. “Why exactly are we running?”
He opened his eyes. “Someone starts shooting at me, I shoot back. Five men start shooting at me, I run.”
“Yes, but why are they shooting at you?”
“Just a popular man, I suppose.” He winked at her.
She shook her head. Ridiculous man. He really did think he was charming. And she might have agreed under different circumstances. Very different circumstances. “The man in the pasha’s palace, El Santo, he mentioned someone called Jourdain. Who is he?”
Now Cutlass’s eyes grew hard. She could almost see the wall come up. “An old friend.”
“Not much of a friend, if he wants you dead.”
“It’s a complicated friendship.” He looked at her. “Much like ours, chérie.”
“There’s nothing complicated about our relationship. I hate you and want you dead.” After I kiss you half a dozen more times.
He shrugged. “I suppose it’s much the same with Jourdain. The difference is I’m going to kill him first. Toward you, I have no ill will.” He reached out and traced a finger down her cheek. Before her traitorous skin could warm to his touch, she snatched his hand away.
“I’m touched by your sentiments. Exactly why do you want this Jourdain dead?”
He cocked his head. “Do you know you get a little line right here”—he touched the space between her brows—“when you start asking questions? You remind me of one of your English barristers.”
“And you remind me of a guilty client. You won’t answer my questions.”
He grinned. “How can I concentrate on questions when I’m in the presence of such beauty?”
She rolled her eyes. “Cutlass—”
“No, really. I cannot believe I ever mistook you for a boy.” His gaze traveled from her face to her neck to her breasts, and she had the sudden urge to put a hand over them to keep them safe from his warm glance. She resisted and fisted her hands at her sides instead. She still wore her gloves, and she set about removing them. She could handle her dagger better without a layer of kidskin between the handle and her palm.
“Bowers was a lucky man.”
She jerked her head up, her bare fingers clutching the dagger tightly. “Shut up, pirate. Don’t look at me, don’t touch me, and don’t speak his name.”
“You really loved him.” The look on his face was incredulous, and she wondered if he’d ever loved anyone. She doubted it. He was too full of flattery, too full of sweet phrases.
“Let’s concentrate on getting back to the palace. My father must be frantic by now.”
Cutlass chuckled. “Somehow I doubt that. I imagine he’s used to your disappearing.”
That was true, but she’d promised him she wouldn’t do it anymore. She’d sworn if he allowed her to go ashore in Gibraltar, to attend the pasha’s ball, she would stay right at his side. It had seemed an easy promise on board the Regal. She’d been bored and willing to do anything to get off the ship: promise to stay at his side, even don this uncomfortable dress. And she had intended to keep her promise, too. The admiral had been coughing quite a bit the last few months, and though he passed off the fits as nothing, she was beginning to worry. More than once she’d seen him pull a bloody handkerchief from his mouth.
She’d pretended she hadn’t noticed the blood, of course. But inside, her heart constricted painfully, and panic swept through her. If he was sick if he… no, she would not think of that. But what would she do if she didn’t have him? She had no family other than a handful of aunts and uncles in Portsmouth she’d seen only half a dozen times since she was four.
She’d been a fool to go after Cutlass. She should have stayed with her father, especially given that she was too afraid—or filled with lust—to do what she’d gone after Cutlass to do in the first place.
“All right, I’ll get you back,” Cutlass said, taking her hand.
She wrenched it free. “I told you not to touch me. And I can get back on my own. I don’t need your help.”
He raised a brow. “Going alone is not wise.”
“Why?” She crossed her arms defiantly. “Because I’m a woman?”
“A lone woman, dressed as you are”—he glanced at her breasts again—“wandering the city at night? Even if El Santo doesn’t find you, someone else might take an interest.”
“I can protect myself.”
“All the same, I’ll see you back.”
She opened her mouth to protest then closed it again. There was no need to act the fool simply to prove she didn’t want his company. Once she was back at the palace, she’d be rid of him for the moment, and she could start planning how to best enact her revenge. Or satisfy her lust.
Devil take it! Revenge, not lust, was priority.
“Very well. Let’s go,” she said. And without waiting, she stepped out from the tent and stared into the grinning face of El Santo.
Six
Bastien swore, raised his pistol, and fired. But El Santo was too quick, and he’d ducked behind the tent beside them. Bastien pulled his cabin girl back to their hiding place and tried to think of an escape. El Santo might have men hiding throughout the market. They could be trapped.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” El Santo called. “You might as well surrender now, señor. A dagger and a used pistol won’t get you far.”
She looked at him, those green eyes accusing. “Do you have more powder or another ball for the pistol?”
“No.” He’d brought his pistol only as an afterthought. He hadn’t planned to kill Jourdain on land. He wanted to destroy him at sea, destroy La Sirena, and watch Jourdain sink to the bottom of the ocean on its burning timbers.
“Well, we can’t surrender.” She crossed her arms as though this was the final word on the subject.
And he agreed with her on that point. He never surrendered. But he had no desire to die in a Gibraltan marketplace, and they were hopelessly outmatched. “We can’t exactly stand and fight.”
She nodded. “So we run.”
“Any particular direction? He probably has men at both ends.”
“The far end,” she said. “His men didn’t cut through the market, so they must be going around. That will take time. If we hurry, we might beat them.”
“Stick to the shadows,” he ordered.
“Stick to the tents,” she said, and leaned down, pulled the material of the tent at their back apart, and ducked inside.
He followed, knowing this was a paltry hiding place. El Santo would have them in a moment. But once inside, he saw his resilient cabin girl lean down and lift the material at the other end. She ducked through, and when he peered after her, he saw her scamper into another tent. Well, she was smart. Damned obstinate and too persistent for her own good, but smart.
He followed, noting she was already on her way into another tent when he entered. So she wasn’t waiting for him. She didn’t need him to save her. He didn’t plan to.
So why should it irk him that she so obviously didn’t need him?
He plunged into the next tent and saw her standing at the far side, peering through the flaps. “There’s another tent just past those open stalls,” she said without looking back at him. “It’s a bit of a sprint, and the moon is full.”
He stood beside her and took in the scene. A crude wooden rectangular structure swayed a few feet away. It could house four or five vendors selling fruits or vegetables. The next tent was on the other side. The rickety structure would give them some cover, but not much.
She turned sharply at a nearby sound of rustling fabric. “Are we playing cat and mouse. Cutlass? Why don’t you stop playing the coward and come out and face me like a man?”
“All the easier to shoot me,” Bastien murmured.
She nodded. “But we can’t stay here. He’s close.”
The tent where they hid must have been owned by a clothing merchant. He’d left several robes hanging in the ba
ck. “You could stay here. Hide behind those robes. I’ll run for it and lure the men after me.”
She nodded. “Fine. Once I’m sure they’re after you, I’ll go back the way we came.”
“Be careful,” he said. “Put on one of the robes.” He tugged down a veil. “And it wouldn’t hurt to disguise your face.”
The sound of fabric ripping jolted through the tent. She clutched his arm. “That was close,” she hissed. “You’d better go.”
He nodded and started for the slit in the flaps, but she pulled him back. “Be careful.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, ma belle. I’ll save my neck for you.”
With a frown, she turned away from him, but he grabbed her shoulder, turned her back, and kissed her hard. She sputtered a protest, but he silenced her with a finger on her lips. “For luck,” he murmured and was gone.
Bastien swore as soon as he exited the tent. The moon was full and bright and provided him no cover whatsoever. He wasn’t even lucky enough to be afforded a smattering of cloud cover. He heard another rip and saw El Santo and one of his men tear into the tent across from the one he’d just occupied. They each held cutlasses, and they were slashing through the fabric as though it were butter.
Bastien ducked behind one of the meager boards comprising the stall, but it did almost nothing to conceal him. El Santo stumbled out of the tent and turned for the one Bastien had just vacated. In that moment, Bastien clearly saw his escape. While El Santo and his man tore the tent apart and found Miss Russell in the process, he could secure a better hiding place. They’d take his cabin girl to Jourdain, and he’d follow. Of course, they might decide to rape the girl first. They might even kill her if she put up much of a protest—and knowing his cabin girl, she would.
But that wasn’t his problem. She had insisted on coming after him. He told her numerous times to turn back. He’d ordered her to turn back, but she hadn’t listened. Her situation was her own fault, not his.
“Merde,” he swore. Of course he wouldn’t allow El Santo to touch her. And like a fool, Bastien stood up when El Santo reached the cabin girl’s tent. “Looking for someone?” Bastien taunted.
El Santo whirled for him, and Bastien drew his sword. “Why don’t we stop this game of chase, and fight like men?”
El Santo didn’t lower his pistol, and Bastien cursed his misplaced sense of honor. He should have let them find the girl. She would only try to kill him for his pains.
“Mon ami,” Bastien said, spreading his arms in a peaceable gesture. He was certain he made a perfect target for El Santo’s pistol. “Do you remember that time in Algiers? It must have taken quite a bit of catgut to sew you up. Maybe you’d like to pay me back.”
“I’d rather just shoot you, señor.” The sound of the hammer locking into place cut through the silence, and El Santo’s man laughed.
“But Jourdain wouldn’t like that.” He was reaching, but the shadow that crossed El Santo’s face told him he’d hit on something. “He wants me alive.”
“Alive,” El Santo said, “but not necessarily in one piece.” He lowered the pistol, aiming it between Bastien’s legs. Bastien’s groin tensed, but he kept his legs braced apart.
“Shoot me, then,” Bastien said with a shrug. “I just hope I don’t die before you get me back to Jourdain.”
The man with El Santo said something in a language Bastien didn’t know, and Jourdain’s lieutenant answered him harshly. Obviously they had differing opinions as to Bastien’s fate. While they argued, Bastien’s mind raced
There had been four men with El Santo earlier. Were the other three searching the marketplace, or had the group split? If he did take El Santo in a sword fight, what chance of escape did he have?
“Very well, señor.” El Santo gestured with his pistol. “Put down the sword and come with us. We’ll let Jourdain decide what to do with you.”
Bastien cocked a brow. “You want me to surrender? You’ll have to kill me first.”
“Fine.” El Santo aimed and fired.
With a curse, Bastien flew back, searing white pain in his left shoulder. He stumbled to the ground on one knee and shook his head. He could see a haze of stars in front of his eyes, and the pain was spreading through his body like some kind of virulent disease. “Fils de salope,” he muttered. The bastard had actually shot him.
If the ball had hit his right shoulder, he’d be doomed, but he still had his sword clutched in his right hand. Now he pivoted and came up with a roar. El Santo’s eyes widened in surprise, and he fumbled for his own sword. His henchman wasted no time, however. He raised his own pistol, and Bastien closed his eyes.
Something zipped past him and struck the man with enough force to cause him to drop his pistol and clutch his abdomen. Bastien had a moment to look behind him and saw his cabin girl, his beautiful cabin girl, standing there with arm outstretched. He’d known she’d be accurate with that dagger.
He grinned at her, but she gave him a look of horror. He turned in time to deflect El Santo’s first strike. Their blades clashed, and Bastien figured if Jourdain’s other men weren’t in the marketplace by now, they would be soon. The whole city must have heard the gunfire and now the clash of sword and cutlass.
But when El Santo thrust again, he had little time to worry about the future. Bastien had to concentrate on deflecting the blow. His shoulder felt as though it were on fire, the pain making it hard to concentrate or move as quickly as he would have liked. He could feel a stream of wetness soaking his shirt and coat, dripping from his hand onto the ground below. Still, he managed to push back El Santo and put him on the defensive. But the man charged him like some kind of berserker, and Bastien, worried he couldn’t stand up against such a strong assault, was forced to sidestep. El Santo pivoted and went for him again, and this time metal crashed with metal. Bastien clenched his teeth and forced his sword back against El Santo’s cutlass. Sweat streamed down his face and into his eyes, and he blinked. From the corner of his vision he saw a flurry of green. Was it just his blurred vision, or had his cabin girl gone to retrieve her dagger from El Santo’s man?
He saw her crouch beside the wounded man and doubled his efforts against El Santo. Jourdain’s lieutenant had his back to the man, and Bastien preferred to keep him occupied until she had the dagger in hand again. He met El Santo’s blade with his own, the clash of steel reverberating through his body painfully. But it wasn’t the pain he thought of. He’d just decided that if his cabin girl regained that blade, he was going to have to seriously consider marrying her.
***
Raeven had thought the man was dead, but when she reached for the dagger jutting from his abdomen, he grabbed her hand with his own bloody one. She let out a small screech, as much from surprise as the revulsion of his blood on her skin. Her vision wavered and went dark, then she bit hard on her lip and forced her hand free. The man reached for her again, but she punched him hard, and he rolled to the side. She leaned over him and freed the dagger with a sickening squelch. She wished she’d kept her gloves on because she was pretty certain there was some part of the man’s intestine on the hilt of the dagger, and it was slippery on her fingertips.
The sound of clashing swords drew her attention, and she watched as Cutlass deflected another of El Santo’s blows. Even in the moonlight, he looked decidedly gray. His blood dotted the ground, darkening the sand as the men’s feet trampled it. He fought valiantly, but she could see the tremor in his arm and hear how heavily he was breathing. He wouldn’t last much longer.
She didn’t know why she should care. She should let this El Santo take him, let this Jourdain finish him off. She was probably too much of a coward to do it anyway.
But she owed him now. She’d been peeking through the tent slit when El Santo angled for it. She had known then she was in trouble and thought Cutlass was long gone. But then she’d heard him call out. There was no good reason for him to have done so, other than to save her.
So now she’d save him and they’d be
even. Then she could kill him with a clear conscience.
“El Santo,” she called.
He turned at her voice, and she raised the dagger.
“Put down the sword, or I give you another taste of my dagger.” She looked pointedly at the bloodied tourniquet on his thigh.
El Santo seemed to consider. She could all but read his thoughts. On his one side, Cutlass stood huffing and panting. Killing or seriously incapacitating the wounded man would be easy. He looked at her, at the dagger. She could see him judging the distance. Could he reach her with his cutlass before she could let go the dagger?
But before he could make his decision, the sound of boots and men’s voices filled the night air. At first Raeven tensed, certain El Santo’s other men had found them, but then she recognized the language as English. “My father’s men!” she said, recognizing Percy’s voice among the others. “He’s probably sent them out to search for me.”
“You’re not hard to find with all the gunfire,” Cutlass rasped.
“What is this?” El Santo pivoted toward her then back toward Cutlass.
“Les Anglais sont ici.” Bastien smiled at her. “The British are here.”
El Santo still looked confused, and the pirate added, “They’re looking for her. You’ve been chasing Admiral Russell’s only daughter.”
“I knew she was no whore.”
“I’d run now, while you have the chance.”
But El Santo was already backing up, moving away from the sound of boots and men’s voices.
“Tell Jourdain we’re not through,” Cutlass called after the retreating Spaniard. “And the next time we meet, he’d better be man enough to face me on his own.”
Cutlass lowered his sword, and she saw him lean on it heavily. She went to him, putting her arm around him to support him. “I’m fine.” He waved her away.
“You’re shot.”
“I have a good ship’s doctor. I’ll make it.” He lifted the sword, attempted to sheath it, but missed. She took it from him and sheathed it for him.
“Can you make it back to your ship on your own? If my father’s men find you here—”
