by Shana Galen
10/10/11 4:23 PM
The Rogue Pirate’s Bride
47
into a ball, closing her eyes against the scream of pain
in her knee.
Finally, she groaned and stared up at the Shadow.
The next time she saw the vessel, she vowed it would
be in pieces.
Cautiously, she rose to her knees. She was bruised
but not badly injured. She was relatively certain her
knee would be sore for a week, and her gloveless hands
were raw and bleeding. But nothing was broken. She
limped away from the ship, heading for the cutters
ferrying sailors to and from the ships in the harbor.
She couldn’t wait to tell her father what she’d seen
on the Shadow. Now he’d have a reason to pursue and
destroy the pirate ship. Despite her throbbing knee,
her battered hands, and a dull headache, she smiled.
“I don’t care if the rogue planned to assassinate the
King!” Admiral Russell boomed, hands cutting the
air in front of Raeven. “I don’t care if the blackguard
plotted to kidnap the Regent—though we might all
be better off if he did,” he muttered. “It’s no excuse
for your reckless behavior. Your behavior is impul-
sive, undisciplined, unrestrained, un…” He gestured
violently, face red, too angry to form the words.
Raeven pursed her lips and waited. “Unacceptable?”
she ventured.
“Damn it, girl!” He slammed a fist down on the
cherrywood desk in his cabin, sending a sextant
crashing to the floor and several maps flying into the
air like startled seagulls. From behind the admiral,
Percy gave her a pained look. She knew what he was
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thinking: why did she try to help? Why didn’t she
keep her mouth shut? There was no reasoning with
her father when he was in this state. In her opinion,
there was never any reasoning with him.
It had taken her three hours to return to the Regal,
and as she’d feared, in the five or six hours she’d been
away, her absence had been noted. From her chair on
the opposite side of the desk, she could just see the
face of her father’s little clock. Devil take it, but he’d
been railing for almost thirty minutes.
He shoved his palms down hard on the desk and
leaned over until his face was level with hers. “Do you
find this tedious, girl? Am I keeping you from another,
more pressing engagement?”
“No, but—”
“Good, because you and Mr. Williams will be busy
swabbing the decks and emptying the buckets all day.”
Percy closed his eyes and shuddered. It wasn’t the
first time her actions had caused him grief. But she’d
find a way to make it up to him. Just as soon as she
had Cutlass.
“Fine, but—”
“Fine? Fine? ” He was about to speak again, but
before he could form the words, he erupted into a
storm of hacking coughs. It was three or four minutes
before he recovered, and drawing the handkerchief
from his purpling face, he wheezed, “You don’t feel
even a moment’s remorse. Do you comprehend the
trouble you might have gotten into? The pirate could
have raped you, girl! Worse, he could have decided
to have you keelhauled or flogged or—” He dissolved
into another coughing spell.
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“No, he couldn’t. He was too eager to be
underway,” Raeven said, taking advantage of her
father’s incapacitation.
“Oh, well that’s even better! At this moment you
could be somewhere in the middle of the Channel
with no one but Mr. Williams the wiser. That black-
guard could sell you into slavery or take you to—”
“Sir.”
But he was still listing all the horrors that might
have happened. Horrors of which she was well aware.
Horrors she had escaped. Easily escaped, at that.
“Sir… Father!”
“What?” He stared at her, arms locked at his sides.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
“He’s getting away.”
Behind her father, Percy closed his eyes and sighed
heavily, like a man doomed to the gallows and resigned
to his fate. Her father, obviously similarly exasperated,
sat heavily in his chair. “Since we’re not chasing the
rogue, dear daughter, he can’t be getting away.” He
dabbed at his forehead with the handkerchief.
“But that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” Now
she stood and braced her hands on his desk. “We
should be chasing him. He has arms and medicines for
Spain to use against us.”
“That may be.”
“May be? I’m telling you what I saw with my own
two eyes!”
“And it’s valuable intelligence. I will grant you
that, though the manner in which it was obtained is
completely un—”
“—acceptable. Yes, I know. I know.” She pressed
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Shana Galen
her fingers lightly over her eyes. It was almost dawn,
and she was exhausted. Her headache had developed
into a full-blown military tattoo. She was tired of
talking, tired of arguing. She wanted something to eat,
a glass of wine, and her warm berth, and she knew
she was unlikely to have any of them for some time.
Worst of all, Cutlass was getting away. She could feel
the distance between them growing, and the farther
he ventured, the more tense she became. She felt like
a ship straining against its anchor. She had waited six
months for the opportunity to challenge him as she
had last night. Now it might be years before their
paths crossed again. If she didn’t avenge Timothy’s
death, no one would.
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
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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
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Shana Galen
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?
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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
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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 under-
stand 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
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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 have 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.
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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.
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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
