Rogue Pirates Bride
Page 7
floor and the jewel toned velvet pillows scattered
about on low benches created an air of sumptuous-
ness. He sipped his champagne again. It was fine
champagne. As any good sailor, he preferred rum, but
he would take champagne if it were offered.
And Kemal Muhammed Mustafa, the local pasha,
was offering. Cigars, champagne, a rich meal of deli-
cacies, if the trays Bastien had seen servants carrying
toward the ballroom earlier were any indication.
There were perhaps fifty men and women in atten-
dance tonight. The majority hailed from Britain, as
the pasha was smart enough to court their good graces.
The others were locals, most of Arabic descent.
There were several other privateers making an
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appearance. Two Americans and a Moroccan. They
studied Bastien as closely as he studied them. The pasha
had yet to explain why he’d invited them, but Bastien
had no doubt the man wanted some favor or other.
Probably to run the American blockade of Tripoli or
some other errand for Yusef Karamanli, Tripoli’s pasha
and Kemal’s superior. Bastien would have been happy
to oblige, if he were not otherwise employed.
And that was the reason he’d agreed to attend.
The little information he garnered in Spain and then
Greece indicated Jourdain was in Gibraltar. And so
Bastien was in Gibraltar and had been for a fortnight.
Unfortunately, despite the money he’d spent paying
local boys to find Jourdain’s whereabouts, he’d come
up empty-handed. This ball was his last hope. The
cargo he’d delivered in Almeria fetched him enough
to outfit the Shadow as he’d hoped . He had cannon,
powder, and cartridges aplenty. He had foodstuff,
medicines, cutlasses, and rifles spilling out of the holds.
He had everything he needed to sink La Sirena,
except the ship and its captain.
And he was running out of time. He’d spent the
past three months searching for Jourdain, and he
was well aware his crew tolerated the diversion only
because of their deep respect for him. But he couldn’t
expect them to sit twiddling their thumbs indefinitely.
Not when there were blockades to run and profitable
cargoes to sell. His band of—oh, hell, he might as
well call them what they were—pirates had limited
amounts of patience and unlimited greed.
But they possessed loyalty, and that was what he
was riding on these past few weeks.
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He saw his quartermaster approaching and finished
his champagne. “Well?”
“I’ve been through the entire ballroom and inspected
each and every guest, sir,” the Englishman said with his
usual matter-of-factness. “He’s not here. Yet.” The last
sounded like an afterthought. It was late, and obviously
Maine didn’t think Jourdain was coming.
“Let’s give him another quarter hour.” Bastien
offered Maine a cigar he’d pocketed for later.
“Yes, Captain.” Maine took the cigar and put it in
his coat. A man of few, if any, vices, he would prob-
ably sell it to a crewmember later.
“Bastien.”
“Sir?”
“We’re not onboard. Call me Bastien.”
Maine gave him a perplexed look and scanned the
room again. A waiter passed with a tray of champagne,
and Bastien took another glass and one for Maine.
“Here. Drink this.”
The quartermaster glanced at it as though it were
poison. Bastien sighed. “Alan, how long have we
known one another?”
“Four years, six months, and…”
Bastien waved a hand. “Close enough. My point is
we’ve known one another long enough to be friends.
And friends can enjoy a glass of champagne and”—he
reached into the man’s coat—“a cigar together.”
“Yes, sir—Bastien.”
Bastien sighed.
“It’s just that I’m on duty. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Then I relieve you of duty for the next ten
minutes. This isn’t the British Navy, mon ami.”
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“Old habits die hard, I suppose.”
They drank and smoked in silence for a moment,
watching the room as the last of the polished and
plumed guests arrived. The range of colors and the
dress reflected the diverse guest list. The Brits wore
their silks and satins, their cravats and waistcoats.
The locals wore the loose-fitting robes common to
the region. Good Muslims, they left their wives and
concubines at home. The other privateers dressed as
gentlemen, as did Bastien. His coat was of the finest
wool, his shirt the best linen, his leather boots highly
polished. He’d forgone the formality and stuffiness
of a cravat, but he thought the spill of lace at his
throat and wrists worked to good effect. He wanted
to look wealthy without pretension. And perhaps he
wanted to look a little bit dangerous. He’d worn his
sword—his dress sword, of course—and his pistol was
tucked under his coat. If they did meet Jourdain, he’d
be ready.
He listened idly as the pasha made a welcoming
speech. Dinner would be served at ten. Bastien
checked his pocket watch. It was half past nine, and
he would not be staying.
“Are you ready?” he asked his quartermaster,
though he knew the man had probably been ready
twenty minutes ago.
“We’re leaving? You haven’t spoken to the pasha.”
And he wouldn’t. Not tonight. “I hadn’t intended
to, but perhaps I will call on him tomorrow. After all, if
his endeavor is lucrative, we might take him up on it.”
Maine raised his eyebrows. “But we haven’t found
Jourdain.”
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Bastien shrugged, as though the failure meant
nothing to him. “Peering into cobwebbed shadows
and chasing every stray rumor won’t make our
fortune. And”—he held up a hand when his quar-
termaster would have objected—“the crew has been
more than patient. Tomorrow we embark on more
profitable ventures. I’ll want to speak with the crew
at…” He trailed off, his gaze caught by a flash of
emerald. The gown was in perfect harmony with the
pasha’s jeweled theme, and the woman wearing it the
loveliest creature in the room. But that wasn’t a fair
description in a room of less than fifteen ladies, most
of whom were well past childrearing age. This woman
would stand out in any room, and several other men
turned their heads appreciatively as she entered.
“Oh.”
Maine wheezed out the sound, and Bastien
glanced at him, surprised. Alan had told him once that
he was married, and Bastien had never known the
quartermaster to show interest in other women. But
now he was staring.
“She’s pretty,” Bastien said.
“She’s more than that, sir.”
With a frown, Bastien glanced back. She was
moving through the crowd now, her dress rippling
like a lagoon. “She looks… familiar.”
“Yes, sir. You’re acquainted.”
And as he watched, someone near her made a
remark that had her green eyes flashing, and Bastien
groaned. Why here? Why now?
It was his cabin girl. How had he not recognized
her immediately? He hadn’t forgotten her. On the
contrary, he thought of her daily. He’d hung her
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delicate yet deadly sharp sword on his cabin wall: a
reminder that appearances could be deceptive. But he
hadn’t thought to ever see her again.
In particular, he hadn’t thought to see her looking
so… feminine. So… glorious.
It wasn’t just the lavish gown she wore, though
the emerald green silk matched her eyes perfectly. She
was glorious. The kind of woman who turned every
man’s head. And she had—she was, he corrected as he
watched her move through the room.
Her dark hair was swept up in what looked like
a careless mass of curls. Long tendrils had escaped
their moorings to caress a neck and shoulders of
exposed honey-colored flesh. Her face was that same
honey color with just a little blush about the high
cheekbones. Her mouth was full and lush, something
he did not remember from before. But perhaps that
was because right now she was relaxed and smiling
whereas before… well, she had not smiled that he
could remember. She still had the snub nose and the
sharp chin, but it didn’t look quite as sharp when
she wasn’t jerking it at him. And then, of course,
there were those amazing eyes. Impossibly green,
impossibly expressive.
Now that she wasn’t dressed as a boy, he could
admire her other features as well. She was petite but
voluptuous. The dress showed her rounded shoulders,
her creamy skin, and the soft, half moons of her
breasts. It didn’t taper to her natural waist, as the style
currently favored higher waists, but he imagined her
waist was trim and flared nicely to accent shapely hips.
He already knew she had a shapely bottom and
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lovely legs. Her masculine dress had shown him that
much. But how refreshing to see that, in spite of her
precision with a sword and her rough language, she
was soft and very female.
“Sir, I think it best we leave before she sees us. If
I’m not mistaken, that’s Admiral Russell with her.”
Bastien’s gaze focused on the older man at her side.
He’d never seen Admiral Russell before, but the man
with the salt-and-pepper hair, the ruddy complexion,
and the bowlegs had to be he. He looked every bit
the British naval officer, even out of uniform as he
was now.
“Mr. Maine, I look to you to lead the way.” Bastien
indicated a side exit with a hand, and Maine started for
the door. They were halfway across the room when
the pasha and his entourage stepped before them.
“Leaving so soon, Mr. Cutlass?” The pasha’s voice
was soft and silky, as was the rest of him. He wore
European clothing but for the white turban on his
head. His small hands were bejeweled with rings on
every finger. His skin was the color of café au lait, his
eyes a soft, rich brown.
He was small and soft-spoken, but as Bastien
knew well, appearances could be deceiving. The man
was influential, and he had the ear of the powerful
Yusef Karamanli.
Bastien made a sweeping bow. “Ah, you have
caught me, my lord. Mr. Maine and I find that we are
called back to the Shadow unexpectedly.”
The pasha gave a silken smile. “But you have not
had time to eat, and we have not had the opportunity
to speak. Perhaps you can send your man back and
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join your crew later.” There were two burly men
dressed in flowing robes behind the pasha, and now
they crossed their arms over their massive chests,
indicating that the pasha’s wishes should be obeyed.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Bastien said,
spreading his hands apologetically. “This is a matter
that requires my personal attention. You understand,
my lord.”
“Please.” The pasha shook his head slightly. “We
are old friends, Sébastien. You should call me Kemal.”
Bastien smiled. He was neither friends nor enemies
with Kemal Muhammed Mustafa, and he intended to
keep it that way. “I shall call on you first thing in the
morning, Kemal. I can promise you I’m anxious to
hear all you have to say.”
“I think you might want to hear what I have to say
tonight. After all, it concerns a friend of both of ours—a
friend for whom I hear you have been searching.”
Bastien’s pulse kicked, but he kept his expression
neutral. “I see. And still, I’m afraid we will have to
discuss this friend tomorrow.” But a quick glance
about the room—a last search for Jourdain, their
mutual friend—convinced Bastien he was already too
late. Miss Russell was moving toward them and would
spot him any moment.
The pasha followed his gaze, and obviously seeing
an opportunity to delay Bastien further, spread a
welcoming hand toward the Russells. “Admiral and
Miss Russell. Allow me to introduce you to Sébastien…
Cutlass.” He glanced at Bastien with a tolerant smile as
he gave the false surname. “Like you, Admiral, the
captain shares a love of the sea.”
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Bastien watched as the Russells’ polite smiles
turned to ice at the mention of his name. His gaze
caught and held Miss Russell’s, and he was fascinated
by the play of a thousand emotions over her face.
He spotted anger, excitement, wariness, and finally
worry. The last was punctuated by one of her slim,
fair hands catching her father’s sleeve and tugging
him back.
“What the hell is the meaning of this?” the admiral
sputtered. “You’re dealing with thieves and rogues
now, my lord?” He turned an accusing glare on the
pasha, and the man feigned astonishment. But if he
was surprised the navy man and the privateer didn�
��t
get on, Bastien would cheerfully eat his boot.
“Captain Cutlass is an old friend of mine, Admiral.
I assure you he is neither a thief nor a rogue.”
“And I can assure you, your lordship, he is both.
And to those crimes I add kidnapping and piracy.”
Bastien had hoped to avoid this drama, but since
doing so now seemed impossible, he put a hand to his
heart. “Oh no, sir. You wound me. I am no pirate.”
With a roar, the admiral lunged, but his daughter
danced before him. “Sir, please! Not here.”
Bastien could feel the gazes of all in the room on
their little party, but he couldn’t take his own from
Raeven Russell. Was she actually protecting him? The
idea made him laugh. She was probably only saving
him for her own homicidal plans.
The admiral was about to object, but before he
could speak, he doubled over into a fit of coughing.
His daughter bent as well, assisting the older man
who fumbled with his handkerchief. But she was
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not so concerned she didn’t have a moment to flash
emerald daggers at him with those eyes. Bastien
raised a brow, indicating he was hardly responsible
for an old man’s cough.
“Miss Russell,” the pasha began, “might I offer
one of my men to assist you and your father? I think
a comfortable chair and a glass of brandy might help.”
“Yes.” She nodded as one of the pasha’s burly men
came forward, but her attention was on Bastien. “I
think you are right.”
“Another time then, mademoiselle.” Bastien reached
out, took her hand, bent, and kissed it. He moved out
of the way just in time to avoid her up-thrust knuckles.
He chuckled. “I see some things never change.”
She gave him a contemptuous shake of her head.
“No, they don’t.”
“Good night, my lord. Admiral. Miss Russell.”
He bowed to each, turned on his heel, and followed
Maine out of the room. The side corridor he’d chosen
was stark and cold, gloomy compared to the bright,
colorful ballroom. Still, it bore the marks of the pasha’s
wealth. Turkey rugs lined the marble floors, and
gold sconces held stub candles whose dancing light
illuminated various objets d’art. But he made it no
farther than the first sconce before he heard the shush
of slippers behind him.
“Wait just one moment, sir!” a woman’s voice
called after him.
Miss Russell, of course. He turned and smiled. “Sir?