Rogue Pirates Bride

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Rogue Pirates Bride Page 35

by Shana Galen


  and no, you won’t have to wear the uniform.” She

  grinned. “Unless you want. I think it suits you.”

  He looked at her with something akin to horror,

  and she laughed again. It felt so good to laugh, felt so

  good to be back in his arms.

  The sound of boots behind them had her looking

  over her shoulder. Her father stood grim faced. “Am I

  to congratulate the happy couple?”

  Raeven leaped up. “Yes!” She hugged him hard,

  realizing as she did, this was good-bye. She pulled

  back. “But will you be all right without me? Will you

  take care of yourself?”

  He straightened. “I’ll be fine.” To her surprise,

  he leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll be happy

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  knowing you’re well taken care of.” He gave Bastien

  a warning look. “Now, get the hell off my ship. The

  next time we dock, I’ll expect to see grandchildren.”

  Bastien gave a mock-salute. “Yes, Captain.” He

  turned, swept her into his arms, and carried her,

  laughing, down the gangplank and back onto land.

  When they stood on the deck, he lowered her, and

  Raeven looked up at the Regal then into Bastien’s eyes.

  “I love you,” she said. “I always have. From that

  first moment in Brest, I loved you.”

  “I know.”

  She frowned, but he reached into his coat and

  pulled out a paper.

  “What’s that?”

  “A special license. My brother has all sorts of

  connections. My family is waiting at the church now.

  Are you ready to be married?”

  She gaped. “Now? Today? I-I’m not dressed, not—”

  He put a finger over her lips. “I love you just the

  way you are, and yes, now. Today. I want you to be

  mine legally before you change your mind.”

  She swallowed and nodded. Life with Bastien

  would never be predictable, never ordinary. She could

  think, or she could hold her breath and dive in.

  She inhaled and prepared to jump.

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  Epilogue

  It was the worst pain she had ever felt. She’d

  screamed until her throat was raw and only a hoarse

  croak would come out. Bastien stood beside her,

  held her hand throughout the ordeal. She’d told

  him to leave, told him he wasn’t supposed to be in

  the room, but he’d been steadfast, and after the pain

  became unbearable, she was glad to have his hand to

  clamp onto.

  She wanted to say she forgot the pain when the

  midwife presented her with the howling baby girl.

  She took the baby in her arms, stared down at her red

  face, the shock of black hair, and the muddy blue eyes.

  Raeven didn’t forget the pain, but she did fall in love.

  Instantly. Irrevocably.

  She looked at Bastien and knew he felt it, too. She

  held the baby out to him. “Your daughter.”

  He blinked. “You want me to hold her?”

  “Don’t you want to?” She almost laughed at the

  look of pure terror on his face.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then here.”

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  He took the squalling baby carefully in his arms,

  looked down at her, and immediately she ceased crying.

  “There,” Raeven said. “She likes you. What shall

  we call her? Elizabeth? After my mother?”

  He nodded, still staring, enraptured, at his daughter.

  “Bon jour, Elizabeth. Bienvenue.”

  The midwife had barely finished her duties and the

  linens scarcely changed when the first knock came

  at the door. It was Sarah. “Raeven, can we come in

  now? Just Felicity and Rowena and I.”

  Raeven smiled sleepily at Bastien. The baby was

  curled in one of his arms, and he had the other

  wrapped securely around her shoulders. “Your family,”

  she murmured.

  “Allow one in, they’ll all be in.”

  He was right, but she didn’t mind. Somehow his

  family had become hers, as well.

  “Come in, Sarah.”

  The door opened to admit the duchesse, the

  dowager, and the comtesse. All three of the women

  crowded around the baby and cooed.

  “What have you named her?” Rowena asked.

  “Elizabeth,” Raeven told them.

  “Oh, I adore that name!” Felicity, who had a

  daughter of her own, beamed. “Hello, Elizabeth.”

  “We might call her Eliza,” Sarah said.

  “Call who Eliza?” Julien stuck his head in the

  doorway. He was holding Etienne, and the little boy

  smiled shyly. “Armand and the admiral want to know

  if it’s safe to enter.”

  Beside her, Bastien gave a short sigh. “Why don’t

  we invite the servants while we’re at it?”

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  “Oh, I know Mrs. Eggers wants to meet the baby,”

  Felicity said. “And your friend, Bastien, Mr. Leveque.”

  Raeven smiled. “Perhaps later.”

  Julien and Armand stood at the foot of the bed. As

  usual, Armand was silent, but he gave Raeven a smile.

  Her father came to stand on the other side of her.

  “I heard you named her Elizabeth,” he said. “Your

  mother would have been honored.”

  She smiled up at him. “I know you were hoping

  for a grandson.”

  “Now that I’ve retired, I need someone to go

  fishing with me.” He smiled at the baby, who had

  begun to fuss. “But I think this little girl will have her

  mother’s spirit. She ought to keep me busy.”

  Raeven took the baby into her arms, and Bastien

  leaned over and kissed his wife’s temple. “Do you

  think she’ll be able to sail in a few months? Our ship

  will be ready, and the world awaits.”

  “She’ll have her sea legs before her land legs.”

  “Just as it should be,” he murmured into her hair.

  Raeven had to agree.

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  Acknowledgments

  There are many people who make a book like this

  possible. I’d like to thank Sourcebooks, especially my

  editor, Deb Werksman, who talks to me more like a

  reader than an editor. I’d also like to thank Danielle

  Jackson, Sarah Ryan, Susie Benton, and all the others

  at Sourcebooks who work so hard on my behalf. I’m

  extremely fortunate to have Joanna MacKenzie and

  Danielle Egan-Miller as my agents. They make me feel

  like the only author in the world.

  This novel required research into ships and sailing.

  I’m indebted to my dad for sharing his vast knowledge

  of seafaring and for reading sections of this novel for

  correctness. I’m also grateful to Ronald Stebbins for

  his input. As this is a work of fiction, I’ve taken a

  few liberties, but I made every at
tempt at accuracy.

  I use several Spanish names in this novel, and I’m

  appreciative of the suggestions and translations made

  by Gina Colion-Hernandez. Once again, Pascale

  Zurzolo-Champeau graciously answered my questions

  regarding French expressions and phrases. Of course,

  any and all mistakes in the novel are mine completely.

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  My career as an author wouldn’t be possible

  without the support of family and friends, including

  my longtime friend and critique partner, Christina

  Hergenrader; the members of West Houston RWA,

  especially Sharie Kohler and Tera Lynn Childs; and

  the ladies of the Sisterhood of the Jaunty Quills,

  in particular Margo Maguire and Robyn DeHart.

  Madeira James at xuni.com took me on as a client in

  2004, and she still designs and maintains my website.

  Somehow she always finds time for another update or

  tweak. And last but far from least, I’d like to acknowl-

  edge my husband, Mathew, for making so many

  dinners, entertaining Bella, and always building me up.

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  About the Author

  Shana Galen is the author of seven Regency historcals,

  including the Rita-nominated Blackthorne’s Bride. Her

  books have been sold in Brazil, Russia, the Netherlands,

  Spain, and Turkey and featured in the Rhapsody and

  Doubleday Book Clubs. A former English teacher in

  Houston’s inner city, Shana now writes full time. She

  is a happily married wife and mother of a daughter and

  a spoiled cat. She loves to hear from readers: visit her

  website at www.shanagalen.com or see what she’s up to

  daily on Facebook and Twitter.

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  From

  Lord and Lady Spy

  Somewhere in Europe, July 1815

  The spy called Saint hunkered down in the

  bottom of the wardrobe she’d occupied for the last

  four hours and attempted to stifle a yawn.

  She didn’t need to crack the door to know the

  activities in the bed across the room were still very

  much in progress. She could hear the courtesan urging

  her “horse” onward, the woman’s demands punctu-

  ated by the man’s loud neighs.

  Saint sighed, shifting so her muscles remained

  limber. She’d given up being embarrassed about three

  and a quarter hours ago and now wondered how

  much longer the game could persist.

  Where was Lucien Ducos? If Bonaparte’s advisor

  didn’t make an appearance tonight, Saint was going to

  have a lot of explaining to do. Despite being ordered

  to track Ducos to France, she’d elected to remain right

  here. Something told her that Bonaparte’s advisor

  would visit his mistress one last time before leaving. It

  was a feeling—her intuition speaking to her. And Saint

  always listened to her intuition.

  It had led her to this wardrobe, where she’d been

  treated to The Sassy Upstairs Maid, The Very Bad

  Boy, and now Horse and Rider. Ducos had better

  turn up soon—before someone decided to play Hide

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  and Seek and discovered the wardrobe held more

  than clothes.

  The horse’s neighs grew louder, and Saint covered

  her ears. How much longer? She was definitely leaving

  as soon as the horse… was stabled.

  She sighed. Oh, who was she fooling? Of course,

  she wouldn’t leave. She’d stay as long as necessary to

  secure Ducos.

  That was her mission.

  Failure was not an option.

  Saint dropped her head in her hands and tried

  to remember why she was putting up with this.

  Bonaparte had escaped after his defeat at Waterloo.

  England—nay, Europe—would not be safe until he

  was apprehended and dealt with. All sources pointed

  to Ducos as the man who knew where Bonaparte was

  hidden. Her mission was to find Ducos and make him

  talk. Failure was not an option.

  She’d tracked him here, discovered the name of

  his courtesan, and set the perfect trap. So where was

  the Frenchman?

  Suddenly the slaps and neighs were interrupted by

  three loud bangs on the front door. The courtesan’s

  house was small, the outer door located down a short

  flight of steps near the bedroom. In the abrupt silence,

  Saint could hear the housekeeper’s shoes clicking

  through the vestibule.

  “What are you doing?” the horse asked the cour-

  tesan in one of the seven languages Saint knew well.

  “You can’t stop now.”

  “One moment,” the woman answered.

  Saint’s nose itched, and she sat forward, careful to

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  remain absolutely silent. She heard a man’s voice, the

  housekeeper’s negative answer, and the man’s voice

  again. She could tell, despite the housekeeper’s refusal

  of entrance, the intruder had entered.

  Inside the bedroom, the courtesan scrambled to

  dismount as the intruder spoke again. In French.

  Saint allowed herself a smile—the first in weeks. It

  was Ducos. It had to be. She heard his footsteps on the

  stairs and extracted her pistol from beneath her mantle,

  shifting the dagger to her other hand.

  The footsteps drew closer, and the courtesan’s

  whispers grew more frantic. “You must hide. If he

  catches me with you—”

  “Ha! You think I am afraid of some little French

  clerk? His time is over.”

  Little French clerk? Ducos was over six feet tall and

  known for violent outbursts.

  “Please,” the courtesan all but begged. “Please, hide.”

  If the stallion had an ounce of sense, he’d listen.

  The courtesan continued, “Hide in the wardrobe. I

  will get rid of him.”

  Saint’s eyes widened. No! Not the wardrobe. Damn!

  Footsteps thumped on the landing, and a tap rattled

  the bedroom door. “Ma chérie? Are you in there?”

  “Who is it?” the courtesan called innocently. Then

  she hissed, “Never mind, there’s no time. Get under

  the bed.”

  Saint exhaled loudly and closed her eyes in relief.

  “Ma petite chou? Open the door, chérie.”

  “I’m coming.” There was the sound of clothing

  rustling, and then the woman crossed the room and

  opened the door.

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  Saint squinted through the keyhole in the ward-

  robe. Lucien Ducos, wearing a black greatcoat with a

  chapeau bras tucked under his arm, stood in the center

  of the room. Wasting no time, he pulled the courtesan

  into his arms and kissed her.

  Saint held her bre
ath. Now was the time to take

  action—burst out of the wardrobe, pistol in one

  hand and dagger in the other. Heart drumming, Saint

  extended two fingers and pushed gingerly on the

  wardrobe’s door.

  Available December 2011 from

  Sourcebooks Casablanca

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