by Shana Galen
and their reliance on brute force.
“I should have left you in a tangle of skirts back
there,” he retorted.
“Why did you help me?” She scanned the alley,
looking for an escape. It would not take El Santo long
before he realized where they were hiding.
“Glutton for punishment. Come on.” He pulled her
to her feet, and keeping hold of her wrist, dragged her
down the length of the alley, staying in the shadows. A
moment later they heard the unmistakable sound of boots
scuffling, and she knew they were being chased. Her
father was definitely worried about her by now, and what
was she going to tell him if—no, when—she returned?
She could hardly tell him the truth. She realized she didn’t
even know the truth. Why were they being chased?
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They neared the end of the alley, and Cutlass
pulled her into a wider street toward what appeared to
be an open-air market. It was deserted in the evening,
but the tents housing the stalls were still in place,
their brightly colored patterns muted by the night. It
was a good hiding place, and for that, she had to give
Cutlass credit.
They ducked behind one of the tents, and Raeven
bent to catch her breath. The smells of fruit and
livestock lingered in the air permeated by the scent of
incense and spices. She’d been in the Gibraltar market-
places several times since their arrival a few days ago,
but she hadn’t noted the scents like she did now. Too
much to see, she supposed.
A man shouted, and she braced herself to run again.
But the sounds of pursuit faded momentarily, and she
breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced at Cutlass and
saw he had his head back against the material of the
tent and his eyes closed. The moon was full tonight,
and she could make out the long curve of his strong
throat. With his shirt open at the throat, she could see
the muscles of his neck, the cleft where his neck met
his chest, and the smooth skin beneath which beat the
vessels pumping blood to his body. One slice of the
dagger she held in her sweaty palm, and he’d be no
more. She could picture the blood pumping out of
the artery, spurting down his shirt to drench the white
fabric in a swath of crimson.
All that blood… Her stomach roiled.
“Why don’t you just do it?” he asked, eyes still
closed, face still relaxed. “You’re thinking about it so
hard, I can almost hear your thoughts.”
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She certainly hoped he couldn’t hear her thinking
about bloodless ways to kill him. Perhaps poison might
be better…
“I’m curious,” she said, avoiding his topic of
conversation. “Why exactly are we running?”
He opened his eyes. “Someone starts shooting
at me, I shoot back. Five men start shooting at me,
I run.”
“Yes, but why are they shooting at you?”
“Just a popular man, I suppose.” He winked at her.
She shook her head. Ridiculous man. He really did
think he was charming. And she might have agreed
under different circumstances. Very different circum-
stances. “The man in the pasha’s palace, El Santo, he
mentioned someone called Jourdain. Who is he?”
Now Cutlass’s eyes grew hard. She could almost see
the wall come up. “An old friend.”
“Not much of a friend, if he wants you dead.”
“It’s a complicated friendship.” He looked at her.
“Much like ours, chérie.”
“There’s nothing complicated about our relation-
ship. I hate you and want you dead.” After I kiss you
half a dozen more times.
He shrugged. “I suppose it’s much the same with
Jourdain. The difference is I’m going to kill him
first. Toward you, I have no ill will.” He reached
out and traced a finger down her cheek. Before her
traitorous skin could warm to his touch, she snatched
his hand away.
“I’m touched by your sentiments. Exactly why do
you want this Jourdain dead?”
He cocked his head. “Do you know you get a
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little line right here”—he touched the space between
her brows—“when you start asking questions? You
remind me of one of your English barristers.”
“And you remind me of a guilty client. You won’t
answer my questions.”
He grinned. “How can I concentrate on questions
when I’m in the presence of such beauty?”
She rolled her eyes. “Cutlass—”
“No, really. I cannot believe I ever mistook you
for a boy.” His gaze traveled from her face to her neck
to her breasts, and she had the sudden urge to put a
hand over them to keep them safe from his warm
glance. She resisted and fisted her hands at her sides
instead. She still wore her gloves, and she set about
removing them. She could handle her dagger better
without a layer of kidskin between the handle and
her palm.
“Bowers was a lucky man.”
She jerked her head up, her bare fingers clutching
the dagger tightly. “Shut up, pirate. Don’t look at me,
don’t touch me, and don’t speak his name.”
“You really loved him.” The look on his face was
incredulous, and she wondered if he’d ever loved
anyone. She doubted it. He was too full of flattery, too
full of sweet phrases.
“Let’s concentrate on getting back to the palace.
My father must be frantic by now.”
Cutlass chuckled. “Somehow I doubt that. I
imagine he’s used to your disappearing.”
That was true, but she’d promised him she wouldn’t
do it anymore. She’d sworn if he allowed her to go
ashore in Gibraltar, to attend the pasha’s ball, she
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would stay right at his side. It had seemed an easy
promise on board the Regal. She’d been bored and
willing to do anything to get off the ship: promise
to stay at his side, even don this uncomfortable dress.
And she had intended to keep her promise, too. The
admiral had been coughing quite a bit the last few
months, and though he passed off the fits as nothing,
she was beginning to worry. More than once she’d
seen him pull a bloody handkerchief from his mouth.
She’d pretended she hadn’t noticed the blood, of
course. But inside, her heart constricted painfully, and
panic swept through her. If he was sick if he… no,
she would not think of that. But what would she do
if she didn’t have him? She had no family other than a
handful of aunts and uncles in Portsmouth she’d seen
only half a dozen times since she was four.
She’d been a fool to go after Cutlass. She should
have stayed with her father, especially given that she
was too afraid—or filled with lust—to do what she’d
gone after Cutlass to do in the first place.
“All right, I’ll get you back,” Cutlass said, taking
her hand.
She wrenched it free. “I told you not to touch me.
And I can get back on my own. I don’t need your help.”
He raised a brow. “Going alone is not wise.”
“Why?” She crossed her arms defiantly. “Because
I’m a woman?”
“A lone woman, dressed as you are”—he glanced at
her breasts again—“wandering the city at night? Even
if El Santo doesn’t find you, someone else might take
an interest.”
“I can protect myself.”
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“All the same, I’ll see you back.”
She opened her mouth to protest then closed it
again. There was no need to act the fool simply to
prove she didn’t want his company. Once she was
back at the palace, she’d be rid of him for the moment,
and she could start planning how to best enact her
revenge. Or satisfy her lust.
Devil take it! Revenge, not lust, was priority.
“Very well. Let’s go,” she said. And without
waiting, she stepped out from the tent and stared into
the grinning face of El Santo.
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Six
Bastien swore, raised his pistol, and fired. But El
Santo was too quick, and he’d ducked behind the tent
beside them. Bastien pulled his cabin girl back to their
hiding place and tried to think of an escape. El Santo
might have men hiding throughout the market. They
could be trapped.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” El Santo
called. “You might as well surrender now, señor. A
dagger and a used pistol won’t get you far.”
She looked at him, those green eyes accusing.
“Do you have more powder or another ball for
the pistol?”
“No.” He’d brought his pistol only as an after-
thought. He hadn’t planned to kill Jourdain on land.
He wanted to destroy him at sea, destroy La Sirena,
and watch Jourdain sink to the bottom of the ocean
on its burning timbers.
“Well, we can’t surrender.” She crossed her arms as
though this was the final word on the subject.
And he agreed with her on that point. He never
surrendered. But he had no desire to die in a Gibraltan
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marketplace, and they were hopelessly outmatched.
“We can’t exactly stand and fight.”
She nodded. “So we run.”
“Any particular direction? He probably has men at
both ends.”
“The far end,” she said. “His men didn’t cut
through the market, so they must be going around.
That will take time. If we hurry, we might beat them.”
“Stick to the shadows,” he ordered.
“Stick to the tents,” she said, and leaned down,
pulled the material of the tent at their back apart, and
ducked inside.
He followed, knowing this was a paltry hiding place.
El Santo would have them in a moment. But once
inside, he saw his resilient cabin girl lean down and
lift the material at the other end. She ducked through,
and when he peered after her, he saw her scamper into
another tent. Well, she was smart. Damned obstinate
and too persistent for her own good, but smart.
He followed, noting she was already on her way
into another tent when he entered. So she wasn’t
waiting for him. She didn’t need him to save her. He
didn’t plan to.
So why should it irk him that she so obviously
didn’t need him?
He plunged into the next tent and saw her standing
at the far side, peering through the flaps. “There’s
another tent just past those open stalls,” she said
without looking back at him. “It’s a bit of a sprint, and
the moon is full.”
He stood beside her and took in the scene. A crude
wooden rectangular structure swayed a few feet away.
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It could house four or five vendors selling fruits or
vegetables. The next tent was on the other side. The
rickety structure would give them some cover, but
not much.
She turned sharply at a nearby sound of rustling
fabric. “Are we playing cat and mouse. Cutlass? Why
don’t you stop playing the coward and come out and
face me like a man?”
“All the easier to shoot me,” Bastien murmured.
She nodded. “But we can’t stay here. He’s close.”
The tent where they hid must have been owned by
a clothing merchant. He’d left several robes hanging
in the back. “You could stay here. Hide behind those
robes. I’ll run for it and lure the men after me.”
She nodded. “Fine. Once I’m sure they’re after
you, I’ll go back the way we came.”
“Be careful,” he said. “Put on one of the robes.”
He tugged down a veil. “And it wouldn’t hurt to
disguise your face.”
The sound of fabric ripping jolted through the tent.
She clutched his arm. “That was close,” she hissed.
“You’d better go.”
He nodded and started for the slit in the flaps, but
she pulled him back. “Be careful.”
He grinned. “Don’t worry, ma belle. I’ll save my
neck for you.”
With a frown, she turned away from him, but he
grabbed her shoulder, turned her back, and kissed her
hard. She sputtered a protest, but he silenced her with
a finger on her lips. “For luck,” he murmured and
was gone.
Bastien swore as soon as he exited the tent. The
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moon was full and bright and provided him no cover
whatsoever. He wasn’t even lucky enough to be
afforded a smattering of cloud cover. He heard another
rip and saw El Santo and one of his men tear into the
tent across from the one he’d just occupied. They
each held cutlasses, and they were slashing through the
fabric as though it were butter.
Bastien ducked behind one of the meager boards
comprising the stall, but it did almost nothing to
conceal him. El Santo stumbled out of the tent and
turned for the one Bastien had just vacated. In that
moment, Bastien clearly saw his escape. While El
Santo and his man tore the tent apart and found Miss
Russell in the process, he
could secure a better hiding
place. They’d take his cabin girl to Jourdain, and he’d
follow. Of course, they might decide to rape the girl
first. They might even kill her if she put up much of a
protest—and knowing his cabin girl, she would.
But that wasn’t his problem. She had insisted on
coming after him. He told her numerous times to turn
back. He’d ordered her to turn back, but she hadn’t
listened. Her situation was her own fault, not his.
“Merde, ” he swore. Of course he wouldn’t allow El
Santo to touch her. And like a fool, Bastien stood up
when El Santo reached the cabin girl’s tent. “Looking
for someone?” Bastien taunted.
El Santo whirled for him, and Bastien drew his
sword. “Why don’t we stop this game of chase, and
fight like men?”
El Santo didn’t lower his pistol, and Bastien cursed
his misplaced sense of honor. He should have let them
find the girl. She would only try to kill him for his pains.
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“Mon ami,” Bastien said, spreading his arms in a
peaceable gesture. He was certain he made a perfect
target for El Santo’s pistol. “Do you remember that
time in Algiers? It must have taken quite a bit of catgut
to sew you up. Maybe you’d like to pay me back.”
“I’d rather just shoot you, señor. ” The sound of the
hammer locking into place cut through the silence,
and El Santo’s man laughed.
“But Jourdain wouldn’t like that.” He was reaching,
but the shadow that crossed El Santo’s face told him
he’d hit on something. “He wants me alive.”
“Alive,” El Santo said, “but not necessarily in one
piece.” He lowered the pistol, aiming it between
Bastien’s legs. Bastien’s groin tensed, but he kept his
legs braced apart.
“Shoot me, then,” Bastien said with a shrug. “I just
hope I don’t die before you get me back to Jourdain.”
The man with El Santo said something in a
language Bastien didn’t know, and Jourdain’s lieu-
tenant answered him harshly. Obviously they had
differing opinions as to Bastien’s fate. While they
argued, Bastien’s mind raced
There had been four men with El Santo earlier.
Were the other three searching the marketplace, or
had the group split? If he did take El Santo in a sword
fight, what chance of escape did he have?
“Very well, señor. ” El Santo gestured with his pistol.
“Put down the sword and come with us. We’ll let
