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Rogue Pirates Bride

Page 5

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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  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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  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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  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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  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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