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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339
“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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The Rogue Pirate’s Bride
341
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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345
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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