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Rogue Pirates Bride

Page 3

by Shana Galen


  everyone will know who I am. How do you think

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  my father would like it known about Brest that his

  daughter was sword fighting in a tavern?”

  “More than he’d like her kidnapped and—er—

  assaulted by Captain Cutlass.”

  “Enough talk!” Maine said, pushing her forward

  and separating her from Percy. Cutlass’s men held the

  purser back.

  Raeven called over her shoulder, “Give me six

  hours. If I’m not back by then, you know what to do.”

  Maine shoved her into the crisp, dark night, and

  quite suddenly she realized she was alone with half a

  dozen of Cutlass’s men. A shiver ran up her spine as,

  one by one, she perused the seedy crew. One man

  with an earring and tattoos all over his face winked at

  her. Raven bit her lip.

  What had she gotten herself into?

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  Two

  Sébastien had never been so glad to step out of a

  tavern. Usually he was more than pleased to step into

  one, but then nothing on this leg of his voyage had

  been what he’d term usual.

  Least of all the girl.

  Girl? He ran a hand through his hair and had a flash

  of the curve of her bottom.

  No, not a girl. A woman.

  Merde! What in the name of all that was holy—he

  thought of the fury in her green eyes—or perhaps

  all that was unholy, had caused the girl—woman—

  female! to attack him? She said she’d challenged

  him for revenge. But what could he have possibly

  done to her? He’d never seen her before. He would

  have remembered.

  Ça alors! How had he not seen that the lad was no

  lad at all? The lashes framing those green eyes were far

  too thick and long. No boy had lashes like that. Or

  skin like that. Or a bottom like that.

  Not that he’d been looking at her bottom… well, at

  least not until Bastien realized the he was a she.

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  He strode along the quay, heading toward the place

  where his ship, Shadow, waited. They’d be departing

  on the first tide, and he wanted to supervise the

  loading of the cargo. He trusted his men implicitly,

  but this cargo was precious, which was why it was

  being delivered in the dark of night. He checked his

  pocket watch and swore at the time. He would have

  been on board by now if the girl had not forced him

  to cross swords with her. He’d thought the whole

  incident ridiculous until she ruined his coat. Then he’d

  decided to teach the lad a lesson.

  In the end, he supposed it was he who learned a

  lesson, not to judge by appearances. An annoying

  boy could turn out to be a beautiful woman—a

  beautiful woman intent on killing him. And what

  was he going to do about that? What was he going

  to do about her? He didn’t need a cabin boy, and

  he sure as hell didn’t need a cabin girl. All she’d do

  is distract him with her attempts to kill him, not to

  mention that luscious bottom.

  And that was the kind of distraction he didn’t need.

  He’d never needed to rape a woman to enjoy her bed,

  and he wasn’t about to start now. But there was no

  denying the explosive attraction he’d felt the moment

  he pulled that ugly cap off her.

  Well, he might not end up bedding her—though

  given time, he thought she might be persuaded. He’d

  been told more than once he was too charming for

  his own good, but at least she’d amuse him and keep

  him sharp. Nothing like waking up with a knife at the

  throat to keep a man’s instincts honed. And, little as

  he liked to admit it, she was a good match for him.

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  Shana Galen

  An Englishwoman! Her French had been only

  adequate, and she couldn’t disguise her heavy

  English accent. And who would have thought an

  Englishwoman so fiery? Not he. Cold and formal was

  how he’d always envisioned them. Perhaps he’d have

  to broaden his perspective…

  Enough time for that later. Right now he needed

  to understand why she had come after him. He didn’t

  have any connections to England. Their navy was a

  pest—at times pursuing and harassing him, but he dealt

  with them easily enough.

  Unfortunately, now that England and France had

  signed a peace treaty, the English would have more

  time to harass him. Even so, he vastly preferred the

  English to the French. It riled him that he was docked

  here in Brest. He’d sworn never to return to France,

  and if there had been any other way to acquire this

  cargo, he would have pursued it. But there hadn’t

  been, and now here he was, on French soil again. He

  looked down, surprised the ground wasn’t covered in

  blood. God knew he’d seen enough of it shed during

  the revolution. His own family had been a victim of

  the bloodthirsty peasants, and now he was the only

  living member of the Valère family left.

  Or perhaps the family had died out. He never used

  his surname, Harcourt, or his title, marquis de Valère.

  He was Captain Cutlass: a man without a history, and

  he liked it that way.

  The bow of his sloop came into view, and Bastien

  smiled. With its three tall masts and eighteen cannon,

  the Shadow was a fine ship—the one thing in his life

  that had never let him down, the one thing he could

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  count on. She’d gotten him out of more scrapes than

  he could count, made his fortune, and given him a

  purpose. His heart soared every time he saw her, and

  he felt free. His legs itched to board her and set sail, to

  rid himself of the confines of land.

  A crate of cargo hung over the deck now, hoisted

  by several of his crew on the quay. On board, his

  bosun, Mr. Ridley, was calling orders and directing

  the operation. Ridley spotted him and gave a brief

  wave. Bastien returned it, pausing to watch as the

  cargo was lowered into the hold. As expected, Ridley

  had matters well in hand. The broad-chested, dark-

  skinned man was as efficient and orderly as he was

  fearsome. Bastien would have liked to claim that he’d

  never had a moment’s fear of the man, but the truth

  was, the first time they’d met, the man had scared the

  hell out of him. Still did at times.

  It wasn’t the tattoos or the multiple earrings, it was

  the way the sailor—tall as a tree—could stare a man

  down and make the skin on the back of his neck itch.

  Bastien had met Ridley in a tavern not so different

  than the one he’d j
ust left. Ridley had been looking

  for work, and Bastien hiring on. He’d had reservations

  about making Ridley part of the crew of the Shadow,

  but how was he going to say no to a man who looked

  like a leviathan? Thinking it might deter the fearsome

  giant, Bastien had made a point of stressing that he

  wasn’t a pirate. “I’m a privateer,” he’d said. “I have

  letters of marque from Spain.”

  Ridley smiled, showing one gold tooth in the midst of

  a sea of white. “Sure, Cap’n Cutlass. Whatever you say.

  I’ll call you a privateer, and you can call me… Ridley.”

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  Shana Galen

  To this day, Bastien still had no idea what Ridley’s

  real name was. He didn’t care. The bosun was one of

  the best men he’d ever employed. He’d call the man

  Mary, if that’s what he wanted.

  With a wave at his crew to continue their work,

  Bastien strode up the gangplank, stepped onto the

  deck of his ship, and felt his world tilt, righting itself.

  The cargo was about half loaded, and he peered down

  the hold. Still plenty of room. The cargo would be

  tucked away in the next hour or so, and they’d begin

  preparations to sail. He was headed for Almeria, Spain

  on the Mediterranean. There, he’d deliver the cargo,

  take the money, and outfit the Shadow for an even

  more important task: sinking La Sirena.

  There was nothing he’d like better than to see

  Jourdain’s vessel at the bottom of the ocean—unless it

  was Jourdain going down with it.

  “Cap’n,” Ridley said, coming up beside him, dark

  eyes still focused on the cargo.

  “Mr. Ridley.” Bastien nodded. “Everything looks

  to be in good order.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Ridley said, eyes shifting to the

  quay. “But I doan think that’s the last of the cargo.”

  Bastien raised his brows then followed Ridley’s

  gaze. He almost swore but caught the oath just in

  time. There, fighting his way toward the ship, was

  Mr. Maine and the black-haired hellion. She had an

  escort of six men and was giving every single one of

  them the devil of a time. They were all but carrying

  her, kicking, squirming, and swearing—if his ears did

  not deceive him—along the waterfront.

  Merde. What had he gotten himself into?

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  He cleared his throat and glanced at Mr. Ridley.

  Bastien thought he could detect an underlying grin on

  the carefully neutral face.

  “Last minute addition,” Bastien said through

  clenched teeth as the crew hoisting his real cargo

  aboard paused to stare at the woman being carried up

  the gangplank.

  “I see. Where you want it?”

  Bastien cleared his throat. “Mr. Maine has orders

  to put it—er, her—in my cabin. She’s the new…

  cabin girl.”

  Ridley’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly.

  “She won’t be up on deck.” Bastien tried not to

  cringe as Mr. Maine carried the woman past him.

  She’d caught sight of him, and the curses were flowing.

  Where the hell had she learned language like that? He

  raised his voice. “So she won’t be in your way.”

  “Dat good.” To his credit, Ridley kept his eyes on

  his captain and not on the scene behind him. “I best

  be getting back to work.”

  “Good man,” Bastien said. The deck was calmer

  now, as the woman had obviously been taken below,

  and the loading of the cargo resumed. Bastien supposed

  he should get to work as well. He started toward his

  cabin then thought better of it. Perhaps he could find

  some work to do above deck. He needn’t retire to his

  cabin directly. He could consult his charts and maps

  later… could make his log later.

  If any of his belongings were still in one piece.

  Merde. He supposed he couldn’t get around her.

  Taking a deep breath, he set off to tame the savage beast.

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  Shana Galen

  Bastien stood in the companionway outside his cabin

  and frowned. It was quiet. Too quiet.

  He was tempted to search out Mr. Maine to see

  whether the quartermaster had put the black-haired

  hellion in his cabin as instructed. But Bastien knew

  Maine too well. The girl was in there.

  He glanced down at his coat, at the ripped sleeve.

  Ah, yes. His cabin girl was going to work off the

  damage, even if it made both of them miserable. He’d

  guarantee she was the more miserable.

  Best he instruct her on her duties so she could begin.

  He opened his cabin door, noted a lamp had been

  lit, and glanced about. For a great cabin, it was small,

  but he didn’t see the woman. His gaze scanned the

  neat, trim room: berth, trunks, desk…

  Where the hell was she? Could she be hiding?

  Where? In the trunk?

  He stepped inside and realized too late his mistake.

  He turned quickly enough to avoid the worst of the

  blow, but he still felt the force of the object slam into

  the side of his head. For a moment, bright white dots

  danced before a sea of black, and then he reached out

  and grabbed the little vixen.

  She had the object raised! Damn him if she wasn’t

  going to strike again!

  But he had his hand wrapped around her wrist

  now, and he twisted it violently. She cried out, and he

  muttered, “Drop it.”

  “No.”

  The black sea was fading now, and he was able to

  focus on her face. It was set in a stubborn expression,

  those green eyes as turbulent as the ocean during a

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  tempest. He tightened his grip and saw her jaw clench,

  but she didn’t drop the candlestick she held.

  C’est des conneries! The thing was brass and had to

  weigh two pounds. She really did want to kill him.

  Anger shot through him as his head throbbed again,

  and he wrenched her arm. The little hellion held on,

  so he pushed her up against the door, slamming it

  closed in the process.

  Her eyes were watering with pain now, but she still

  held the candlestick. “Drop it.”

  “No!” The word was barely a breath.

  He shook his head. “Mon Dieu! Are you always

  this stubborn?”

  “Some might call it persistence,” she gritted out.

  He had her pinned to the door, one hand restraining

  her wrist and the candlestick she held aloft, and the

  opposite hand trapping her shoulder. In one quick

  motion, he released her, plucked the candlestick from

  her grasp, and tossed it over his shoulder. It thudded

  on the floor just as her fist came up. But he caught

  that too, grinned, and forced it ba
ck against the wood.

  Now he had both her hands pinned to the door. “I can

  be persistent as well.”

  He was looking directly into her eyes and realized,

  slowly, that their bodies were flush against one another.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” she said.

  He raised a brow. “What kind of ideas?” But his

  body had a mind of its own. He was more than aware

  of the warmth of her skin, the feel of her soft curves

  against his muscles, and the sweet, cherry smell of her

  hair. But something wasn’t quite right…

  He couldn’t feel the swell of her breasts. He

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  Shana Galen

  glanced down, noted her white shirt was all but flat.

  He looked into her eyes again. “Bound them, did

  you? Clever disguise.”

  “It fooled you, pirate.”

  He sighed. “Are we back to that again? I told you,

  I’m not a pirate. I have letters of marque from—”

  “I don’t care what country’s flag you fly under.

  I know what you are. And what you did. Now get off

  me!” She shoved back hard, taking him by surprise.

  But he was a good deal larger than she and much

  stronger. He held her in place, rather liking this posi-

  tion and the view it afforded him of her eyes. They

  were undoubtedly her best feature… well, the best of

  the ones he could see at the moment. Her nose was a

  bit too snub, her lips too small—or perhaps that was

  because she had them firmly compressed—and her

  chin jutted too sharply. But those eyes were amazing.

  He’d never seen anyone with such vividly green eyes.

  They reminded him of a lush pasture or of a shower

  of emeralds.

  And now he was reminding himself of some

  god-awful poet. He shook his head and hopefully rid

  himself of all poetic urges.

  “Do you have a name?” he asked.

  “What?” She blinked at him. “No.”

  “And you say I’m the bastard. Very well then, I

  shall call you Cabin Girl.”

  She snorted. “You can try it.”

  “You need some sort of name. How else will you

  come running when I call?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she let out a short,

  incredulous laugh. “Oh, you’re just full of delusions.”

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  “We’ll see.” He glanced about the cabin. “And your

  first task, Cabin Girl… is to empty my chamber pot.”

  She smiled sweetly. At least he supposed that was

 

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