The Rogue Pirate’s Bride (2 page)

“You’ll have to pry the blunt out of my cold, dead hands, pirate bastard.” She was sweating now and breathing heavily, but she’d managed to make him edge a little more to her right. Their swords were still locked in a stalemate, but she knew he was waiting for the right time to strike. She kept her weight on the balls of her feet, ready to defend.

Around her, she could hear the crowd exclaiming, could hear bets being placed and feel the men crowding in to observe. She wondered if anyone bet on her.

“I know we’ve not formally met,” Cutlass said, “but might I ask why you keep referring to me as a ‘bastard pirate’ when I’m neither a pirate nor a bastard? It’s rather impolite.”

“I’ll show you impolite!” She stepped back, moving quickly as his blade came down with a swish of hot air before her face. But before he could raise it again, she feinted to the left and skirted around him.

Ha! Victory! Now she had the open room to her back!

But Cutlass, quicker than she anticipated, spun around and thrust, forcing her, stumbling and pinwheeling, back into the crowd. One of the men caught her by the arms and shoved her forward again. She ducked and fell into a somersault as Cutlass’s blade swooshed above her.

That was no swordplay. Cutlass was finally serious.

She sprang to her feet and, whipping around, paired her sword with his. The blades scraped together as she thrust and parried, and he followed suit. He was a good swordsman, she realized, as he matched her move for move. He’d studied the art, didn’t just act on instinct. She too had studied, and mentally she went through her list of offensive maneuvers.

But the frustrating man blocked her every attack. He seemed to know what she would do before she did it. And the worst part was she was growing tired. When she’d left her father’s ship, she’d been fueled by excitement and revenge. Now, Cutlass systematically wore away at her reserves. He defended but did not attack. And she couldn’t help but notice he did not seem even slightly winded.

The crowd cheered at each of their advances, and she had the distinct impression they were rooting for her. But Cutlass would have his supporters as well. If she killed him—no,
when
she killed him—she needed to be ready for another attack.

“Devil take you!” she swore after another forceful lunge merely resulted in the two circling each other again.

“Not tonight.” He smiled again, but she could see a faint sheen of perspiration on his upper lip. So he was not made of steel. He was tiring.

And that was the last thought she had before he attacked. Without warning and with great finesse, he switched stances and drove his blade toward her heart. She parried, of course, but it was a near thing. And then he was on her again, forcing her back into the throng, crowding her until she had little choice but to defend with quick, small movements instead of larger, more powerful ones.

“You’re not going to win,” he said, pressing her back.

“Then I die trying,” she gritted out. She swiped at him to prove her point and had the satisfaction of seeing him jerk to the side to elude the sharp steel of her blade.

“And what are you dying for?” He struck back, and she struggled to hold her position.

“Revenge.” She met his blade high, then low, then high again. She pushed hard, and he pushed back, and they stared at one another for a long moment.

“A noble cause. How did I offend?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again, unsure whether or not she wanted to answer. Finally, she said, “You killed my… friend.”

“Doubtful. I kill far fewer than the rumors would have you believe.”

The anger rose inside her like a tidal wave, and she brought her blade down hard on his. “You dare to mock me?”

His answer was a quick, triumphant grin, and just as she realized his intent, he brought his sword up and drove her back.

Into the tavern’s support beam.

Frantic at the feel of the scratchy wood on her back, she tried to skirt around it, but Cutlass’s blade caught her sleeve and drove into the wooden beam.

She was trapped.

Her right arm, that with the sword, was incapacitated, but she had enough presence of mind to toss her sword to her left hand and make a jab at him. She’d never been very good with her left hand—unlike those fencing masters who could fight with either hand—and he easily evaded her blade.

“I’ve beaten you,” he said, leaning close. “Admit it,
enfant
, and I let you go.”

“I’d rather choke on my own blood when you slit my throat.”

He raised his brows at that, obviously not expecting such a vehement response. “Well, as appealing as that sounds, I don’t want a reputation as a child killer.” He gave her a speculative look. “But there is the matter of that ten pounds you owe me.” He glanced at his torn coat, and she doubled her efforts to escape, but her sleeve would not tear. If her shirt had been made of fine linen, as Cutlass’s was, she’d already be free. But this coarse homespun was not easily damaged.“I don’t have ten pounds, so you’ll have to kill me.”

“Or…” He gave her a triumphant smile. “I’ve been looking for a new cabin boy. I think you might be right for the position. I’d enjoy seeing you empty my chamber pot each day.”

The crowd hooted with laughter, but she was not amused.

“Never!” She tried again to strike him with her sword, but he plucked it out of her hands. She clenched her fist. If she lost that sword, there would be hell to pay. Her father had it made especially for her, and it had not come cheaply.

“Tut-tut.” Cutlass grinned at the crowd, who were enjoying this little play. “You’ll have to learn some manners. And we’ll start with removing your cap when you speak to me.” He reached for her.

“No!”

But she was too late. Before the words were out of her mouth, he’d snatched the cap from her head and was staring in shock as the mass of black curls tumbled down her back. She’d secured her hair tightly, but he’d ripped the hair pins loose when he tore the cap away. Cutlass stared at the cap, then at her, then at the cap again. For the moment, he appeared speechless. Then, slowly, he reached forward, wrapped a lock of her hair around two fingers, and tugged.

“Ow!”

He leaned close, peered into her face, and shook his head. “I must be an idiot. I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.” She noted his blue eyes slid over her face with what looked to be appreciation. His gaze slipped down, and heat crept into her cheeks.

“So I’m a woman,” she said, standing straighter. She managed to spare a glare for the patrons who were staring at her with expressions that ran from contempt to hilarity. “It doesn’t mean I can’t fight.” She met Cutlass’s gaze directly and ignored the spark of heat flooding into her. “It doesn’t mean I won’t kill you.”

He raised a brow, glanced at her sword, which he held in one hand, then at his own sword, which still held her pinned to the tavern’s wooden beam. The crowd chuckled.

“Devil take it!” She tried once more to free her shirt from his sword, but the material and the steel held fast.

“Such language from a woman. You really do need to learn some manners.” He reached for her face, and she jerked away, but his touch was tender as he skated a finger down her cheek. She felt more heat burn across the skin he touched. Why was she reacting this way? He was a killer. He’d killed Timothy.

“I suppose I could hire you on as a cabin girl,” he was saying, glint in his eye. “Though your duties might differ somewhat.”

This brought cheers from some of the tavern’s patrons, and, from the corner of her eye, Raeven could see the uneasy shuffling of her father’s men. She did not want them to step in and save her. She’d rather let Cutlass take her and escape later than have to be rescued. She caught Percy’s eye and shook her head. His white face paled further, and he looked ready to toss his accounts.

She glanced back at Cutlass, who was watching her. Had he seen her exchange with Percy? Doubtful. Even if he had, he wouldn’t make anything of it. “I’ll be your cabin girl,” Raeven said, her voice low and husky. She leaned forward, flirting, and Cutlass shook his head.

“I imagine you’ll empty my chamber pot… right before you slit my throat.”

She gave him a winning smile. “You know me so well.”

“Well enough to make sure I don’t turn my back on you.” He gestured to his men. “Mr. Maine, see that she makes it aboard the
Shadow
and finds her way into my cabin. Untouched.” He extracted his sword from the wooden beam, freeing her, but not before his man grabbed her arm. She could have fought, but Cutlass was playing right into her hands. She
would
kill him. Unaware of the danger he was in, Cutlass turned his back and strode for the tavern’s exit.

“You’re going to regret this, Cutlass!” Raeven called after him. “In more ways than you can count.”

He waved a hand without looking back, clearly dismissing her.

“Let’s go,” Mr. Maine said, pushing her forward. Percy was instantly at her side, hissing in her ear.

“I can’t let them kidnap you. Your father will kill me.” He gestured to the other men of the
Regal
. “Kill all of us.”

“If you intervene,
I’ll
kill you,” Raeven hissed back. “I’ll be back on my father’s ship before morning. You know I can escape anything and anyone.”

Percy looked dubious.

“Besides,” she added, “if you intervene now, everyone will know who I am. How do you think my father would like it known about Brest that his daughter was sword fighting in a tavern?”

“More than he’d like her kidnapped and—er—assaulted by Captain Cutlass.”

“Enough talk!” Maine said, pushing her forward and separating her from Percy. Cutlass’s men held the purser back.

Raeven called over her shoulder, “Give me six hours. If I’m not back by then, you know what to do.”

Maine shoved her into the crisp, dark night, and quite suddenly she realized she was alone with half a dozen of Cutlass’s men. A shiver ran up her spine as, one by one, she perused the seedy crew. One man with an earring and tattoos all over his face winked at her. Raven bit her lip.

What had she gotten herself into?

Sébastien had never been so glad to step out of a tavern. Usually he was more than pleased to step into one, but then nothing on this leg of his voyage had been what he’d term usual.

Least of all the girl.

Girl? He ran a hand through his hair and had a flash of the curve of her bottom.

No, not a girl. A woman.

Merde!
What in the name of all that was holy—he thought of the fury in her green eyes—or perhaps all that was unholy, had caused the girl—woman—female! to attack him? She said she’d challenged him for revenge. But what could he have possibly done to her? He’d never seen her before. He would have remembered.

Ça alors!
How had he not seen that the lad was no lad at all? The lashes framing those green eyes were far too thick and long. No boy had lashes like that. Or skin like that. Or a bottom like that.

Not that he’d been looking at her bottom… well, at least not until Bastien realized the he was a she.

He strode along the quay, heading toward the place where his ship,
Shadow
, waited. They’d be departing on the first tide, and he wanted to supervise the loading of the cargo. He trusted his men implicitly, but this cargo was precious, which was why it was being delivered in the dark of night. He checked his pocket watch and swore at the time. He would have been on board by now if the girl had not forced him to cross swords with her. He’d thought the whole incident ridiculous until she ruined his coat. Then he’d decided to teach the lad a lesson.

In the end, he supposed it was he who learned a lesson, not to judge by appearances. An annoying boy could turn out to be a beautiful woman—a beautiful woman intent on killing him. And what was he going to do about that? What was he going to do about her? He didn’t need a cabin boy, and he sure as hell didn’t need a cabin girl. All she’d do is distract him with her attempts to kill him, not to mention that luscious bottom.

And that was the kind of distraction he didn’t need. He’d never needed to rape a woman to enjoy her bed, and he wasn’t about to start now. But there was no denying the explosive attraction he’d felt the moment he pulled that ugly cap off her.

Well, he might not end up bedding her—though given time, he thought she might be persuaded. He’d been told more than once he was too charming for his own good, but at least she’d amuse him and keep him sharp. Nothing like waking up with a knife at the throat to keep a man’s instincts honed. And, little as he liked to admit it, she was a good match for him.

An Englishwoman! Her French had been only adequate, and she couldn’t disguise her heavy English accent. And who would have thought an Englishwoman so fiery? Not he. Cold and formal was how he’d always envisioned them. Perhaps he’d have to broaden his perspective…

Enough time for that later. Right now he needed to understand why she had come after him. He didn’t have any connections to England. Their navy was a pest—at times pursuing and harassing him, but he dealt with them easily enough.

Unfortunately, now that England and France had signed a peace treaty, the English would have more time to harass him. Even so, he vastly preferred the English to the French. It riled him that he was docked here in Brest. He’d sworn never to return to France, and if there had been any other way to acquire this cargo, he would have pursued it. But there hadn’t been, and now here he was, on French soil again. He looked down, surprised the ground wasn’t covered in blood. God knew he’d seen enough of it shed during the revolution. His own family had been a victim of the bloodthirsty peasants, and now he was the only living member of the Valère family left.

Or perhaps the family had died out. He never used his surname, Harcourt, or his title, marquis de Valère. He was Captain Cutlass: a man without a history, and he liked it that way.

The bow of his sloop came into view, and Bastien smiled. With its three tall masts and eighteen cannon, the
Shadow
was a fine ship—the one thing in his life that had never let him down, the one thing he could count on. She’d gotten him out of more scrapes than he could count, made his fortune, and given him a purpose. His heart soared every time he saw her, and he felt free. His legs itched to board her and set sail, to rid himself of the confines of land.

A crate of cargo hung over the deck now, hoisted by several of his crew on the quay. On board, his bosun, Mr. Ridley, was calling orders and directing the operation. Ridley spotted him and gave a brief wave. Bastien returned it, pausing to watch as the cargo was lowered into the hold. As expected, Ridley had matters well in hand. The broad-chested, dark-skinned man was as efficient and orderly as he was fearsome. Bastien would have liked to claim that he’d never had a moment’s fear of the man, but the truth was, the first time they’d met, the man had scared the hell out of him. Still did at times.

It wasn’t the tattoos or the multiple earrings, it was the way the sailor—tall as a tree—could stare a man down and make the skin on the back of his neck itch.

Bastien had met Ridley in a tavern not so different than the one he’d just left. Ridley had been looking for work, and Bastien hiring on. He’d had reservations about making Ridley part of the crew of the
Shadow
, but how was he going to say no to a man who looked like a leviathan? Thinking it might deter the fearsome giant, Bastien had made a point of stressing that he wasn’t a pirate. “I’m a privateer,” he’d said. “I have letters of marque from Spain.”

Ridley smiled, showing one gold tooth in the midst of a sea of white. “Sure, Cap’n Cutlass. Whatever you say. I’ll call you a privateer, and you can call me… Ridley.”

To this day, Bastien still had no idea what Ridley’s real name was. He didn’t care. The bosun was one of the best men he’d ever employed. He’d call the man Mary, if that’s what he wanted.

With a wave at his crew to continue their work, Bastien strode up the gangplank, stepped onto the deck of his ship, and felt his world tilt, righting itself. The cargo was about half loaded, and he peered down the hold. Still plenty of room. The cargo would be tucked away in the next hour or so, and they’d begin preparations to sail. He was headed for Almeria, Spain on the Mediterranean. There, he’d deliver the cargo, take the money, and outfit the
Shadow
for an even more important task: sinking
La Sirena
.

There was nothing he’d like better than to see Jourdain’s vessel at the bottom of the ocean—unless it was Jourdain going down with it.

“Cap’n,” Ridley said, coming up beside him, dark eyes still focused on the cargo.

“Mr. Ridley.” Bastien nodded. “Everything looks to be in good order.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Ridley said, eyes shifting to the quay. “But I doan think that’s the last of the cargo.”

Bastien raised his brows then followed Ridley’s gaze. He almost swore but caught the oath just in time. There, fighting his way toward the ship, was Mr. Maine and the black-haired hellion. She had an escort of six men and was giving every single one of them the devil of a time. They were all but carrying her, kicking, squirming, and swearing—if his ears did not deceive him—along the waterfront.

Merde.
What had he gotten himself into?

He cleared his throat and glanced at Mr. Ridley. Bastien thought he could detect an underlying grin on the carefully neutral face.

“Last minute addition,” Bastien said through clenched teeth as the crew hoisting his real cargo aboard paused to stare at the woman being carried up the gangplank.

“I see. Where you want it?”

Bastien cleared his throat. “Mr. Maine has orders to put it—er, her—in my cabin. She’s the new… cabin girl.”

Ridley’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly.

“She won’t be up on deck.” Bastien tried not to cringe as Mr. Maine carried the woman past him. She’d caught sight of him, and the curses were flowing. Where the hell had she learned language like that? He raised his voice. “So she won’t be in your way.”

“Dat good.” To his credit, Ridley kept his eyes on his captain and not on the scene behind him. “I best be getting back to work.”

“Good man,” Bastien said. The deck was calmer now, as the woman had obviously been taken below, and the loading of the cargo resumed. Bastien supposed he should get to work as well. He started toward his cabin then thought better of it. Perhaps he could find some work to do above deck. He needn’t retire to his cabin directly. He could consult his charts and maps later… could make his log later.

If any of his belongings were still in one piece.

Merde.
He supposed he couldn’t get around her. Taking a deep breath, he set off to tame the savage beast.

***

Bastien stood in the companionway outside his cabin and frowned. It was quiet. Too quiet.

He was tempted to search out Mr. Maine to see whether the quartermaster had put the black-haired hellion in his cabin as instructed. But Bastien knew Maine too well. The girl was in there.

He glanced down at his coat, at the ripped sleeve. Ah, yes. His cabin girl was going to work off the damage, even if it made both of them miserable. He’d guarantee she was the more miserable.

Best he instruct her on her duties so she could begin.

He opened his cabin door, noted a lamp had been lit, and glanced about. For a great cabin, it was small, but he didn’t see the woman. His gaze scanned the neat, trim room: berth, trunks, desk…

Where the hell was she? Could she be hiding? Where? In the trunk?

He stepped inside and realized too late his mistake. He turned quickly enough to avoid the worst of the blow, but he still felt the force of the object slam into the side of his head. For a moment, bright white dots danced before a sea of black, and then he reached out and grabbed the little vixen.

She had the object raised! Damn him if she wasn’t going to strike again!

But he had his hand wrapped around her wrist now, and he twisted it violently. She cried out, and he muttered, “Drop it.”

“No.”

The black sea was fading now, and he was able to focus on her face. It was set in a stubborn expression, those green eyes as turbulent as the ocean during a tempest. He tightened his grip and saw her jaw clench, but she didn’t drop the candlestick she held.

C’est des conneries!
The thing was brass and had to weigh two pounds. She really did want to kill him. Anger shot through him as his head throbbed again, and he wrenched her arm. The little hellion held on, so he pushed her up against the door, slamming it closed in the process.

Her eyes were watering with pain now, but she still held the candlestick. “Drop it.”

“No!” The word was barely a breath.

He shook his head. “
Mon Dieu!
Are you always this stubborn?”

“Some might call it persistence,” she gritted out.

He had her pinned to the door, one hand restraining her wrist and the candlestick she held aloft, and the opposite hand trapping her shoulder. In one quick motion, he released her, plucked the candlestick from her grasp, and tossed it over his shoulder. It thudded on the floor just as her fist came up. But he caught that too, grinned, and forced it back against the wood. Now he had both her hands pinned to the door. “I can be persistent as well.”

He was looking directly into her eyes and realized, slowly, that their bodies were flush against one another.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said.

He raised a brow. “What kind of ideas?” But his body had a mind of its own. He was more than aware of the warmth of her skin, the feel of her soft curves against his muscles, and the sweet, cherry smell of her hair. But something wasn’t quite right…

He couldn’t feel the swell of her breasts. He glanced down, noted her white shirt was all but flat. He looked into her eyes again. “Bound them, did you? Clever disguise.”

“It fooled you, pirate.”

He sighed. “Are we back to that again? I told you, I’m not a pirate. I have letters of marque from—”

“I don’t care what country’s flag you fly under. I know what you are. And what you did. Now get off me!” She shoved back hard, taking him by surprise. But he was a good deal larger than she and much stronger. He held her in place, rather liking this position and the view it afforded him of her eyes. They were undoubtedly her best feature… well, the best of the ones he could see at the moment. Her nose was a bit too snub, her lips too small—or perhaps that was because she had them firmly compressed—and her chin jutted too sharply. But those eyes were amazing. He’d never seen anyone with such vividly green eyes. They reminded him of a lush pasture or of a shower of emeralds.

And now he was reminding himself of some god-awful poet. He shook his head and hopefully rid himself of all poetic urges.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“What?” She blinked at him. “No.”

“And you say I’m the bastard. Very well then, I shall call you Cabin Girl.”

She snorted. “You can try it.”

“You need some sort of name. How else will you come running when I call?”

Her mouth dropped open, and she let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Oh, you’re just full of delusions.”

“We’ll see.” He glanced about the cabin. “And your first task, Cabin Girl… is to empty my chamber pot.”

She smiled sweetly. At least he supposed that was her version of a sweet smile. “Of course,” she cooed. “Release me, and I’ll empty it.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“You’re hesitating.” She challenged him with an arch of her brows. “Afraid of something?”

“Not afraid. Merely… concerned.”

It was late, and he was beginning to realize he could be fighting her all night. If he released her now, she might wreak any manner of damage. He glanced over his shoulder, checking for blunt objects nearby, and jerked back as he felt her shift.

Too late.

Pain cut through him, and without thinking, he reached for the shin she’d rammed her boot into. Quick as a cat, she wriggled free and darted around him. He grabbed for her, catching her elbow. With an oath, she pulled away, careening into the berth then tumbling to the floor. He watched helplessly as her legs tangled with his and brought him down on top of her.