The Rogue Pirate’s Bride (27 page)

There are many people who make a book like this possible. I’d like to thank Sourcebooks, especially my editor, Deb Werksman, who calmly talked me through all the title and cover changes to this book without once suggesting I grab a paper bag for my hyperventilation. I’d also like to thank Danielle Jackson, Sarah Ryan, Susie Benton, Cat Clyne, Dominique Raccah, and all the others at Sourcebooks who work so hard on my behalf. As Deb said, I got the full Sourcebooks’ treatment. Thank you for not resting until we got it right. I’m extremely fortunate to have Joanna MacKenzie and Danielle Egan-Miller as my agents. They make me feel like the only author in the world. And thank you for having such a large supply of paper bags on hand.

This novel required research into ships and sailing. I’m indebted to my dad for sharing his vast knowledge of seafaring and for reading sections of this novel for correctness. I’m also grateful to Ronald Stebbins for his input. As this is a work of fiction, I’ve taken a few liberties, but I made every attempt at accuracy. I use several Spanish names in this novel, and I’m appreciative of the suggestions and translations made by Gina Colion-Hernandez. Once again, Pascale Zurzolo-Champeau graciously answered my questions regarding French expressions and phrases. Of course, any and all mistakes in the novel are mine completely.

My career as an author wouldn’t be possible without the support of family and friends, including my longtime friend and critique partner, Christina Hergenrader; the members of West Houston RWA, especially Sharie Kohler and Tera Lynn Childs; and the ladies of the Sisterhood of the Jaunty Quills, in particular Margo Maguire and Robyn DeHart. Madeira James at xuni.com took me on as a client in 2004, and she still designs and maintains my website. Somehow she always finds time for another update or tweak. And last but far from least, I’d like to acknowledge my husband for making so many dinners, entertaining Baby Galen, and always building me up.

Shana Galen
is the author of seven Regency historicals, including the Rita-nominated
Blackthorne’s Bride
. Her books have been sold in Brazil, Russia, the Netherlands, Spain, and Turkey and featured in the Rhapsody and Doubleday Book Clubs. A former English teacher in Houston’s inner city, Shana now writes full time. She is a happily married wife and mother of a daughter. She loves to hear from readers: visit her website at
www.­shanagalen.­com
or see what she’s up to daily on Facebook and Twitter.

Somewhere in Europe, July 1815

The spy called Saint hunkered down in the bottom of the wardrobe she’d occupied for the last four hours and attempted to stifle a yawn.

She didn’t need to crack the door to know the activities in the bed across the room were still very much in progress. She could hear the courtesan urging her “horse” onward, the woman’s demands punctuated by the man’s loud neighs.

Saint sighed, shifting so her muscles remained limber. She’d given up being embarrassed about three and a quarter hours ago and now wondered how much longer the game could persist.

Where was Lucien Ducos? If Bonaparte’s advisor didn’t make an appearance tonight, Saint was going to have a lot of explaining to do. Despite being ordered to track Ducos to France, she’d elected to remain right here.

Something told her that Bonaparte’s advisor would visit his mistress one last time before leaving. It was a feeling—her intuition speaking to her. And Saint always listened to her intuition.

It had led her to this wardrobe, where she’d been treated to The Sassy Upstairs Maid, The Very Bad Boy, and now Horse and Rider. Ducos had better turn up soon—before someone decided to play Hide and Seek and discovered the wardrobe held more than clothes.

The horse’s neighs grew louder, and Saint covered her ears. How much longer? She was definitely leaving as soon as the horse… was stabled.

She sighed. Oh, who was she fooling? Of course, she wouldn’t leave. She’d stay as long as necessary to secure Ducos.

That was her mission.

Failure was not an option.

The horse neighed frantically, and Saint dropped her head in her hands and tried to remember why she was putting up with this. Bonaparte had escaped after his defeat at Waterloo. England—nay, Europe—would not be safe until he was apprehended and dealt with. All sources pointed to Ducos as the man who knew where Bonaparte was hidden.

Her mission was to find Ducos and make him talk.

And she’d do her duty. She’d tracked him here, discovered the name of his courtesan, and set the perfect trap. So where was the Frenchman?

Suddenly the slaps and neighs were interrupted by three loud bangs on the front door. The courtesan’s house was small, the outer door located down a short flight of steps near the bedroom. In the abrupt silence, Saint could hear the housekeeper’s shoes clicking through the vestibule.

“What are you doing?” the horse asked the courtesan in one of the seven languages Saint knew well. “You can’t stop now.”

“One moment,” the woman answered, her voice tense.

Saint’s nose itched, and she sat forward, careful to remain absolutely silent. She heard a man’s voice, the housekeeper’s negative answer, and the man’s voice again. She could tell, despite the housekeeper’s refusal of entrance, the intruder had entered.

Inside the bedroom, the courtesan scrambled to dismount as the intruder spoke again.

In French.

Saint allowed herself a smile—the first in weeks. It was Ducos. It had to be. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and extracted her pistol from beneath her mantle, shifting the dagger to her other hand.

The footsteps drew closer, and the courtesan’s whispers grew more frantic. “You must hide. If he catches me with you—”

“Ha! You think I am afraid of some little French clerk? His time is over.”

Little French clerk? Ducos was over six feet tall and known for violent outbursts.

“Please,” the courtesan all but begged. “Please, hide.”

If the stallion had an ounce of sense, he’d listen.

The courtesan continued, “Hide in the wardrobe. I will get rid of him.”

Saint’s eyes widened.
No! Not the wardrobe. Damn!

She scrambled to arrange a dressing gown so it concealed her, but she knew the furnishing would never fit them both. The wardrobe shook as the stallion stumbled against it.

Footsteps thumped on the landing, and a tap rattled the bedroom door. “
Ma chérie
? Are you in there?”

“Who is it?” the courtesan called innocently. Then she hissed, “Never mind, there’s no time. Get under the bed.”

Saint exhaled loudly and closed her eyes in relief.

“
Ma petite chou?
Open the door,
chérie
.”

“I’m coming.” There was the sound of clothing rustling, and then the woman’s footfalls as she crossed the room and opened the door.

Saint squinted through the keyhole in the wardrobe. Lucien Ducos, wearing a black greatcoat with a
chapeau bras
tucked under his arm, stepped into the room. Wasting no time, he pulled the courtesan into his arms and kissed her.

Saint held her breath. Now was the time to take action—burst out of the wardrobe, pistol in one hand and dagger in the other. In a matter of moments, she could disable Ducos, tie up the courtesan and her lover, and begin her interrogation.

Heart drumming, Saint extended two fingers and pushed gingerly on the wardrobe’s door.