everyone will know who I am. How do you think
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17
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?
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Two
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.
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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.
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20
Shana Galen
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
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21
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 j
ust 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.”
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Shana Galen
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?
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23
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.
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24
Shana Galen
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.”
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
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25
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 ba
ck 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
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26
Shana Galen
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 posi-
tion 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.”
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27
“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