Shana Galen
Her beauty didn’t hurt either.
He led them up a ladderway and to his wardroom.
In smaller vessels, the captain’s cabin and wardroom
were often one, but Bastien had wanted a separate
space and had a wall erected between the two. His offi-
cers had yet to arrive, and he had a few moments alone
with his guests. He drew a cigar from a box on the
table used for consulting maps, strategizing, and dining,
and offered one to Mr. Williams. Williams declined.
He turned to the cabin girl and waved one at her.
“Never let it be said I’m not equitable in all things.
Cigar, Miss Russell?”
“Thank you, but I don’t smoke,” she said through
clenched teeth.
He raised a brow, studying his trousers and shirt.
“Too masculine a pursuit?”
She shook her head, went to one of the windows.
“Too disgusting.”
With a chuckle, he leaned forward, lit his cigar on a
candle and nodded to Williams. “I understand you’re
the Regal’s purser, Mr. Williams.”
“Yes… Captain. I’ve been serving with Admiral
Russell in one capacity or another for two years.” He
stood straight, making it patently obvious he hated
being interrogated but was prepared to withstand it
if necessary.
“And so you’ve known Miss Russell for some
time.” Bastien leaned back in the chair, watched his
petite cabin girl stare out the window and pretend not
to listen.
“We were friends even before I joined the Regal.”
“Ah. And does she always cause you this much
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trouble?” He saw her shoulders stiffen, but she didn’t
look at them.
“Not usually this much.”
Bastien grinned. “You’ll be flogged for certain.”
The man nodded. “Flogged and court-martialed.
The Admiral’s consequences for helping Raeven with
any more of her schemes.”
Bastien rose, uncorked the wine on the table, and
poured three glasses. He handed one to Williams, set
one down, and swirled the liquid in the third. “And
yet you were not dissuaded.”
“Someone would have helped her. I figured she’d
be better off with me.”
She turned from the window now, scowling. “I
wasn’t going to show him anything!”
Bastien raised his brows and looked to Williams for
an explanation. The man was flushed with what looked
to be embarrassment and took a drink of the wine. “The
ship’s bosun offered to help, but she had to—er—”
“I had to show him my tits. But I wouldn’t have.”
Bastien laughed, strolled to her, and handed her the
glass of wine. She took it without turning away from
the window, and he leaned down, whispered in her
ear. “You showed me, ma belle.”
“Much to my regret.”
He laughed and went back to the table. “I imagine
with those consequences hanging over your head,
you’re not in much of a hurry to return to the Regal.”
“You’d be mistaken,” Williams said stiffly. “I don’t
shirk my duty or my punishments. But I wouldn’t
mind returning with the Shadow as our prize.”
Bastien laughed again, but from the corner of his eye
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he saw his cabin girl turn, glance at Williams, and look
thoughtful. So now she was planning a mutiny, was
she? He’d like to see how far she’d get. She might have
the crew of the Regal wrapped around her little finger,
but it would take more than spunk and a pretty face to
turn the hearts of his crew. Now if she were rich, he
might worry. His crew’s greed knew no bounds.
“Do you mind if I ask your plans, Captain?”
Williams said. He’d been toying with his wine glass,
drinking little. He looked pale and tired. Bastien was
certain he was wishing he’d never laid eyes on Raeven
Russell, much less allowed her to convince him to
come along on her latest adventure.
Bastien sat back, put his feet on the table, and stared at
the ceiling. “We search out La Sirena, destroy her, take
the survivors captive, and sail back to Gibraltar. We’ll sell
Jourdain’s men, resupply, and sail on for Spain.”
“Bastard,” he heard the girl hiss behind him.
Without looking away from the ceiling, he inquired,
“To what exactly do you object, mademoiselle?”
“You call yourself a privateer, but you’re nothing
more than pirates with a piece of paper from Spain. In
another month, you’ll be attacking English vessels again.”
Bastien threw his head back and laughed long and
hard. So long, in fact, she came to stand beside him,
arms crossed, frown deep. “What is so amusing, pirate?”
Bastien winked at her. “You. You don’t care if I sink
a vessel, kill hundreds of men or plan to sell the survivors
into slavery. You’re only concerned I might survive
to attack one of your British ships. No worries , made-
moiselle. England and Spain are friends at the moment.
Your ships are safe from me. Much safer than you.”
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He reached out, snaked an arm about her waist, and
drew her close. With a look of alarm, she wriggled and
scampered away to stand beside her Mr. Williams. “Do
you think he’ll be able to protect you, mademoiselle?”
The man stood. “I will do whatever is needed to
protect her virtue, Captain. I would rather die than see
you molest her.”
Bastien nodded solemnly at the boy’s grave expres-
sion. “Understood, Mr. Williams. I assure you I will
not do anything Miss Russell does not agree to. Her
virtue, if she has any, is quite safe with me.”
That riled up the boy. He stomped to Bastien and
stared down at him. “Sir, I’m afraid I cannot allow a
slight like that to be said of Miss Russell. I have no
choice but to challenge—”
Bastien stood, looked down at the boy. “Say on.”
He cleared his throat. “I have no choice but to—”
“Wait!” His cabin girl wormed her way between
them. She pushed Bastien, but when he didn’t move,
she turned her attention to her friend. “Just wait
a moment.”
“Pistols or swords, Mr. Williams?” Bastien asked.
The boy paled but nodded. “Swords, I think.”
Raeven let out a small scream of frustration and
rounded on Cutlass. “There will be no pistols or
swords. He didn’t even issue a challenge, and he’s not
going to.”
“Yes, I—”
She rounded on Percy and shoved him into the
far corner. “Stubble it! I’m not going to let you fight
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Cutlass. I’m responsible for enough of your trouble
right now. I won’t have your death on my conscience,
as well.”
He gave her a hurt look. “What makes you so
certain I’ll lose?”
She made a herculean effort not to roll her eyes.
“I’ve seen him fight, Percy. You are good,” she lied,
“but he is better. Besides, I don’t need you to defend
my virtue. I can more than handle Cutlass.”
Not that she’d done a very good job of handling
him so far. He’d almost had her much-vaunted virtue
in his cabin earlier. And, unfortunately, Cutlass was
correct in saying there was little left of it. She’d given
her maidenhead to Timothy, hadn’t seen any reason
to wait until the wedding, especially when they were
so often apart. She wanted some memory of him to
keep her warm on the long nights while she waited for
their wedding day.
Now he was dead, and she didn’t regret her actions.
Everything she’d shared with Timothy had been
special. But she certainly didn’t want Percy killed
defending her nonexistent virginity.
She turned to Cutlass, who was standing across the
room, looking slightly amused. He always seemed to
look slightly amused. Except when they’d heard the
“There was no challenge issued. Nor will there be.
Mr. Williams and I would like to remain on board as
your guests. We’ll depart at the first port or when we
return to Gibraltar, whichever comes first.”
Cutlass smoked his cigar, his cobalt eyes appraising
her. “Very well. I assume Mr. Williams has some degree
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of seamanship. He can sleep with the men. I’m certain
an extra hammock can be located. But you”—he lifted
his wine glass—“you present more of a problem. I can’t
exactly put you among the men in their hammocks.”
“I’ve slept in hammocks and among the men
before. I can do it again.”
Cutlass smiled. “No doubt you have, and while
I trust my men implicitly, you don’t dangle a steak
before a starving dog and expect the creature not to at
least take a small bite.”
She bristled. “Am I the steak in this scenario?”
“Indeed. A rather juicy steak, I might add. And
that’s why you won’t be sleeping among the men.”
“Well, I certainly hope you don’t think I’ll be
sleeping with you.”
He grinned, and she knew that was exactly what he
thought. A brisk knock on the door interrupted them,
and he added, “We shall work out the details later.”
She recognized the red-haired man who entered
first. She didn’t understand the pirate hierarchy, but
she thought Mr. Maine was something of a first
lieutenant. Cutlass called him the quartermaster and
nodded to him now. “Mr. Maine. I believe you
remember Miss Russell.”
She saw his surprise at seeing her in the wardroom
flicker across his face a moment before he nodded and
smiled. “Miss Russell, a pleasure to see you again.”
The perfect gentleman, he took her hand, kissed it.
“And this is our ship’s bosun, Mr. Ridley.”
Raeven took a deep breath as she looked up and
then up again at the large black man standing before
her. She’d seen men with tattoos before but never one
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with tattoos on his face. This one had a large swirl
made of small dots on his right temple, extending
down along his cheek. His right ear boasted a large
gold hoop, while his left had three small hoops
dangling from it. He grinned at her, his smile broad
and white and somewhat less than friendly. He took
her hand in his—swallowed it was a more apt descrip-
tion—and she forced her lips into what she hoped was
a smile. “Mr. Ridley, was it?” she breathed.
“Dat right. And you is Miss Russell. The troublemaker.”
She opened her eyes wide. “Troublemaker? I’m not
a troublemaker.” Even as she said it, she heard Percy
and Cutlass snort. She expected as much from Cutlass,
but at least Percy could be loyal!
“Good.” Mr. Ridley squeezed her hand. “I doan
want no trouble on dis here ship.”
She nodded.
“Mr. Ridley generally gets what he wants,” Cutlass
drawled.
Raeven imagined he did indeed.
“But, Mr. Ridley,” Cutlass added. “You should
know Miss Russell is accustomed to having her own
way, as well. Keep an eye on her, will you?”
“Yes, Cap’n.”
Raeven threw Cutlass a hard glare before Mr.
Ridley moved away, and a small, elderly Frenchman
stood before her. He had a shock of thinning white
hair, thin lips, and a weathered face, but his brown eyes
were clear and lively. “Bon soir, mademoiselle. Enchanté. ”
He kissed her fingers with paper-dry lips, and over
his bowed head she gave Cutlass a questioning look.
The man was obviously too old and feeble to fight.
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What use would he serve on a pirate ship, where every
Cutlass met her gaze, but his expression gave nothing
away. “Our ship’s doctor, Monsieur Leveque.”
“Je suis Gaston, mademoiselle. S’il vous plait.”
She nodded. “Gaston it is then. Please call me Raeven.”
His eyebrows rose and he glanced at Cutlass. “Ah,
so you are the raven. I wondered why he was speaking
of birds in his sleep.”
Raeven frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Cutlass moved between them, taking her arm and
leading her to a chair. “Salviati is our cook. Do you
speak Portuguese?”
She shook her head. “Very little.”
“Then you’ll have to make your requests through
me, as Salviati speaks only Portuguese.”
The other men took their seats now, and Raeven
could see there was some uncertainty as to who would
sit where. Obviously, she had taken one of their
places. She sincerely hoped it was not Mr. Ridley’s.
But he settled down quickly at the far end of the table,
while Cutlass sat at the head, to her left. The ship’s
doctor sat on his other side, and Mr. Maine sat across
from him. That left one chair next to Mr. Ridley, and
poor Percy took it, trying very hard not to look too
long at the large man.
A moment later, the cook entered, carrying a tray
with a steaming platter of… something. She wasn’t
certain what it was, but it smelled edible. The places
were set, and Cutlass ser
ved her first then each man in
turn. He took what was left for himself, and she was
surprised to see how little it was. He was either not
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hungry or did not care for the offering. He did pour
first her then himself more wine. He passed the bottle
to Gaston.
The doctor filled his glass and turned to her, saying
in heavily accented English, “And so you are named
after a bird? Or have I translated incorrectly?”
“No, a raven is a bird, but my name is spelled with
an extra E. I was actually named because of the color of
my hair. Apparently, when I was born, I had a head full
of black hair, and my mother said I was to be named
Raeven, but with the extra E so as not to confuse me
with the bird. At least that’s the story I’ve been told. I
never knew my mother, and I have no idea if it’s the
truth. But”—she lifted a piece of her matted hair—“I
still have the dark hair, so I’m inclined to believe it.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Russell,” Mr.
Maine said quietly, “what happened to your mother?”
Raeven cleared her throat. “I’m told she died
several days after my birth. They think it was some sort
of complication or infection.” She lifted her fork and
pressed it into the glop of brown mush on her plate. It
was some sort of meat… or perhaps a potato?
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She looked up. “I mean, thank you, but
I never knew her. And had she lived, I imagine I would
never have been allowed to sail with my father. As it is,
I’ve been sailing with him since I was four.”
“That explains a lot,” Cutlass murmured under
his breath.
She turned to glare at him but was distracted by
Gaston. “Monsieur le Marquis lost his mother, as well,”
he said. “He was eleven.”
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She blinked, not expecting such a revelation. The
other men at the table were looking down, obviously
uncomfortable. “Marquis?” she asked. She had to
look past Cutlass to see the doctor, and she could see
Cutlass’s jaw tighten.
The doctor nodded, spooning some of the brown
mush into his mouth. “Oui. He is the marquis de Valère.
His parents were the duc and duchesse de Valère.”
Ah, so he did spread stories of his noble lineage. At
least she wanted to believe it was a story. “And did