merchant ships. “How did Bastien get his own ship,
this one?”
“Vargas and Monsieur le Marquis took it in a
raid. He gave it to Monsieur le Marquis as a reward.
And that is what caused the rift. Jourdain thought
the ship should have been his. He claimed he was
instrumental in the fight. Vargas disagreed, and they
went their separate ways. Six months later, Jourdain
attacked Vargas near Tripoli. He raised the flag
for parley, and when he was close enough, blew
El Cuchillo to splinters.”
Raeven bit her lip. “Where was Bastien?”
“We were out at sea, making our own fortunes.
But as soon as word reached Monsieur le Marquis, he
began searching for Jourdain. But the coward went
into hiding. It took money and time, but now we have
him where we want him.”
Money. Raeven thought about the arms and medi-
cines she’d seen her first time on board the Shadow.
She’d thought they were meant to fuel a war between
Spain and England, and perhaps they would, but now
she considered that Bastien might not have been as
interested in war as he was in the profit he could make
from selling the cargo.
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And that made him no less of a pirate.
And for some reason, that status was no longer
as unattractive.
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Twelve
Bastien surveyed the men he’d invited to the
wardroom and wondered who the traitor was. He
didn’t like this feeling of suspicion. He didn’t like
feeling as though he had to look behind him every
time he stepped into a shadow. But Jourdain had
gotten to at least one of his men.
He glanced at each man seated at the table. There
was Mr. Jackson, the ship’s carpenter. The man was
English, built like a bull and with that same animal’s
sense of humor. He didn’t mince words, and he didn’t
use them frivolously. Beside him sat Mr. Castro, his
master gunner. Castro was Spanish and had served with
Vargas before Bastien offered him a position on the
Shadow. Castro had no love for Jourdain. Beside him
sat Mr. Khan. Also an Englishman, he was a former
naval officer who had no qualms in telling everyone he
was after gold and gems. He wanted his share of any
prize. Could Jourdain have got to Khan? How much
money would it take to sway Khan’s loyalties?
He looked at the men standing near the windows,
Ridley and Maine. They were the last two men he’d
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ever suspect of turning traitor. He’d known Alan
Maine for years, and the man was as straight as they
came. He did his job and did it well. He was well liked
and well respected. It was one reason the crew had
voted him quartermaster.
Ridley had sailed on the Shadow for years, as well,
but Bastien knew little about the bosun. Still, Bastien
had no reason to suspect Ridley would sell him out to
Jourdain. Ridley had always been loyal, always fought
hard, usually at Bastien’s back.
So if it wasn’t Jackson or Castro, Khan, Ridley or
Maine, who was it?
Bastien sighed. He was supposed to be listening to
a discussion of strategy, but he hadn’t heard a word
Khan said. And now the man was looking at him as
though he wanted direction.
“Let me consult my charts again,” Bastien said.
“I don’t feel confident we know where the bastard
is hiding.”
He rose and headed back to his cabin. His state-
ments in the wardroom had been no exaggeration. He
had no confidence he knew where Jourdain hid. He
wondered if Raeven had any ideas.
And then he wondered why he was relying on
her. She was smart, but she wasn’t omniscient. She
couldn’t know where Jourdain lurked. And yet, he
wanted her opinion. He found he valued her opinion.
Not only that, but she’d left the bedclothes strewn
about the floor. Some cabin girl she would have
made. He thought about going to his desk, studying
his maps and charts, but he knew he wouldn’t be able
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to concentrate without her. He’d wonder where she
was, what she was doing—he eyed the bedclothes on
the floor—what she was wearing.
He stood at his desk and tried to imagine where
she might have gone. If he were a woman… no, if he
were Raeven, where would he go?
He smiled and started for the infirmary.
Five minutes later he found her, sharing a glass of
wine with Gaston. The two looked as though they
were old friends. And before Gaston, who was facing
the doorway, saw him, he heard the word Jourdain.
“So you’ve got that story out of him,” Bastien said
and had the satisfaction of seeing Raeven jump. He’d
surprised her and had the feeling it didn’t happen very
often. “Anything else?”
“If you’re concerned the good doctor has told
me anything about who you are or where you came
from, never fear,” she said with a smile. He noted
she’d pulled her hair back from her face and secured
it with a ribbon. Where had she found a ribbon? She
was wearing a pair of his black breeches and a black
shirt. A belt held it all in place, but the garments were
ridiculously big on her.
Still, she looked pretty. And tempting.
“I wasn’t concerned,” he said. “Gaston will never
talk. He can withstand even the worst tortures.”
“Oui, Monsieur le Marquis. But I have entertained
this lady with other stories.” He smiled at Raeven.
“Come again when you have time.”
“I will.” She rose and turned to Bastien. “What is it?”
“Why do you assume I’ve come with a purpose?”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does
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anything without a purpose. And I know you’ve just
come from the wardroom.”
He nodded. “Very well. I wanted to go over the
charts and maps with you. Have you had time to
peruse them?”
She gave him a look that told him the question
itself was absurd. They returned to his cabin in silence,
and she went straight to his desk, sorted the maps,
and pointed to the one she wanted. “Here,” she said
without preamble.
Bastien leaned close, studying the map of an area
somewhat west.
“Do you see these shoals? He’ll want to stay away
from those, keep in open water. But he’s close enough
to land,
as well, in case he needs to drop anchor and
complete further repairs.”
“And he might think to box me in. The Shadow’s
main strength is her speed and agility. If we have land
on one side, we lose maneuverability.”
Raeven nodded. “He has more cannon, and he’s
bigger, sturdier. You can outrun him, but he has the
advantage if you stand and fight.”
“But not if we surprise him. Not if—” He glanced
at her suddenly.
“What is it? Did you think of something?”
“No. I’ve just realized I’ve come farther in plan-
ning my strategy with you than I did all those hours
in the wardroom.”
She shrugged. “I told you I could be of service.”
She bent to the map again. “Look here. If you want
to surprise him, I suggest you come along this way. It
will take an extra day, but he won’t expect it.”
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Bastien studied the route, frowned. “Will he wait
that long? I don’t want to lose him.”
“It’s a risk. He has a prime position, so I think
he’ll wait. If not, you still have the advantage of
surprise. Of course”—she took a seat in his chair—
“all the surprise in the world will come to naught
if your traitor sabotages you. Have you found his
identity yet?”
He’d watched her study his maps, sit in his chair,
and now she leaned back and questioned him as to
his own ship and his own crew. For a moment, he
felt as though he were a mate again, reporting to his
captain. “You look quite comfortable. Can I get you
anything? Wine? Cigar?”
“Oh.” She stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”
“I don’t mind.” Much. He didn’t mind much. “I’m
not used to it. No one else on this ship would dare
take my seat.”
“Old habit. I used to sit in my father’s chair and
do schoolwork.”
Her words lit an old memory in his mind. He
remembered sitting in his father’s library, his feet
dangling from the chair, looking at a book that seemed
so big it must hold all the knowledge in the world.
“Should I assume, from your silence, you haven’t
discovered the traitor’s identity?”
She didn’t miss anything, did she? He sat in his own
chair, not because he wanted a seat but because he
wanted to remind himself it was his. He was the captain
of this vessel. “Not yet. But I will. Soon.” He studied
the map again, thought about the plan they’d made. It
might just work. He knew from Mr. Jackson the repairs
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were almost finished. They’d continue throughout the
night and could sail at first light.
He rose, went to the door, then stopped and looked
back at her. “I’m going to tell Mr. Khan to set a
course. When I return, I want to find you naked and
in the berth.”
She raised a brow. “Is that an order?”
“Take it as you like it.”
He shut the door and started up the ladderway.
He’d done no more than step foot on deck when
Percy Williams stepped in front of him. Bastien halted.
He had little choice, as the man stood directly in front
of him. “Mr. Williams.”
“Captain.” Williams didn’t move.
“Now that the pleasantries are over, might you
move to one side or the other?”
“You’re bedding her, aren’t you?” Williams asked.
Even in the twilight, Bastien could see the man’s face
turn red. Embarrassment or anger?
Embarrassment, Bastien decided. “That’s hardly
your concern, Mr. Williams. I assure you, I’ve done
nothing against Miss Russell’s wishes.”
“Good.” He didn’t speak, didn’t move, either.
Bastien sighed. “Was there something more you
wished to say, Mr. Williams?”
“Captain Bowers was a friend of mine.”
“I see.” Bastien sighed. Apparently, Bowers had been
a popular man. “I’m sorry for your loss. But I’ll tell
you what I told Raeven, I didn’t attack the Valor. She
pursued us, probably looking to press my crew. Nor
did I kill Captain Bowers. Not with my own hands,
anyway. We didn’t board their vessel. It was a quick
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skirmish, bloody and damaging, mostly to the Valor.
I’m not sorry we won. If we’d lost, my men would be
virtual slaves on the Valor, I’d be dead or imprisoned,
and my ship would be another of the navy’s prizes. I
will say I never intended to kill the ship’s captain, but
he attacked in a storm—foolish choice—and he suffered
the consequence.”
“I understand. One day Raeven may, as well. She
loved him, and he loved her.”
Bastien nodded. “I suppose it adds insult to injury
to have me—Bowers’s murderer—in her bed.”
“Actually, no.”
Bastien raised a brow.
“I respect you, sir, and you’re a good match for
her. Tim would have wanted her to be happy. And, as
unlikely as it seems, you make her happy.”
Bastien let out a bark of laughter. “I fail to see that,
Mr. Williams. She seems most intent on killing me.”
“Yes, before she met you. But after Brest, all she
could do was talk about you. Mostly about killing you,
it’s true,” he conceded, “but she admires your talent
with the sword.”
Bastien tried not to show his surprise.
“One thing you should know about Raeven, sir,”
Williams said. He looked around him, obviously
making sure she wouldn’t overhear.
“She’s in my cabin,” Bastien told him. “You’re safe.”
Williams laughed. “You only think she’s in your
cabin. Who knows where she really is?”
Bastien gave a grudging nod. She was particularly
slippery when it came to staying where he’d put her.
“You were saying, Mr. Williams?”
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“She’s soft, sir.”
Bastien frowned. “I’m well aware of certain soft
features she possesses.”
Williams went red again. “No, I meant, she’s not as
hard as she pretends. On the inside, she’s vulnerable.
She lost her mother and now her fiancé. Her father is
ill. She may well lose him, and that leaves only me. I
suppose I’m asking you to be gentle with her—when
you put her aside.”
“What makes you think I’ll put her aside?” Of
course he would set her aside. He had no intention of
marrying the woman. But he was curious.
Williams shook his head. “I-I just assumed—”
“I’ll be gentle. I’m sure, given enough
time, she’ll
be the one to leave me.”
Williams nodded. “Thank you.”
“May I speak to my sailing master now, Mr. Williams?”
“Oh!” He moved quickly out of the way. “Of
course. I’m sorry.”
Bastien moved past him and headed for the helm
and Mr. Jackson. He couldn’t stop the conversation
replaying in his mind. Williams hadn’t told him
anything he didn’t know, but it did make him think—
he and Raeven were not so different after all. They’d
both lost people they loved.
Did that make it impossible for them to love again?
Perhaps. He knew he would never risk his heart. Not
for her, not for any one. So perhaps they were doomed
to—as Mr. Williams put it—set each other aside.
But Bastien swore they’d enjoy one another to the
hilt until then.
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Raeven didn’t undress. She wasn’t quite ready to
behave so wantonly. She supposed Bastien was used to
seductresses, but she was the daughter of a sailor. She
knew how to set, reef, and furl a sail. She knew how
to load, prime, and fire a cannon.
She didn’t know how to seduce a man, and she
wasn’t going to make a fool of herself by trying.
Still, she thought as she stood in front of his mirror,
she could make some effort to try and look more
presentable. There was little she could improve about
her clothes. He had told her to take them off, so there
was no reason to don one of the gowns. It would only
look as though she was trying too hard.
Her face was her face. Even if she had face paints,
she wouldn’t have known how to use them. Similarly,
she could do nothing about her body. She didn’t have
any undergarments to lift or shape her, and besides,
he’d seemed to like her body fine as it was.
But her hair. There she could make an effort.
She’d never liked her hair. It was thick and heavy,
not curly and not straight. She’d tried cutting it short,
but after her father had recovered from his apoplectic
fit, he’d told her she looked like a boy.
An unattractive boy.
She’d had to admit he was right. Her face was too
round or too square—too something. The long, dark
hair softened her features, and the longer her hair, the
less it curled up and stuck out.
Like it was now.
She looked into the mirror and sighed. She used
Bastien’s comb to try and tame the puffy mess into