empty. He reached for the jug again.
“Why do you drink so much, Monsieur le Marquis?”
Gaston asked quietly. “Is it Jourdain? This revenge
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you seek? Vargas has been dead three years. He knew
the risks, no? It was the life he chose. He went down
with his ship.”
That was true, but Vargas’s death at the end of
La Sirena’s thirty-two guns was not the only reason
Bastien sought the Barbary pirate. “Jourdain has stolen
from us more times than I like to remember. I want
him stopped.”
“Eh, bien. You steal, he steals. Who is right? Who
is wrong? I think it is the revenge.”
Bastien swallowed more rum. Little as Bastien
wanted to admit it, it was desire to avenge Vargas’s
death that fueled his single-minded search for Jourdain.
He was more like Raeven Russell in that regard than
he liked. Just as his cabin girl loved her British captain,
he’d loved Vargas. The man had been as much of a
father to him as the duc de Valère.
The rum had done its work, and Bastien felt the
edge of pain in his shoulder dull. He was warm inside
and tired. So tired. “You’re the only family I have left,
Gaston,” he said. He was just drunk enough not to be
embarrassed by the sentimentality of the statement.
“And you are my family, Monsieur le Marquis,
which is why I tell you to be more careful.”
Bastien laughed. “I didn’t think the bastard would
actually shoot me. I should have let him take the girl,
and ran when I had the chance.’
“That does not sound like the man I know. To
leave a woman in the clutches of El Santo.” He made
claws with his hands, and Bastien laughed again. He’d
forgotten how good it felt to laugh like this.
“She can take care of herself. El Santo would have
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been sorry to ever lay eyes on the little hellion. I know
I am.”
Gaston raised a brow. “I do not think so. I think
you like mademoiselle. I hear she is a rare beauty.”
“She’s a rare pain in the head.” He massaged his
temples. “I’d know Jourdain’s whereabouts now if not
for her.” When he would have reached for the jug of
rum again, Gaston moved it.
“You will find him, and you will have your revenge.
I have no doubt of that, Monsieur le Marquis. And
after you destroy La Sirena, I think it time you make
another search.”
Bastien held up a hand. “No. I don’t want—”
“I will say it,” Gaston said over his protests. “You
will search for your brothers and the duchesse. One of
them must have escaped the flames that night.”
Bastien ground his teeth together. “I don’t want
to talk about this.” He pushed up from the table he’d
been leaning against and stumbled for the door. When
he would have fallen from drink, fatigue, and pain,
Gaston caught him, laid him on one of the cots in
the infirmary.
“It is time we spoke of it. It is time you faced your
past. You cannot hope to have a future until you have
done so.”
Bastien shook his head. “There’s nothing to face,
Gaston. You saw the fire. No one could have escaped
that. You saw the papers. My father was executed.
Publicly. His head chopped off as the crowds roared.”
It sickened him to think of it. His good father. His
kind father. The man had a smile for every child, a
kind word for every woman, and a helping hand for
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every man. He was no weakling—a powerful, wealthy
duc, he’d been one of the most influential peers in
France. But he’d used his power to help those in need,
and he’d seen the revolution coming, had warned
King Louis of the danger. Had advised him to cut his
excesses, to show some restraint.
And this man who had spoken out for the common
man, who had tried to help them, this man had been
cut down like a common thief at their bloody hands.
“But we only ever saw notice of the duc’s death,”
Gaston said quietly. “I searched every chance I could
get for information about the duchesse and your
brothers. I found no mention of their executions.”
“Because they perished in the fire. I’m the last
Harcourt.”
“Don’t you want to be certain of that, Monsieur
le Marquis?”
No, he didn’t. As a boy on Vargas’s ship, he’d had
a favorite fantasy, one he had not even shared with
Gaston. In it, his brothers and mother were alive and
happy somewhere. He was not an orphan. He was not
alone in the world because they would find him and
bring him home. Their family would be reunited, and
he would be happy again.
But as he grew older, he realized the foolishness
of this fantasy. And when Vargas had been killed in
the battle with Jourdain, Bastien had faced the facts—
everyone he’d ever loved—everyone save Gaston—
was dead. It was better for him if he didn’t love again.
Better if he hardened his heart.
He closed his eyes now, allowed the rum to do its
work. He wanted to sink into oblivion, escape the
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pain—all the pain—for a while. Tomorrow he would
begin again, begin the search for Jourdain. And when
he found the corsair, he would destroy him.
And after that? He could almost hear Gaston ask
the question.
After that, he might just destroy himself.
He groaned, rolled over, and the last image he saw
as he fell into a dreamless sleep was Raeven Russell
scowling at him.
Raeven scowled at Percy and tried to refrain from
grabbing him about the neck and forcibly shaking
some sense into him. “You’re not listening to me,
Percy,” she said, her voice deadly calm.
“No, I am listening to you, Raeven. That’s why
I’m saying no.”
They were seated at the large dining table in the
admiral’s cabin. Her father had marched her into his
cabin first thing in the morning and ordered her to
step foot outside it at her own peril. Then he’d gone
to oversee the day’s activities, which consisted of
painting and repairing the ship and taking on provi-
sions. Raeven would have liked to be on deck, in the
sunshine, climbing the rigging or sitting in the crow’s
nest watching the other ships in the harbor, but she’d
seen murder in her father’s eyes and decided she’d
better do as he said.
This time.
Not to mention, he’d had another co
ughing fit.
She didn’t like to think she might have aggravated
his illness with her brief disappearance last night.
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Certainly the stress of wondering where she’d gone
couldn’t have helped matters. She hadn’t told him or
anyone but Percy the truth about what happened. She
said she needed a breath of air after seeing Cutlass,
had gotten turned around, and ended up in the
marketplace. Coincidentally, a fight broke out in the
marketplace about that time. But it had been at the
other end of the marketplace. She had been perfectly
safe the entire time. She’d tripped over a cat who’d
run across her path, and that was the reason her dress
was torn and dirty. It didn’t explain the blood—a
point her father made repeatedly—but Raeven stuck
to her story.
She didn’t think her father believed her, but she
thought he believed her enough to let the incident go.
He also knew she was capable of taking care of herself,
though at times he could be a bit overprotective.
Like this morning.
“I need to get back to my cabin and work on my
books,” Percy said now. “We’ve taken on crates of
supplies, and I’m impossibly behind on my logs.”
“Fine. We’ll need a good length of rope, two sharp
daggers, and I could use a sword. A rapier would
be best.” A rapier was light enough for her to wield
effectively. It wasn’t as effective as her own sword, but
she would have it back soon enough. She held up a
finger. “And don’t say you can’t get them. You’re the
purser. You can get anything.”
Percy shook his head. “Are you mad? Cutlass
almost killed you last night. Why would you want to
get within a hundred feet of him?”
Raeven pushed her cup of coffee aside—it was cold
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anyway—and reached across the table to grip Percy’s
hands. “He didn’t almost kill me. He saved me.”
Percy shook off her grip. “So now you want to repay
him by sneaking aboard his ship and slitting his throat?”
“I’m not going to slit his throat,” she said. She’d like
to, but she was beginning to accept the fact that she
was too squeamish to do it herself. She did not even
think she could kill him with a sword in cold blood.
For the thousandth time, she wished she had bested
him in that tavern in Brest. She could have done it
then. She didn’t know him. She hadn’t kissed his lips,
felt his muscular chest push against her breasts, felt his
solid legs part her own and press between them…
“I just want my sword back.” And perhaps another kiss.
Percy rose, moved toward the door. “You don’t
even know if he still has it.”
“He has it. He said as much.”
“Yes, as he was trying to get rid of you. Some
people will say anything to get rid of you, Raeven.”
She gave him a hurt look. “Fine then, go. I’ll get
the sword back without your help. I’ll figure out who
Jourdain is without your help, as well.” She rose, went
to the cabin door, and opened it.
“And get yourself killed.”
“Well, at least you’ll be safe. Safe and bored in
your cabin.”
“Raeven…”
She pointed to the companionway. “Your books
are waiting.”
He frowned, looked as though he wanted to say
something, then left without another word. Raeven
slammed the door behind him. She couldn’t believe
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he’d actually left. She couldn’t believe he wasn’t going
to help her.
Or could she? She’d pushed poor Percy too far.
He’d never been one for adventure, so the idea
of sneaking aboard a pirate ship, infiltrating the
captain’s cabin, and stealing back her sword was too
much for him. He preferred to stay safe and warm
on the Regal.
Well, she preferred that too. Except she wanted
her sword back, and she wanted to know who this
Jourdain was and why Cutlass wanted him dead. She
wasn’t likely to accomplish any of that on the Regal.
She wasn’t about to avenge Timothy’s death by sitting
and sipping coffee in her father’s great cabin.
She put her head down on the mahogany table and
let out a long sigh.
She was tired and sore from her activities last night.
Even when she’d returned aboard her ship, she hadn’t
been able to sleep. She’d been too excited.
Liar, she told herself. You couldn’t sleep because you
couldn’t stop thinking of him.
And she thought less of how she could destroy
him and more about who he was. His enemy, this
Jourdain, sparked her interest. He was obviously some
sort of Barbary pirate, and equally obviously, Cutlass
was searching for him. Wanted him badly enough to
go after a dangerous man like El Santo.
Why? What had this Jourdain done to Cutlass?
Somewhere in her tossing and turning, she’d real-
ized Jourdain interested her because he had a personal
connection to Cutlass. She wanted to know more
about the captain of the Shadow.
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114
And as dawn was breaking, she gave up all pretense
and admitted to herself she wanted to see Cutlass
again. She wanted to kiss him again. She wanted… she
wanted to do much more than that.
But she wouldn’t. She’d used her father’s spyglass
to spot the Shadow. It was anchored on the other side
of the harbor, nearer the open ocean. She supposed
pirates often needed to make quick exits.
It was too far to swim from the Regal, but she could
borrow one of the Regal’s longboats, row closer, and
swim from there. Only it would be a true test of her
strength to row the boat, then swim to the Shadow,
then shimmy up the anchor cable.
She flexed her arm muscles. She was strong. But as
Percy had pointed out, she was not as strong as a man,
and her plans would exhaust even the most robust
sailor. It was then she’d asked Percy to help, and then
he’d balked.
She raised her head now and rested it on her wrists.
She’d only wanted him to row the longboat…
She sat straighter. She was not going to give up
just because Percy wouldn’t help. Her father’s men
were loyal to her. She just had to convince one of
them to assist.
But after six hours of trying—her father hadn’t
really expected her to stay in his cabin, had he?—she
was more than discouraged. None of her father’s
men was willing to help her off
the ship. She hadn’t
even mentioned rowing to the Shadow, and still they
refused. Apparently, after the incident in Brest, her
father had threatened flogging or court-martial to any
man who assisted her.
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The best offer she’d received was from the ship’s
bosun, Dickey Pickering. “Show me yer tits, and I’ll
help you right enough.”
“Help me and then I’ll show you,” she’d countered.
But he’d shaken his head. “I require payment in
advance.” He’d winked lasciviously, and she’d had to
struggle not to vomit. Instead, she’d turned her back
and returned to her cabin.
At midnight, she’d gone on deck, taken out the
pilfered spyglass, and found the Shadow. It boasted few
lights, and she wondered what the pirate crew was
about. Were they drinking and wenching? Were they
sleeping, as most of the crew of the Regal was?
She felt someone beside her before she saw him.
“Do you still want to go?”
Raeven blinked at Percy. Like she, he was dressed in
black trousers and a black shirt. “What are you doing…?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about it.
But I figure you have a better chance of survival if I
help. And you don’t even have to show me your…”
He indicated her bound breasts.
“Oh, Percy! I knew you’d help!” She gave him a
quick hug, but he pushed her away.
“This is the last time I help you, Raeven. Everything
I’ve done, I’ve done for Tim. But even he would have
me draw the line somewhere. And he would have
punched Pickering for what he said to you.”
Raeven laughed. Men had said far worse, but it was
sweet of Percy to be so protective of her.
“Agreed. This is the last time I ask for your help,
and Timothy would have punched Pickering. Now
here’s my plan—”
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He raised a hand. “No, here’s my plan. I already
bribed a couple of the boys to lower a longboat over
the side.”
She blinked. “You did?”
“They’re waiting now.” He took her arm and
ushered her across the deck, keeping to the shadows
as much as possible. “Once in the water, I’ll row you
within swimming distance of the Shadow. If you make
it aboard, I’ll wait one hour for you.” They were on
the port side now, and Raeven saw the boys standing