Chapter One
Saint-Malo, France, September 1812
Nothing drew more suspicion than a lone wolf scouting for his pack.
Wolfgang entered La Guêpe and took in the scene unfolding in the tavern, reaping uninvited attention from those who glanced his way. Voices were hushed in The Wasp’s smoky din. Chairs screeched on floorboards as customers turned, sharing their full, undivided attention. The air inside the aged tavern reeked of malty ale, body odor, and a hint of desperation. Probing eyes narrowed his way, a sign the thickening tension meant the occupants were eager for a fight.
He was used to the stares, the fear he provoked in weaker men, the treatment shown him no matter the port or establishment. Schemers stayed alive, and disregarding potential threats—he was one—tended to get people killed.
A puff of smoke plumed from his cigar, the dark wrapper partially hiding his contempt as he chewed on the fermented tobacco’s cut end. Wolf didn’t abide complications. He was only here to meet a man with information critical to Lord Wellington’s intelligence gathering ring. Seedier establishments offered more privacy than the lofty clubs many of his countrymen haunted. Being willing to go where they could not made him invaluable. And appreciated men do not vanish without a trace. Competence and cunning kept men alive.
As Wolf waited none too patiently for the crowd’s curiosity to be appeased, his audience lost interest and attentions returned to the evening’s entertainment: gambling and sensual pursuits.
Wolf gripped the Portuguese cigar between his thumb and forefinger, relishing the taste, then took it out of his mouth and searched the crowd for the man he’d come to meet. After reconnoitering near Salamanca and passing along information about Marshall Marmont’s withdrawal to Madrid, he’d been given leeway to travel to the coast and sail to Saint-Malo where anther one of Wellington’s agents waited with communication about his next mission.
“Je ne veux pas de problème!” I don’t want any trouble.
Wolf grumbled to himself. The small, defiant voice shouting to his left mirrored his thoughts. Who did? But like sand sifting through glass, trouble always managed to find Wolf.
With Wellington’s army entrenched around the castle of Burgos, he didn’t have time for distractions. Purposefully ignoring the scuffling to his left—a common enough problem in taverns like these—Wolf made his way through the crowded interior to the bar. There, he recognized the winking barmaid who displayed her pert breasts to advantage. She was none other than Joanna Perkins, an agent who’d been pivotal in organizing Wellington’s British intelligence ring.
“Why if it isn’t the Sea Wolf,” she said, continuing her disguise, taking no chances.
“Jolie,” he said, puffing on his cigar and acknowledging her with a nod.
Joanna Perkins was one of the many aliases the wife of the Demon of Dublin’s Hell used. She had a way of switching characters like adorning a new gown, pure talent, and necessary when it came to survival in their business.
But Joanna and their fellow spies weren’t Wellington’s first. He’d just come from the Battle of Salamanca mere weeks after the cunning Scotsman Colquhoun Grant had been captured and taken to Bayonne. Keen-eyed Scot Andrew Leith-Hay and nobleman Charles Cocks now accompanied Wellington and his army to the Castile at Burgos. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“A reunion of sorts, monsieur,” she purred. “You look weary. What can I serve you?”
Joanna knew very well what it was Wolf wanted—information on his brother. Hadn’t that been what Wellington had promised him?
“Give me a beer,” he said.
She turned to the large barrel spout positioned behind her and filled his order as he leaned his elbow on the counter.
The scuffling and grunts he heard grew louder, more curious. He peered back over his shoulder at the crowd of bodies encircling someone in their midst, his leather overcoat crackling as he moved.
“You heard me. Stay...back!”
Wolf straightened at the sound of a boy’s voice.
He narrowed his eyes. His instincts railed. His nerve endings blazed to life and his entire body tensed for a fight. This time, there was no mistaking the fear or the slight feminine tone prickling his senses. Surely those men weren’t beating a woman on the premises?
“Monsieur?” Joanna asked when he didn’t acknowledge the beer she placed before him. “He is none of our concern. There are most important matters that require our attention.”
Whatever Joanna had to say could wait. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
Wolf turned around and headed toward the crowd of men, when everyone else minded their own business. Thirst came second to the protective urges clamoring inside him. Instincts had never failed him before. And at this moment, they shouted that the unruly men weren’t dealing with a mere boy, but a young woman in grave danger.
Marching back the way he’d come, he shoved his way through the derelict group, clothed in shabby threads that appeared to have never seen water or soap. There, in their midst, he finally clearly observed the owner of the raspy voice. A disheveled boy with a bloody lip and swollen eye was chained to a wall, bracing himself against his attackers, knees bent, fists protruded before him, prepared to take on the horde.
Filthy, disheveled hair half-covered the boy’s face as he glared through the strands at each man, wary, prepared to defend himself, to inflict pain on anyone who came near. Incredibly brave or terribly unwise, for Wolf was almost certain this boy was not who he appeared to be. A lot of care had been taken to alter his shape, but the filth couldn’t completely hide the bone structure that made him believe he was looking at a young woman in disguise. But who? Why was she here?
Chains rattled as she moved.
Damn. He’d seen what happened to captured boys who couldn’t hold their own against a group of well-oiled cutthroats. He’d experienced it and had been lucky enough to survive. But this girl wasn’t Wolf. She was a young woman facing brutal odds. These were hardened men bent on punishing those beneath them, of turning boys into men, or issuing a slow and painful death.
Violence didn’t favor the weak. Not in Saint-Malo, a citadel that bred pirates and privateers and some of the mightiest and valiant seadogs that had ever sailed.
For reasons he could only guess, the girl posed a significant problem to her captors. If she revealed her identity, she could expect a crueler fate than the one she was suffering now. But if Wolf used her troublesome behavior to his advantage, he might be able to broker her release before she got her arse handed to her on a platter or found herself on her back servicing every last one of these scabrous dogs.
Wolf growled low in his throat. Corsairs didn’t relax diplomatic practices for anyone, including female captives, unless it benefited them monetarily. They had long memories. They were willing to do anything for entertainment and profit, which meant he’d have to be a savvy barterer.
He examined the girl—her wild desperation and courage a rare find—from her handkerchief-tied curly-haired head, to her prominent nose, and swollen mouth. A coat hung overly-large off her shoulders, sleeves folded up at the ends revealing clenched fists chained at the wrist.
“What’s going on here?” he asked a seasoned tar to his right, barely controlling his temper. “What’s this boy done?”
“Slave boy,” the man spat. “Been cowerin’ in the corner like a rat for ’ours.”
“Cowering?” Wolf scrutinized the girl’s bloody knuckles. “The little rat has claws.”
“A dunderhead, ’e is. Not right in the ’ead, bitin’ the ’and that feeds ’em.”
Doubting the man’s logic, Wolf shook his head. Complete and utter fools, the lot of them. How long had the girl been held captive? Certainly not long enough to let her true identity slip.
He clenched his fists, struggling to control the violent impulses coiling inside him as urges to rise to her defense and kill everyone around him surfaced. But this wasn’t England. He was a foreigner on French soil during a time of war, intent to find a man with information about the brother he barely remembered. Losing his temper and going berserk would only draw suspicion on himself, Joanna...and the girl.
He took a deep breath to curb his rising fury as another man goaded the girl into swiping at air. Dark circles discolored the skin beneath her eyes. Christ, she looked as if she hadn’t eaten a good meal in at least a fortnight.
“Thirsty?” a grizzled man asked her, upending his tankard.
“You...” Hobbled by her chained ankles, she struggled to escape the ale that sloshed over her and slipped on the floorboards. “Oomph!”
“Assez!” A man missing several teeth broke away from the crowd and approached the girl as she fought to stand. “Enough,” he shouted again. “Ye’ll learn not to steal my scraps, batârd, or ye’ll never eat again.”
“Diable!” Regaining her footing, her eyes shot daggers at him. Then, to the man’s surprise, when he turned his back to her she leaped onto him and tightened the chains dangling from her wrists around his throat. “You threw them to me!”
There was a distinct inflection in her voice that indicated French wasn’t her native language. Bugger. A foreigner then. How far away from home was she? She could be from anywhere, but if she was from England... Hell, she might have been taught French as a member of the gentry or the peerage, which meant he couldn’t possibly walk away now, even if he wanted to. It didn’t matter he had business of his own to attend to. Ignoring an Englishwoman’s welfare wouldn’t be right. It wasn’t even in his nature.
“Ye’ll pay for this!” Her jailer—a man several had named Cuvier—bit her hand.
She released her grip and he flung her off his back. Cuvier staggered back, gasping for breath. Supported by his men, he then lunged forward, but Wolf stuck out his foot and sent the man sailing into a group of card-playing gamblers.
One artful swindler, swiftly grabbed his earnings, nimbly leaped to his feet and raised his booty above the heads of the other men, turning to glare at Wolf. “You owe me, monsieur.”
Men scrambled around the crafty sharker, but his attention never wavered from Wolf. His fiery stare promised there would come a time when he’d collect his due.
Annoyed, Wolf puffed harder on his cigar. Right now he had more important things to worry about than a disgruntled cheat. Namely, making sure a high-spirited wench didn’t get herself killed.
He clenched his hands and pondered the girl through the coiling smoke rising from his mouth. As if sensing his rapt attention she looked his way, locking her incredulous gaze with his. Wolf’s breath caught as he found himself gazing into a pair of the stormiest gray eyes he’d ever beheld. Suddenly, sounds in the tavern silenced. His lungs squeezed and alarm shot through him. Blood in his veins burned, fueling a sense of urgency that heightened his senses.
The little heathen didn’t plan to back down. She intended to fight these pirates—including him—until she revealed her identity or worse, breathed her last breath.
He understood her desperation to be free, the crazed flicker in her eyes. But that wasn’t all he read there. A maddening intensity drove her. One he immediately identified with—a mission, a search for something or someone she’d never have a chance to accomplish unless she gained her freedom.
That wouldn’t be easy. French corsairs were royalty in Saint-Malo. They’d been given the run of the place due to the many prizes privateers and pirates seized in Napoleon’s name, helping to fund the despot’s quest for power and dominion.
Wolf removed the cigar from his mouth. He slanted a glance at the man seated nearby. Not anyone notable, but obviously a man who wielded authority. As his men taunted the girl, the leader chuckled to himself. Wolf had had enough. Making up his mind to interfere, Wolf plugged his cigar between his lips, and crossed his arms over his chest to gain better access to the bayonets hidden within his wrist guards.
Cuvier wiped his nose as he lumbered across the floor toward the girl. “Beg for my forgiveness and I might show ye mercy.”
“Ha!” She thrust up her chained hands. “You call this merciful?”
Several men burst into laughter at Cuvier’s expense.
“Ye’re an animal,” Cuvier said, “what needs to be caged.”
“So you can be my master?” she spat.
Wolf grew more impressed by the minute with her tenacity.
“Yer jailor.” Cuvier cackled. He clenched his fists, breathing heavily, a look of retribution flickering from his eyes.
Dauntless the girl might be, but she was a danger to herself, bird-headed in provoking men who dealt in slavery, making a mockery of humanity. Surrounded by cutthroats, unwavering in her resolve to fight, she appeared almost as controlled as the men serving under his command. But stubbornness would only get a person so far. Defiance would only increase their wrath and her pain.
“Combien?” Wolf shouted eager to put an end to their sport. When he didn’t get a response, he repeated his request louder. “How much?”
Cuvier spun around until he spotted Wolf standing in the crowd. “This one is not for sale.”
“Every man has a price,” Wolf argued, ignoring Cuvier, addressing the disgruntled man enthroned at the table like an emperor surrounded by his devoted court.
Joanna rounded the bar and strutted to the table, swinging her hips to and fro. She frowned at Wolf then bent low and whispered something in the dictator’s ear.
“Is that true?” At her nod, the man grinned, and fixed his attention on Wolf. “Interested in that one, are ye?”
“I’m short-handed,” Wolf admitted with a shrug.
Cuvier advanced. “Ye promised the boy would be our amusement, Robillard.”
“As far as I can see,” Robillard said, “he’s become too difficult for you to manage.”
“Resourceful.” Wolf corrected.
Robillard nodded and then leaned forward, eyeing Wolf curiously. “Come, Capitaine. You and I both know this boy is not fit to sail. Why are you so interested in him, eh?”
“I happen to be in the market for a cabin boy.”
Chains rattled as the little she-rat struggled against her captors, glowering at him openly. Alarm flickered in her eyes before they landed on Wolf.
“This one? He’s been nothing but trouble for us since the moment he was captured, Capitaine. I cannot recommend him to you.”
“Bon débarras!” Joanna shouted with glee. “Sell and be rid of the mongrel, mon amour.” She raised her hands, encouraging applause. The crowd responded, clapping and whistling, but Wolf understood Joanna’s motivation. She had a soft spot in her heart for children because her husband educated them in Dublin. And the sooner the girl no longer distracted Robillard and his men, the quicker Joanna could deliver her message to Wolf and disappear.
Robillard put his arm around the barmaid. “You’re a naughty wench, mon amour. This boy will not be better off aboard the Sea Wolf.” He considered Wolf thoughtfully. “I hear its capitaine is a beast.”
“Beast or no,” Joanna said smiling, “what do we care if he takes the boy, ma chéríe. We will have more time to enjoy other pursuits, oui?”
Robillard considered this for several tense moments before waving his hand in the air. “The boy is more trouble than he is worth. Cut him loose.”
“But, sir,” Cuvier argued. “We—”
“Soyez silencieux!” The crowd hushed as Robillard bolted to his feet. “Do you dare to question my authority? I expect to be obeyed, Cuvier. My word is law.”
Several men raised their fists and shouted in support of Robillard.
Wolf approached Cuvier. “Rest easy.” He took his cigar out of his mouth and exhaled a cloud of smoke that covered Cuvier’s face, making it momentarily fade from view. “I have ways of dealing with unruly boys.”
The girl’s mouth gaped and her gaze suspiciously darted from her tormentors to Wolf. Wisely, for once, she didn’t speak. But Wolf recognized the desperation in her eyes. She was already plotting a way to escape him.
“Ye will regret this,” Cuvier said.
“Untie him,” Wolf ordered, thinking the very same thing.
“We have not settled on a price, Capitaine,” Robillard said calmly, raising his palm.
Joanna slid her hands down Robillard’s shoulders, molding her body enticingly to his as she whispered in his ear once more.
Robillard’s eyes widened and his head snapped up. “Do you make a habit of buying inexperienced boys?” he asked Wolf.
“That depends,” he said.
“On what, if I may be so bold, Capitaine?”
“On whether or not my own cabin boy has outlived his usefulness.”
Laughter rose about them as Robillard’s men caught his meaning.
“Aha!” Cuvier burst out laughing to boisterous applause. “Out of the kettle into the fire, eh, boys?”
Robillard raised his hand again, halting their merriment. “So...the rumors are true.”
“Rumors have their purpose.” Damn it, Joanna. She’d pierced his pride, but he’d go along with whatever lie Joanna told, including an attack on his sexual preferences, if it meant they’d win the girl’s freedom.
“You avoid the answer, Capitaine.”
“And you’re wasting my time. Are you interested in getting rid of the boy or not?”
Robillard considered him carefully. Joanna grinned victoriously. The tavern was quiet, save for the sound of chairs scrapping against the floorboards as sailors, prostitutes, and gamblers waited expectantly for Robillard’s next words.
Finally, Robillard raised his hand. The nonverbal order set his men into action.
“Stay back.” Her gaze frantically latched onto Wolf. “Let me go!” she pleaded.
Every muscle in Wolf’s body primed for action as he watched the men manhandle the girl, roughly unlock her chains, and loosen them from her wrists and ankles.
Her shackles noisily fell to the floor. She widened her legs, staggered on her bruised feet, then appeared momentarily vulnerable, folding in on herself as she rubbed the tender flesh left exposed there. Wisely, she kept silent for the first time since Wolf had entered the tavern.
Robillard snapped his fingers. “So we are clear. I do not want to see this boy’s face again.”
The corsair’s men shoved her to the ground in front of Wolf, but he ignored his impulse to offer her a hand as she scrambled to rise to her feet. If he showed any measure of compassion, he’d surely alert Robillard and his men that this boy was not who he appeared to be.
Robillard’s eyes lit up greedily. “Now let’s talk price.”
*** End of excerpt The Mercenary Pirate (The Heart of a Hero Series) by Katherine Bone ***