by Shana Galen
I believe that man with the pistol means to block
our passage.”
Bastien closed his eyes. Merde.
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Five
Raeven stared at the broad-shouldered man
sighting his pistol on her. She was beginning to think
she should have left Cutlass to his own devices, but
when she’d seen him again, so unexpectedly, her
pulse had kicked, and she hadn’t been able to leave
well enough alone. One look at his too-handsome
face, one word from his too-charming mouth, and
she didn’t know if she wanted to kiss him or kill him.
But she knew she had to follow him.
Now, here she stood, on the wrong end of a pistol.
Killing or kissing Cutlass would have to wait.
She didn’t like the look on the thug’s face or the
way his finger wavered over the flintlock’s hammer.
She wasn’t going to allow him to put a lead ball in her
head. She caressed the smooth hilt of her dagger. No
pretty jeweled showpiece, the dagger was ugly and
functional. She’d worn the hilt down over the years
with hours of practice, but the blade was still deadly
sharp. Given half a chance, she could take out the
thug’s eye.
But first she needed Cutlass to get out of her way.
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Shana Galen
The ridiculous man was trying to shield her with his
body. Hadn’t she told him she didn’t need his assistance?
“El Santo,” Cutlass said, after turning to face the
man—and pushing her farther behind him.
“Get out of my way,” she said through clenched
teeth. “I can’t aim with you standing there.”
His response was to take her wrist and force the
dagger down at her waist, using her skirts to cover
it up. She hadn’t been about to show the man the
dagger, but she had to raise it in order to throw it.
“Captain Cutlass,” the man called El Santo said with
a sneer. As Raeven would have said his name with the
same sneer, she raised her brows with interest. The man
wore boots, tight breeches, and white shirt open at the
throat to display several gold chains. His ears were simi-
larly adorned with three or four gold hoops each. His
close-cropped beard was a dark smudge on his face, and
his hair was thinning, leaving a tall dome of a forehead.
His gaze drifted over her quickly, and she noted his eyes
were two-toned, one brown, the other green.
He quickly dismissed her and returned his glare to
Cutlass. Apparently, this El Santo had no more love
for Cutlass than she did. Still, Cutlass was hers to
kill—if she so chose. She didn’t want to hurt El Santo,
but she wasn’t about to allow him to fire a shot at
her… or her pirate.
“Trying to follow me?” El Santo said with a smile.
His teeth were large and bright white against his
olive-toned skin. Two of them were gold. “It seems as
though I’ve turned the tables on you. Again.”
Cutlass ran a hand through hair that had escaped
the thong holding it back. She could tell he was still a
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bit shaken by how close he’d come to having his head
blown off. She didn’t fault him for being shaken. She’d
seen other men dissolve into hysterics over less.
“I assume those are Jourdain’s men outside.”
El Santo smiled again. “A small surprise for you.
One of many we can spring, señor. ”
“Traps? Is that the way your captain operates now?
I thought Jourdain was a man of courage.”
Raeven watched as El Santo’s jaw worked. Cutlass
was making him angry. It wasn’t the tactic she would
have chosen, considering the man was pointing a pistol
at them, but she had little choice but to trust Cutlass.
For the moment.
He was still holding her wrist, and she could feel
him pressing into her skin with strong fingers, telling
her not to move. To wait.
“Jourdain has more courage in his little finger than
you have in your entire body, señor.”
Cutlass gave him a dubious look. “Then why does
he hide?”
El Santo straightened and raised the pistol. “We are
not hiding now, señor.”
“Good point.” Cutlass raised his own pistol. “It
seems we are at an impasse.”
“I am not afraid to die, señor.”
“Neither am I, especially because I doubt your aim
is much better than that of your men. They missed
me by a foot.”
Raeven did take a small step back now. El Santo’s
face flushed purple, and he sputtered a Spanish
obscenity. The pistol wavered for a moment as he
strove to contain his rage, and Raeven held her breath.
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Shana Galen
She didn’t like having a flintlock pointed at her, but
she especially did not like it when the man holding
said flintlock was incensed.
She hoped her father had believed her when she’d
said she was going to the ladies’ retiring room. The
last thing she needed was the admiral stumbling into
this powder keg. But even if the ladies’ retiring room
bought her some time, the clock was ticking.
Suddenly, El Santo’s eyes met hers. He smiled,
the gold teeth glinting in the gloom. “I see you keep
better company these days, señor. Who is la mujer?”
Cutlass gave her a cursory glance. “No one. A
whore I found in the city.” The casualness of his
words was belied by his punishing grip on her wrist.
She thought she might have bruises later. She would
have to check… if she lived.
El Santo shook his head. “This one is no whore.”
He looked back at Cutlass. “I shoot you, and you
shoot me. We are even.”
“If your aim is any good.”
“Oh, don’t worry about my aim, señor.” Without
warning, his hand snaked out and captured Raeven’s
free wrist. With a jerk, he yanked her to him.
For a moment, Cutlass held on to her opposite
wrist, and she felt like a rope in tug-of-war. But she
was no simpering miss, and she wrenched her hand
free of Cutlass’s and allowed herself to be pulled flush
against El Santo’s broad chest. She could feel his wiry
chest hair on the back of her neck, and she stifled a
shudder of revulsion.
“Would you like me to demonstrate my aim now?”
El Santo said, and Raeven felt the barrel of the pistol dig
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painfully into her temple. Devil take it! First her wrist,
now her temple. She was going to be black and blue.
Cutlass shrugged. “Go ahead. As I said, she’s only a
whor
e. She means nothing to me.”
Raeven knew he was trying to help her. She was
almost certain El Santo was a Barbary pirate. The
waters of the Mediterranean all but choked with the
vermin right now. And the Barbary corsairs liked
nothing better than captives to ransom. As the daughter
of a British admiral, she’d be a fine prize.
Still, she thought Cutlass might have managed to
look a tad bit concerned.
El Santo cocked the pistol, and Raeven decided
she would have to be the one to end this stalemate.
In a single move, she loosed the dagger from her
skirts, slipped free of El Santo’s hold, and plunged it
into his thigh. She caught a glimpse of pure surprise
and shock on his face. He truly hadn’t expected her
to be any danger. But then she wrenched the dagger
deeper and the shock faded, replaced by pain and
anger. He howled and grabbed for her. She side-
stepped, bent, yanked the dagger back out, and dove
for the exterior door.
“No!” Cutlass yelled. “We’ll be shot.”
She glanced back, saw El Santo fumbling with his
pistol. “I’ll take my chances!” She pushed the door
open, ducked and rolled, raising her head long enough
to spot a small wagon laden with produce. The silence
of the night was shattered by the echo of pistol fire,
but she was counting on the encroaching darkness to
obscure the sniper’s shot. She sprinted for the wagon
and landed in a heap behind one blessedly large wheel.
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A moment later, Cutlass landed beside her, kicking
up sand and gravel so she had to close her eyes to keep
them clear. When she opened them again, she saw
Cutlass peering around the wagon. “I think he’s over
in that cluster of buildings.”
Raeven crawled beside him and peered over his
shoulder. The pasha’s kitchen area was located here,
as evidenced by the fires and smells of food coming
from across the small courtyard where they hid. But
the area was void of servants—not surprising, given
shots had been fired.
“I think you’re right,” she said, judging the angle
of the buildings and where the first shot hit. “By now
one of the kitchen staff must have alerted the pasha. If
we wait, his men should come to our aid.”
“And if the kitchen staff is huddled in a corner with
a pistol trained on them?”
She shrugged. “My father must be wondering how
long I can spend in the ladies’ retiring room.”
Cutlass ducked his head behind the cart again and
rested his back against the large wheel. Raeven dared
not relax and remained on her haunches. She felt sand
and gravel in her slippers and could imagine the state
of her gown. She’d ruined another one now, and her
father would never let her hear the end of it.
“You should have gone back to your father when
I told you,” Cutlass said. In the darkness, she could
make out the frown on his face and see the hard glitter
of his eyes.
“You’re right,” she conceded.
He blinked at her, obviously surprised.
“But if I’d done that, I wouldn’t have been able
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to save you from El Santo. You’d probably be dead
by now.”
He arched a brow. “Unlikely. Besides, I thought
you wanted me dead.”
She brushed at the sleeve of her dress, dismayed to
find it was ripped. Her father was going to lecture her
for hours! “I do want you dead.” She leaned close.
“But I want to be the one to do it.”
He chuckled. “Well, you might yet get your chance.”
“Oh, you can be certain I will.”
“But not if I sit here waiting. The pasha or your
father may or may not come this way. In the mean-
time, El Santo’s men are making plans.”
“What do you propose?”
“I’ll make a run for it, through that gate”—he
pointed to a large wooden gate where wagons made
deliveries in and out—“and draw them after me. Then
you’ll be safe to go inside.”
“What about El Santo?”
“Find another door. There must be more than
one way in and out. If nothing else, go around the
front again.”
Raeven could picture the startled looks on the
faces of the pasha’s guests as she made a second grand
entrance: her hair disheveled, her dress torn, and
her face smudged with dirt. The reactions might be
amusing… if she couldn’t imagine her father’s enraged
face among them. Perhaps she could send him a note
to meet her outside…
In any case, she and Cutlass needed to act. They
had been sitting in one spot too long. “All right, go
ahead and make your diversion.”
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He rose to a crouch, but before he could spring
away, she grabbed his arm. The muscles underneath
his coat were sleek and hard, and she immediately
released him. But it was too late to staunch the flow of
heat shooting through her belly. He looked at her, and
she remembered another time, remembered his cobalt
eyes warm with passion.
She shut her own eyes and blocked out the image.
“Just don’t get yourself killed.”
“I would thank you for your concern,” he whis-
pered, his breath feathering against her cheek. He
smelled faintly of tobacco and champagne. Thinking
of their kiss of a few moments before—what seemed
hours after the events of the past few minutes—she
recalled he had tasted of champagne. His mouth had
been cool and sweet. “But I know you want me to
live only so you can kill me later.”
She smiled. She did want to kill him. But she
wouldn’t mind kissing him once or twice first.
“Wish me luck, ma belle.” And as though reading
her mind, he leaned forward and brushed her cheek
with his lips. She shivered involuntarily, and when he
pulled back, she could have sworn his expression was
smug and knowing.
She clenched her fists. “Good luck,” she said. “I
think you’ll need it.”
She watched as he moved, catlike, from the protec-
tion of one wheel to that of the other, closer to the
gate. She could feel him tense, prepare to move, and
then the door to the palace burst open, and the court-
yard shone in the torchlight. Raeven turned in alarm
and expectation of seeing her father or the pasha, but
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El Santo stood in the doorway. He had a tourniquet
around his leg, blood on the hand holding the torch,
and three
armed men with him.
“Merde,” Cutlass said beside her.
“Exactly,” she breathed. “Any other suggestions?”
One of the men pointed to the cart, and Raeven’s eyes
locked with El Santo’s. With a roar, he charged them.
“Run!” Cutlass yelled, and taking her hand, pulled
her toward the gate. A shot burst out, then another,
and she felt the heat of one near her shoulder. She
tried to run in a zigzag, but running at all was difficult
in the cumbersome skirts, and she could barely keep
up with Cutlass. Despite his earlier threats of leaving
her behind, he pulled her forward, all but yanking her
arm from her socket. When they reached the gate, he
paused and kicked it hard.
Raeven gasped in horror when it didn’t budge.
Cutlass let forth a stream of French epithets and
rammed the gate with his shoulder. Raeven didn’t
want to look behind them, but she was compelled.
El Santo and his men were advancing, the men
loading their half-cocked guns. “Come here, little
girl,” El Santo called, his voice echoing against the
walls of the courtyard. “You like to play with sharp
objects. I have something for you to play with!” He
gestured grotesquely to his groin, and Raeven had to
swallow the bile in her throat.
“Hurry up,” she hissed at Cutlass.
He rammed the gate again, but it didn’t move.
“Let’s climb it,” he said.
“There’s no time.” Not to mention, she’d never be
able to scale the gate in these skirts. She glanced back
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over her shoulder and saw El Santo’s men taking aim.
“Get out of my way.” She pushed Cutlass aside and
made a quick study of the gate. A wide beam of wood
rested over the double doors, barring outsiders from
entering. It was far too thick to snap when kicked or
rammed, but she lifted it quickly, thrust it over, and
pushed the gate open.
She dove through just as fresh shots rang out.
Her skirts wound around her ankles, and she had a
moment of panic when she tripped and went down,
but strong hands lifted her and all but carried her into
the alley and behind a heap of trash. He practically
dumped her on her bottom, and Raeven knew the
dress was beyond salvageable now. She coughed at the
stench of rotting fruits and meat, tried not to think
about their close call, and gave Cutlass a long glare.
“You didn’t think to simply lift the gate’s bar?” Men
