Rogue Pirates Bride

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Rogue Pirates Bride Page 11

by Shana Galen


  Jourdain decide what to do with you.”

  Bastien cocked a brow. “You want me to surrender?

  You’ll have to kill me first.”

  “Fine.” El Santo aimed and fired.

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  With a curse, Bastien flew back, searing white pain

  in his left shoulder. He stumbled to the ground on one

  knee and shook his head. He could see a haze of stars in

  front of his eyes, and the pain was spreading through his

  body like some kind of virulent disease. “Fils de s alope,”

  he muttered. The bastard had actually shot him.

  If the ball had hit his right shoulder, he’d be doomed,

  but he still had his sword clutched in his right hand.

  Now he pivoted and came up with a roar. El Santo’s

  eyes widened in surprise, and he fumbled for his own

  sword. His henchman wasted no time, however. He

  raised his own pistol, and Bastien closed his eyes.

  Something zipped past him and struck the man

  with enough force to cause him to drop his pistol

  and clutch his abdomen. Bastien had a moment to

  look behind him and saw his cabin girl, his beautiful

  cabin girl, standing there with arm outstretched. He’d

  known she’d be accurate with that dagger.

  He grinned at her, but she gave him a look of horror.

  He turned in time to deflect El Santo’s first strike.

  Their blades clashed, and Bastien figured if Jourdain’s

  other men weren’t in the marketplace by now, they

  would be soon. The whole city must have heard the

  gunfire and now the clash of sword and cutlass.

  But when El Santo thrust again, he had little time

  to worry about the future. Bastien had to concentrate

  on deflecting the blow. His shoulder was killing him,

  the pain making it hard to concentrate or move as

  quickly as he would have liked. He could feel a stream

  of wetness soaking his shirt and coat, dripping from

  his hand onto the ground below. Still, he managed to

  push back El Santo and put him on the defensive. But

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  the man charged him like some kind of berserker, and

  Bastien, worried he couldn’t stand up against such a

  strong assault, was forced to sidestep. El Santo pivoted

  and went for him again, and this time metal crashed

  with metal. Bastien clenched his teeth and forced his

  sword back against El Santo’s cutlass. Sweat streamed

  down his face and into his eyes, and he blinked. From

  the corner of his vision he saw a flurry of green. Was

  it just his blurred vision, or had his cabin girl gone to

  retrieve her dagger from El Santo’s man?

  He saw her crouch beside the wounded man and

  doubled his efforts against El Santo. Jourdain’s lieu-

  tenant had his back to the man, and Bastien preferred

  to keep him occupied until she had the dagger in hand

  again. He met El Santo’s blade with his own, the clash

  of steel reverberating through his body painfully. But

  it wasn’t the pain he thought of. He’d just decided that

  if his cabin girl regained that blade, he was going to

  have to seriously consider marrying her.

  Raeven had thought the man was dead, but when

  she reached for the dagger jutting from his abdomen,

  he grabbed her hand with his own bloody one. She

  let out a small screech, as much from surprise as the

  revulsion of his blood on her skin. Her vision wavered

  and went dark, then she bit hard on her lip and forced

  her hand free. The man reached for her again, but

  she punched him hard, and he rolled to the side. She

  leaned over him and freed the dagger with a sickening

  squelch. She wished she’d kept her gloves on because

  she was pretty certain there was some part of the man’s

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  intestine on the hilt of the dagger, and it was slippery

  on her fingertips.

  The sound of clashing swords drew her attention,

  and she watched as Cutlass deflected another of El

  Santo’s blows. Even in the moonlight, he looked

  decidedly gray. His blood dotted the ground, dark-

  ening the sand as the men’s feet trampled it. He fought

  valiantly, but she could see the tremor in his arm and

  hear how heavily he was breathing. He wouldn’t last

  much longer.

  She didn’t know why she should care. She should

  let this El Santo take him, let this Jourdain finish him

  off. She was probably too much of a coward to do

  it anyway.

  But she owed him now. She’d been peeking

  through the tent slit when El Santo angled for it.

  She had known then she was in trouble and thought

  Cutlass was long gone. But then she’d heard him call

  out. There was no good reason for him to have done

  so, other than to save her.

  So now she’d save him and they’d be even. Then

  she could kill him with a clear conscience.

  “El Santo,” she called.

  He turned at her voice, and she raised the dagger.

  “Put down the sword, or I give you another taste

  of my dagger.” She looked pointedly at the bloodied

  tourniquet on his thigh.

  El Santo seemed to consider. She could all but read

  his thoughts. On his one side, Cutlass stood huffing

  and panting. Killing or seriously incapacitating the

  wounded man would be easy. He looked at her, at

  the dagger. She could see him judging the distance.

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  Could he reach her with his cutlass before she could

  let go the dagger?

  But before he could make his decision, the sound

  of boots and men’s voices filled the night air. At first

  Raeven tensed, certain El Santo’s other men had

  found them, but then she recognized the language

  as English. “My father’s men!” she said, recognizing

  Percy’s voice among the others. “He’s probably sent

  them out to search for me.”

  “You’re not hard to find with all the gunfire,”

  Cutlass rasped.

  “What is this?” El Santo pivoted toward her then

  back toward Cutlass.

  “Les Anglais sont ici.” Bastien smiled at her. “The

  British are here.”

  El Santo still looked confused, and the pirate

  added, “They’re looking for her. You’ve been chasing

  Admiral Russell’s only daughter.”

  “I knew she was no whore.”

  “I’d run now, while you have the chance.”

  But El Santo was already backing up, moving away

  from the sound of boots and men’s voices.

  “Tell Jourdain we’re not through,” Cutlass called after

  the retreating Spaniard. “And the next time we meet,

  he’d better be man enough to face me on his own.”

  Cutlass lowered his sword, and she saw him lean on />
  it heavily. She went to him, putting her arm around

  him to support him. “I’m fine.” He waved her away.

  “You’re shot.”

  “I have a good ship’s doctor. I’ll make it.” He lifted

  the sword, attempted to sheath it, but missed. She

  took it from him and sheathed it for him.

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  “Can you make it back to your ship on your own?

  If my father’s men find you here—”

  “I understand and have no desire to swing from the

  Regal’s yardarm.”

  And yet she noticed he didn’t move away. He stood

  looking at her, his expression unreadable. She looked

  back, feeling uncomfortable. For some reason she kept

  thinking about the kiss they had shared—not the hard,

  perfunctory kiss at the pasha’s palace, but that kiss six

  months before on his ship. She wanted him to kiss her

  like that again, and yet she knew if he tried, she’d hit

  him rather than kiss him back.

  “You’d better get out of here.”

  He nodded. “I’m waiting to see if you’re going to

  kiss me good-bye.”

  “Kiss you? I’d rather—”

  He took her chin with his clean hand. “Just do it,

  Raeven.” He nodded toward the growing commo-

  tion. Her father’s men were moments away. “This

  might be your last chance.”

  It wasn’t. She knew she’d see him again, find some

  way to exact her revenge. He was wounded, and she

  could kill him now. She could have killed him ten

  times over tonight. And yet, she hadn’t.

  She didn’t want to.

  She was intrigued by him and, truth be told,

  she wanted him. And so she stepped into his arms,

  wrapped her hands around his neck, and pressed her

  lips to his.

  His body was hard and warm. She could feel his

  muscles tense and bunch then release as his arm came

  around her to pull her hard against him. His mouth

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  opened for her, and she plundered its depth. He still

  tasted of tobacco and champagne, and she thought

  the flavors suited him. His mouth slanted over hers,

  his tongue mating with hers, and she let out a small

  moan. One touch of his mouth and she was breathless;

  her head was spinning, and she felt as though she were

  sinking in quicksand.

  What was wrong with her? Kissing Timothy had

  never felt like this…

  The horror of what she was doing hit her, and she

  pulled away. He allowed it, though she could tell he

  was reluctant to release her.

  “Get out of here,” she said and raised her dagger.

  “While you still can.”

  He was still holding one of her hands, and he raised

  it, brushed his lips against it. “Adieu, chérie. Until we

  meet again.”

  He turned and melted into the shadows.

  A moment later she heard Percy’s voice. “There she

  is! Raeven are you all right?”

  She turned and waved. “I’m fine. Glad to see you.”

  And she walked to meet him.

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  Seven

  “Fils de salope! ” Bastien flinched as the needle

  cut through his skin. “Don’t I at least get a swig of rum?”

  “I used the rum on the wound, Monsieur le

  Marquis. You are a big, strong captain, no? It is only

  four little stitches.”

  And he felt every one of those stitches as the ship’s

  doctor closed the hole made by the ball of El Santo’s

  pistol. Gaston Leveque, the Shadow’s doctor, sat back

  and nodded at his handiwork. “Voilà! Next time you

  will be more careful, no?”

  Bastien dropped down from the table where

  he’d been sitting, still rubbing his left shoulder. “I

  think the cure is worse than the ailment,” he said

  in French.

  “Eh, bien.” Gaston raised one shoulder. It was a

  particularly Gallic gesture, and it stabbed at Bastien’s

  heart. He turned away and gingerly pulled a clean shirt

  over his head.

  “As you know, Monsieur le Marquis, this is not my

  first profession.”

  “And in the two decades I’ve known you, I’ve

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  never heard you complain about not having to muck

  out stables any longer.”

  “Ah, but I do miss having my feet on land. I

  grow tired of pitching to and fro.” He made rocking

  motions with his hands, and Bastien nodded absently.

  He’d heard Gaston’s complaints a hundred, no, a

  thousand, times before. He also knew the old man—

  for he’d seemed to grow old almost before Bastien’s

  eyes—would never leave him. They’d been together

  since that horrible summer night so long ago.

  “It still troubles you, Monsieur le Marquis.” Gaston

  laid a hand on Bastien’s good shoulder. “But you

  never speak of it.”

  “No.” He shrugged off the hand. He didn’t want

  sympathy right now. He wanted a large jug of rum or

  three and his bed. “And you never cease calling me

  Monsieur le Marquis, though I’ve told you more times

  than I can count to call me Bastien.”

  “Eh. You will always be Monsieur le Marquis to me.”

  Bastien reached for the jug of rum on the table

  and swallowed a healthy portion. “I’m no marquis.

  Not anymore.”

  Gaston frowned at the upraised jug. He crossed

  the infirmary and took two goblets from a shelf on

  the far side. Taking the jug from Bastien, he filled the

  goblets, handed one to Bastien and kept the other for

  himself. “You act very little like a marquis. If your

  father saw you—”

  “My father is dead.” Bastien waved a hand to cut

  off the man. “They’re all dead. Even if I wanted to be

  a marquis, it wouldn’t matter. The French aristocracy

  is dead. Let’s raise a glass to Madame Guillotine.” He

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  gave a mock salute with his mug, but Gaston refused

  to follow.

  “That I cannot toast, Monsieur le Marquis.”

  Bastien hadn’t expected him to. He knew he was

  being an ass, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  He was frustrated that El Santo had gotten away, and

  Bastien was no closer to locating Jourdain. He was

  frustrated that he couldn’t seem to get the image of

  Raeven Russell’s green eyes out of his mind. And he

  was frustrated that his shoulder hurt like hell.

  He took another swallow of rum.

  Still, that was no excuse for taking out his frustra-

  tions on Gaston, his oldest and closest friend. The

  old servant had been with him since the beginning,

  since he was but a boy in short pants, t
rying to escape

  the horror of the revolution and the inevitability of

  pursuit and death, by signing on with the first captain

  in Cherbourg who would take him. He’d sailed only

  once before, the summer before that horrible night,

  and it had been a pleasure cruise on the Seine.

  When he’d signed on as a crewmember under

  Captain Vargas, Bastien had known nothing of tackle

  and rigging, bow and stern, port and starboard. He’d

  started at the bottom and learned quickly. When he

  made a mistake, he was cuffed, and on occasion, he felt

  the sting of the lash. It was a shock for a boy who’d

  been used to commanding those around him.

  But he’d always been adventurous. He and his older

  brother Julien had been sneaking out of their parents’

  town house and country chateau since Bastien had

  been old enough to walk. And he’d been in his share

  of scuffles and fights. He could hold his own.

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  And he had. So had Gaston.

  And he’d never forget the day his captain, Vargas,

  gave him a compliment rather than a cuff. Over the

  years, Vargas had come to rely on him, made him his

  quartermaster, taught him everything he knew about

  ships and sailing. When Bastien turned seventeen,

  Vargas gave him the Shadow.

  It wasn’t exactly Vargas’s to give. They’d spotted

  it off the coast of Portugal, its hull low in the water.

  Bastien led the attack and the boarding party, fighting

  tooth and nail until they’d subdued the crew and

  appropriated the silks, spices, wines, and fine tobacco

  for their own use. As a reward, Vargas gave Bastien the

  ship. They’d sailed into Malaga, taken on a fresh crew,

  and he’d begun calling himself Captain Cutlass.

  The fanciful name was the only nod to his child-

  hood he allowed. It had been a game he’d played with

  his twin Armand and their older brother Julien. He

  was the pirate, Captain Cutlass, and they were, alter-

  nately, British or Spanish ship’s captains. The British

  and the Spanish fought valiantly, but Captain Cutlass

  always won the day.

  Now he was Captain Cutlass in truth, and he’d

  almost forgotten the days of Sébastien Harcourt,

  marquis de Valère. That had been another life, another

  person. The boy with the two extraordinary brothers,

  the beautiful maman, and the strong but kind pére was

  no more. Gaston was his only tie to that life.

  Bastien raised his goblet to his lips, only to find it

 

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