Rogue Pirates Bride

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Rogue Pirates Bride Page 15

by Shana Galen


  she couldn’t stay away from him. She wanted to be

  here in his bed. She’d known it would end this way

  the first time he’d kissed her.

  And he must have known it too.

  He put a hand to his cheek briefly where her hand

  had left a red print. “I must have hit pretty close to the

  mark to earn that.”

  “Shut up,” she hissed. “Give me my dagger.

  I’m leaving.”

  He held out the dagger, tip pointing toward her. “I

  don’t think you’re leaving. Neither of us is yet satisfied.”

  “I’m satisfied I never want to see you again. I have

  my sword.” She spared a brief glance about the cabin.

  Where had she dropped it? “That was what I came for.”

  “So you keep telling me.” He lowered the dagger so

  the point was aimed at her heart. “But I think there’s

  more. Perhaps you like the adventure.” He touched

  the dagger to her skin, and she felt the cool, sharp blade

  at the juncture of her breasts. He pressed lightly, almost

  tickling her. “Perhaps you enjoy the danger.”

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  He slid the dagger point over the exposed curve

  of her breasts—first one, then the other. He traced

  their contours, and God help her, she couldn’t stop

  from shivering.

  “Oui, ma belle. You like the danger.” He slid

  the dagger back to her cleavage, lowering it until it

  touched the thin, rose-colored material of the gown.

  “But more than that, you like this.” With a flick of

  his wrist, he slid the sharp blade down, neatly slicing

  open the material. It gaped, and she caught it to stop

  her breasts from spilling out.

  “You like”—he used the dagger to coax first one

  hand then the other away—“me.”

  The material split open, but he was there to catch

  her flesh. He leaned forward and pressed his mouth

  to the valley between her breasts. She could feel the

  stubble there, and she liked its roughness against the

  softness of her skin. His lips were cool against her flesh,

  teasing her until she was warm—warm and writhing

  against the ministrations of his tongue, his teeth, his

  so-very-skilled lips.

  He took one nipple inside his mouth, twirled it

  about with his tongue, and she could not stop her head

  from lolling back. One hand caught her at the waist

  and held her to him, held her so the sweet torment

  could continue.

  And she didn’t want it to stop. She wanted him to

  rip the dress from her body and take her hard and fast.

  She wanted him to do it now so she wouldn’t have

  time to think about what she was doing. She didn’t

  want to think about who she was with.

  But Cutlass was not so obliging. He moved slowly,

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  seemingly in no hurry to explore farther than her neck

  or her shoulders. Gradually, he peeled away the mate-

  rial of the gown and eased her back on the berth. He

  rose over her, and she looked up at him.

  A piece of his long, dark hair had fallen over his

  forehead, and it enhanced his already roguish look.

  His blue eyes were hooded, dark with desire. His

  hands were everywhere—on her body, in her hair, his

  fingers in her mouth. When he looked at her, she felt

  a jolt of need and arched to kiss him.

  But he looked away, bending to her breasts again.

  She felt the cool blade of the dagger and the whisper

  of satin as he slit the dress to her waist. He pressed a

  cool, stubbled cheek to the flesh of her belly, and she

  moaned. He turned the cheek slightly, pressing his

  lips against her. Her hands fisted in his hair, and she

  whispered, “Yes.”

  And then his teeth scraped against flesh, lightly,

  teasingly, and she couldn’t stop a small laugh. Instantly,

  he was on his elbows, staring down at her. “Do that

  again, ma belle.”

  She squinted at the decadent angel looking down at

  her with undisguised need. “Do what?” she murmured.

  “Laugh.” He touched a finger to her mouth, and

  she could not help but wonder where he’d dropped

  her dagger and how quickly she could reach it. “I do

  not think I have ever heard you truly laugh.”

  She smiled, brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I think

  you might find more ways to make me laugh.”

  “Oui, je suis—”

  The sound of drums had both of them stiffening.

  He was the first on his feet, but she was right behind

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  him, gathering her dress closed and darting her gaze

  about the cabin for dagger and sword.

  “Aux postes de combat! ” came the shout from some-

  where above them. She translated silently. On the

  Regal, the order would have been “beat to quarters,”

  and she would have reported to her father’s cabin to

  assist him with strategy.

  “Branle-bas de combat! ” came the next order, and this

  time the voice was closer.

  “What’s going on?” Raeven shouted. Were they

  under attack? Had her father realized she was on

  board? Was the whole harbor under some kind

  of threat? She peered out the bank of windows

  behind the berth and saw the harbor was still dark.

  No signs of fire or smoke, no sound of gunshots or

  cannon fire.

  Someone pounded on the door, and Cutlass had it

  open before the man could rap twice. In the compan-

  ionway, she could see men rushing to their stations,

  could hear the scrape of cannons moving into position

  on the deck above them.

  “Report,” Cutlass ordered, strapping on a pistol.

  Raeven recognized the man as Mr. Maine, the

  Shadow’s quartermaster.

  He must have recognized her too, because he gave

  her a brief glance then another before stuttering,

  “Lookouts have sighted La Sirena. She must have

  hidden in a cove. But she’s sailing past the harbor,

  trying to make a run for it.”

  “Well, she won’t get far.” From the wall, Cutlass

  pulled the weapon that bore his name and secured it

  about his waist. “What’s the weather gage?”

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  “La Sirena has it, sir. But the wind is picking up.

  We can catch her if we act now.”

  “Good. Set a course to intercept her.” He started

  out the door, but Raeven caught his arm.

  “Release Percy and lower us in one of your long-

  boats. We’ll be away in minutes.”

  “No time,” he said, walking away from her.

  “There is time.” She ran after him, one hand

  securing her dress closed, the other lifting the skirts so

  she could run. “I must return to my father’s
ship. If

  you keep me as prisoner, you’ll have the whole of the

  British navy after you.”

  “They’ll have to catch me first.” He strode up a

  ladderway and onto the gun deck, and Raeven tried

  to ignore the startled glances of the gunners as she ran

  by. She tried as well not to notice how efficiently they

  moved, how quickly they were in place. Why, their

  timing was as good as or better than the crew’s on the

  Regal, and she knew her father drilled the gun crews

  almost every day.

  She followed Cutlass to the poop deck, jumping

  aside as men rushed to positions. The wind whipped

  at her dress, threatening to tear it free. She grasped

  at the bodice with both hands. But aboveboard, she

  could see her pleas were hopeless. The Shadow had

  caught the wind, the anchor was up, and they were

  moving out of the harbor. Without any real hope,

  she followed Cutlass onto the poop deck, saw the

  helmsman with his hands on the wheel, turning it hard

  to starboard to catch the wind.

  All hope vanishing, she turned to stare back at

  the dark harbor. If she looked hard enough, she

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  thought she could just make out the main mast of

  the Regal. And as she watched, it grew smaller then

  faded away.

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  Nine

  Six hours later, Bastien stormed into his cabin,

  threw his cutlass down on his berth, and cursed. He

  didn’t know where the fog had come from, didn’t

  know and didn’t care. They’d lost La Sirena. The

  brigantine had vanished like some sort of phantom,

  and they were sailing blind, searching for one tiny fish

  who could have swum anywhere in this vast sea.

  Or could she?

  Bastien went to his desk and pulled out the chart he

  wanted. He put his finger on Gibraltar. They’d been

  sailing west, following La Sirena. He moved his finger

  westward on the chart. Where could she be headed?

  Was she…?

  With a start, he jerked his head up and stared at his

  berth. The bedclothes were mussed and a reddish gown

  thrown over them. He knew he was alone, but he

  turned in a complete circle anyway. She wasn’t here.

  He tried to remember the last time he’d seen his

  petite cabin girl. She’d been arguing with him, telling

  him to lower a longboat so she and the boy she’d

  come with could be away.

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  He’d refused her… That had been on the main

  deck. Had she followed him to the poop deck? He

  couldn’t remember. Hell, remembering her state

  of dress—or undress, rather—when the drums had

  sounded, he hoped not.

  He focused on the torn dress again. She’d come

  back to the cabin, taken off the gown, and then…

  He’d find her in the hold, no doubt. She’d be

  with Mr. Williams. He crossed the room, prepared

  to order her to be brought to him, but decided to go

  himself instead.

  The brig was located in the hold and was nothing

  more than several sets of chains fastened to a bulwark.

  Bastien went down the ladderway, feeling the air

  chill as he made his way lower. The hold was dark,

  foul, and infested with rats and other vermin. It was

  no place for a lady. He lifted a lantern and shone it

  over the cargo and barrels of water, chains, cables,

  and spare rigging. An area had been set aside for the

  prisoners. In one set of chains, fastened to the ship,

  sat Jolivette, knees drawn to his chest, head down

  between them. He glanced up once then looked back

  down dejectedly.

  Bastien had half a mind to release him. His petite

  cabin girl was a crafty one, and he could hardly expect

  poor Jolivette to keep a hold on her when he himself

  had yet to do so. Just beyond Jolivette sat the cabin

  girl herself. The hold was dark, but her eyes must have

  adjusted by now, and she was already watching him.

  He scowled. He didn’t want her here, in the dark

  and cold.

  She’d obviously helped herself to one of his trunks.

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  She wore one of his white linen shirts and a pair of

  tan breeches with boots. He didn’t know where she’d

  appropriated the boots, as his would have swallowed

  her feet. Even so, she’d belted his shirt at the waist,

  which only made it look that much bigger on her.

  Across from her and in chains, Mr. Williams sat

  cross-legged on the floor. Bastien appraised him

  quickly: scared but trying not to show it, indignant but

  not for himself… for Raeven. Hopelessly in love with

  the little hellion.

  Bastien’s fist clenched, but one look at Raeven’s

  actions toward Williams, and Bastien relaxed. The boy

  was little more than a puppy to her. She even stroked

  his arm as though petting him. The two captives had

  been talking, but now the only sound was the creak

  of the boards and the muffled shouts of “Look lively

  now, lads!” from above.

  “Am I interrupting?” Bastien would have liked

  a cigar, but the powder magazines were aft, and he

  didn’t want to risk any sort of spark.

  “If I say yes, will you leave?”

  He grinned at her. “No. How are you faring,

  Mr. Williams?”

  “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.

  Raeven—Miss Russell—tells me we’ve left Gibraltar.”

  “Indeed, we have.”

  “And our course, sir?” The sir was given in a

  mocking tone.

  Still, it was a good question. In the bilge, water

  dripped, and he listened to the plink, plink, plink.

  “I heard the crew talking about La Sirena,” Raeven

  said finally. “That’s Jourdain’s ship, isn’t it?”

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  “And what do you know about Jourdain?” Bastien

  asked.

  “Barbary pirate, your enemy, headed”—she paused,

  lifted her head—“west, I should think.”

  “Very good.” Now if he only knew precisely where…

  “Why are we chasing him?”

  “You said yourself. He’s my enemy.” Bastien

  was aware Jolivette had raised his head, and Bastien

  wondered how many of the crew knew why he hated

  Jourdain. Wondered how many followed him out of

  loyalty and not because they remembered Vargas.

  To her credit, his cabin girl didn’t ask any more

  questions. She merely waited, allowed the plink of the

  water to grow louder.

  “Why do you hate me?” Bastien asked.

  “You know why. You killed…” She paused,

  and he could see her tilt her head, knew she was />
  thinking. “So this Jourdain killed someone you

  cared for.”

  He didn’t answer, didn’t affirm or deny.

  “Who?” she asked finally.

  “Not a lover, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or

  a fiancée,” he added, because he’d seen her stiffen

  and knew she was about to protest. “But someone

  important to me. So you see, you are not the only one

  with a vendetta, chérie. We have more in common

  than you realize.”

  If she disagreed, she didn’t voice it. Instead, she

  turned back to Mr. Williams, and they seemed to

  exchange some sort of silent signal. Bastien reached

  for the keys at his belt and unlocked Jolivette’s chains.

  “Report to your station, Jolivette.”

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  The man was instantly on his feet, knuckling a salute.

  “Yes, Cap’n. I won’t let you down again. I won’t—”

  “I know, Jolivette.”

  The man knuckled another salute and dashed up

  the ladderway as easily as he scampered up the rat

  lines. Bastien moved forward, and when the girl saw

  his intent, she rose to move out of his way. “Are you

  releasing him or imprisoning me?”

  Bastien chuckled. “I’m not certain yet. Which do

  you prefer?” He would rather have his fingernails

  pulled out than lock her down here, but he wasn’t

  prepared to admit as much.

  “If he has to be locked up for the duration of this

  voyage, I want to be, as well.”

  Bastien leaned forward and whispered in her

  ear. “Coward.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t know what—”

  “Much safer down here than up there”—he pointed

  toward his cabin—“with me.”

  He stepped to the lock, inserted the key, and freed

  the boy from his chains. “Mr. Williams, it’s almost

  noon. Will you join us for some refreshment? I think

  Salviati, our cook, has something special prepared.”

  The man looked at Raeven first, and Bastien had

  the distinct feeling she had all the men on board the

  Regal eating out of her hand. He knew it. There was

  no other way she could have engineered a plan to

  escape her ship and infiltrate his with the help of this

  one boy alone. The men might be loyal to her because

  she was the admiral’s daughter. But more likely, they

  admired her strength, her skills with dagger and sword,

  and her cunning.

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