Page 2 of The Pirate’s Stolen Bride (Cavalier Cove)

CHAPTER TWO

IN WHICH EVERYONE IS CONFUSED

Y ou’d think rescuing a lady from a marriage she clearly didn’t want would be met with a bit more gratitude. Instead, Rémy’s captive kneed him in the stomach and abused his kidneys with her fists.

Women.

He was of half a mind to swat her bottom, but he had his hands full trying to navigate steep steps with a squirming captive draped over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“What are you doing—put me down, you—you scoundrel .”

Rémy was only too happy to oblige once they reached the boat waiting for him in the cliffside cavern below the inn. She was a petite little thing, but strong for her size.

“Quest-ce que c’est?” asked the man waiting for him.

“A guest,” Rémy answered in English, eschewing his native French. “She’s coming for a tour of the Spectre, aren’t you, Miss…?”

He didn’t even know her name.

All he knew was that the writhing woman he deposited in the bottom of the boat had bright hazel eyes that sparked with fury, and the most fascinating constellation of freckles on the apples of her cheeks. He could study her stars all day.

“You must let me go at once,” she demanded.

“It’s too late for that, Miss…” he prompted again. This time, she answered.

“Turner. Harriet Turner. My uncle is Lord Montague, the Duke of Acton, and he will not allow this insult to go unpunished.”

Just his luck to have kidnapped a fine lady with powerful relations. The sooner he got out of Cavalier Cove, the better chance he had of keeping his head. Rémy coiled thick rope. “Benoit, best be going.”

“Se cacher sous,” the Black man pointed to a canvas sailcloth in the bottom of the fishing boat. “You should hide. The girl, too.”

Miss Turner wasn’t going to like that very much. Too bad. He’d done the ungrateful wench a favor. The pensive look on her face when she’d said, I am to be married. He’s taking me to Ireland, told him everything he needed to know about how this woman felt about her upcoming nuptials.

He’d stolen her away from the fate she clearly dreaded. A little insurance never hurt when making one’s escape—Rémy wasn’t an altruist or anything ridiculous like that. He was a scoundrel. A scallywag, and proud of it. He smuggled French finery aboard a fast, sleek ship, the Spectre , cutting through the waves of the English Channel by moonlight—and quite successfully, too. He had a tidy sum set aside for the day when he might want to settle down.

Not that he would ever want to settle down. He wasn’t envious of his cousin, Thierry Desmarais, who had married a pretty spinster the year before and now had a tiny infant daughter, Lilou. Thierry had lost his touch when he became besotted with a plucky wallflower. Granted, Adeline was as fine a wife as any man could want. If one wanted a wife, which Rémy did not.

His cousin had opened a storefront, of all things. Much of its stock came from Rémy’s frequent runs between France and Cornwall. Still. Running a shop and going home every evening to a wife and baby sounded tedious in the extreme.

No, Rémy would take the sea and the wind on his face, and all the danger that came with it. Not once in his twenty-seven years had he envied Thierry, and he wouldn’t start now.

He wouldn’t mind having a few just like Lilou one day. Siring children, however, required settling down. On land—where everything always went wrong.

He’d come to Cavalier Cove to drop a shipment of brandy and to see his cousin. His visit to Thierry would have to wait for a more fortuitous time. The Riders had shown up while he was still moving tubs into the Cock and Bull’s secret passageways.

And then, he’d seen her. Miss Turner, the pretty earl’s bride. What a spitfire she’d turned out to be.

“Arrête de sourire comme un idiot et cache-toi,” Benoit whispered. Stop smiling like an idiot and hide.

Right.

Rémy yanked back a corner of the sailcloth and gestured to Miss Turner. She shook her head. Her bonnet was askew and a few strands of blond hair had escaped, dancing in the breeze. Her pale cheeks were downright crimson, and those fascinating dots fanned out across her throat and down her bosom.

Smack.

His cheek stung.

He laughed. “Aren’t you full of surprises?”

They didn’t have time for surprises, however intriguing, so he captured her slender wrists and made her lie down in the bottom of the boat. Benoit covered them with the tarp and rowed them out into the churning bay.

Beneath the flimsy cover of the canvas sailcloth, Miss Turner’s breasts rose and fell with panicky force. Her spencer covered up any hint of cleavage, sadly for him, but her bosoms filled out the short-waisted, long-sleeved jacket pleasingly. He imagined slipping free the buttons and exploring those mounds with his…

Her wide hazel eyes hardened as if she could read his thoughts.

“I’ll scream.”

“If you do, I’ll be forced to kiss you.”

Her lashes flared in shock. Tellingly, her gaze fell to his mouth. She could lie to herself, but Rémy had years of experience with decoding ladies’ subtle cues. They rarely came out and said directly that they desired a man. Such things were frowned upon for women. Pity. How much easier would relations be if everyone spoke honestly of what they wanted?

But they didn’t, and so he learned to see past the lies ladies told themselves to maintain their virtuous self-image. If it was his fault they tumbled into bed, so be it.

“You are an utter scoundrel,” she seethed.

“I am a smuggler, after all,” he shrugged.

“Practically a pirate.”

“Not quite the same, chérie. I do not board ships and take their cargo. I don’t steal. That, chérie, is the key difference. Now be quiet, lest you force me to taste those sweet lips.”

Her cheeks turned crimson again. This time, her blush crept down her throat into the collar of her jacket.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Anywhere you wish to go.”

“To Ireland?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because any fool can see that you don’t want to marry that man.”

“He is my uncle. ”

“It’s generally frowned upon to marry one’s uncle anyway.” She must be quite a fine lady indeed if her uncle was a duke.

She made a strangled sound. “I wasn’t going to marry Uncle Monty.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Will you shut up?”

“I will if you will.”

Her fulminating glare only made Rémy grin. This lady was no meek little mouse. She was full of fire and he wanted all her passion.

The air chilled abruptly, a sign that they had left the safety of the cavern and were on the open bay.

“Once Benoit decides the coast is clear he will give a signal. We can board my ship and be free.”

She gave a curt nod. Her bonnet sat at an odd angle against the worn wood, its silk flowers miraculously intact after so much abuse. It was a nice hat. The violet felt brought out the green flecks in her eyes.

“Is your uncle really a duke?”

“No, I was making that up.”

“Good.”

“Rémy, that was sarcasm.”

He turned to look at her. A chuckle bubbled out of him. Miss Turner met his eye and glared. “This is the most preposterous situation I have ever been in, do you know that?”

“I aim to please.”

“Shh!” hissed Benoit. They rowed for some time during which her ladyship was suspiciously quiet. At last, his friend said, “We approach the Spectre . I will pull the Haint alongside so you can board.”

A few minutes later, their fishing dinghy pulled alongside the larger cutter. A grizzled man aboard the bigger shim threw down a rope ladder.

Rémy offered Miss Turner a hand up. She took it reluctantly and tugged her clothing straight without meeting his eye. A large swell rocked the boat and nearly sent her sprawling.

“Careful,” he said, catching her.

“I’m not accustomed to boats.”

“You might have to stay below decks for a while.” He indicated the dark gray cloud bank in the distance with a jerk of his chin. “That storm will be upon us within the hour. We’ll head away from Polperro, where the Waterguard are stationed, but we might not be able to avoid the storm entirely. It could be a rough few hours.”

Her plump lips flattened and a thin, worried line pleated her brow. “What if I get sick?”

“There will be a bucket. Don’t worry, Miss Turner, vous serez très à l’aise.”

“Comfortable,” she echoed. Clearly, she understood some French.

“Yes, as I said, you will be quite comfortable. Come. I will show you.” He gestured to the rope ladder. She fumbled with the first rung, gasping when the boat dipped and the hem of her skirt went into the water.

“Don’t fall,” he called out encouragingly.

She managed to hold her skirt aside, cast him an incredulous glare, and pull herself up another rung all at once. Good girl. She could handle this.

There was a strange sensation he couldn’t quite name burrowed deep inside his chest, as if an ancient creature had awoken there. His ribs felt too tight and his skin felt too sensitive. Rémy recognized the physical signs of attraction, but this was a thousand times worse than he had ever experienced. It was a wholly different beast.

He generally avoided feelings, but one of the emotions he identified was simmering indignance bordering on outrage. A pretty, capable young woman didn’t deserve to be forced into a marriage she didn’t want. Rémy didn’t care how titled she was, or how wealthy the man in question. He’d bet her beau was old and hideous, too.

Not that he had enough money to tempt a fine lady like a duke’s niece. Rémy had done well for himself, but there was a world of difference between a successful smuggler and a titled lord.

A gust of wind, a large wave, and a smattering of rain slapped the boats all at once.

Miss Turner yelped with fear. The rope ladder swung wide over the water as the ship rolled. She dangled midair, suspended, giving him a good view up her skirt, then lost her grip and plunged into the sea.