by Shana Galen
“It’s shifted, Captain.”
“Good. Make final preparations to cast off, but wait
for my command.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Bastien stormed out the door and strode quickly
back to his cabin. How the hell had this happened?
How the hell had he kidnapped an admiral’s daughter?
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He’d have the whole British Navy after him as soon as
the word was out. He’d have to let her go. Turn her
loose as quickly as possible. But he couldn’t exactly set
her on the quay and leave her to fend for herself. Miss
Russell would need an escort back to her ship. Could
he hire a cutter that quickly?
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
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Shana Galen
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.
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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 abomi-
nable 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
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Shana Galen
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 surpris-
ingly 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
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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 sh
e 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
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Shana Galen
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 leave 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.
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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 provisions
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 hesi-
tated. Was it worth risking capture again to investi-
gate 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
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Shana Galen
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.
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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 he
r 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
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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
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