Chapter One
Saint-Malo, France, September 1812
Nothing drew more suspicion than a lone wolf scouting for his pack.
Wolfgang entered La Guêpe—the Wasp—and took in the scene unfolding in the tavern, reaping uninvited attention from those who glanced his way.
“It’s the captain of the Sea Wolf!” someone shouted.
Chairs screeched against the floorboards in the smoky din. Voices stopped mid-conversation. Several men ignored the disruption his entrance was causing, continuing to brawl in the corner. One bumped into a corsair, who became so enraged that he grabbed the unfortunate man by his neck and snapped it. The gamblers who were spread throughout the Wasp ignored the murder without flinching. They merely continued to cast bets on the mounting caches in the center of rough-hewn tables. It was a testament to the level of violence typically found in places like these. And Wolf thrived on it.
Saint-Malo was a stronghold with a centuries-old reputation as a den of disreputable pirates. Wolf had docked there on several occasions while participating in free trade and rendezvousing with contacts from the two secret intelligence-gathering organizations he worked for—Wellington’s spies and the Legion, a group operating under Lord Fynes that hunted down those responsible for undermining British rule and funding Napoleon’s war, in particular a man or group known simply as Typhon.
Wolf’s habits and tracking skills—a talent he’d perfected while living with Indians in the Colonies—had been useful in scouting Marshal Marmont’s activities in the Battle of Salamanca. Since then, Marmont had withdrawn to Madrid, giving Wolf leeway to travel to the coast and sail to Saint-Malo where another one of Wellington’s agents was waiting to pass along information he’d been promised about his long-lost brother’s whereabouts. The investigatory work done on Wolf’s behalf was supposed to lead him to his brother, Kearney, who he hadn’t seen since he’d received a head injury at age eight on the docks in Bristol, an injury that had erased his earlier childhood memories.
The air crackled with tension inside the tavern, drawing Wolf’s attention back to the present and reeking of tobacco, stale malty ale, body odor, and a hint of desperation. Wolf didn’t favor this particular tavern as the men who frequented it were Malouines. Few of these men who hailed from Saint-Malo did not take to sea, and they certainly never counted the odds against themselves. They’d been bred to raid Spanish and British ships, and they shirked every decency known to man. He was accustomed to the stares and the fear he provoked; it was treatment shown him no matter the port or establishment. Disregarding potential threats—like him—tended to get people killed.
Smoke plumed from his cigar as he chewed on the fermented end of the dark tobacco wrapper, trying to hide his contempt. Wolf didn’t abide complications. Seedier establishments offered more privacy than the lofty clubs fellow members of Wellington’s ring—Lords Hartland, Thorston, Bateman, and St. Peter—frequented. Being willing to go where the titled dared not go made Wolf invaluable, and appreciated men did not vanish without a trace. Competence and cunning kept men alive.
Wolf waited none too patiently for the crowd to sate its collective curiosity. When his audience finally lost interest in him and focus returned to the evening’s entertainment of gambling and sensual pursuits, Wolf took the spicy, peppery Portuguese cigar from between his lips with his thumb and forefinger as he searched the crowd for the man he’d come to meet.
He bared his teeth. He’d been in Wellington’s employ for four years, and during all that time, the world had been at war and Typhon had been at large. One mission had led to another and another without Wolf ever receiving what he’d been promised at the onset of his joining the Legion. Bollocks. He’d served his purpose. He’d fought with honor, killing only when necessary, though the demon inside him yearned to cut his enemies to ribbons, while information about his brother dangled temptingly out of reach.
Anger reared its ugly head, not for the first time—or the last, he wagered.
“Je ne veux pas de problème!” a small, defiant voice shouted. I don’t want any trouble.
Who did? Wolf grumbled to himself, beset by the lack of empathy that enveloped his senses. The stranger shouting to his left mirrored his own thoughts. Trouble always managed to find Wolf.
With Wellington’s army entrenched around the Castile at Burgos and Wolf’s men waiting for orders aboard his ship, the Sea Wolf, he didn’t have time for distractions. He proceeded forward with a slow, purposeful, and steady gait, ignoring the scuffling to his left as he made his way through the crowded interior to the bar where a winking barmaid displaying her ample breasts to full advantage.
The tempting French woman was not who she claimed to be, however. The name Jolie was one of Joanna Pearson Devlin’s better-known aliases. She was the wife of Michael Devlin, the Demon of Dublin’s Hell, and an ally. Joanna and the Earl of Hartland had been pivotal in organizing Wellington’s British intelligence ring. It was she who had recruited him four years ago after spotting him earning stake money in a boxing match in Bristol. His roughened edges, streetwise fighting abilities, and roving lifestyle had been an asset when Wellington campaigned outside England and critical information needed to be passed from one country to another.
“Why, if it isn’t the Sea Wolf.” She batted her eyelashes, continuing her ruse and taking no chances that someone might overhear their conversation.
“Jolie.” He regarded her over the smoke coiling from his cigar and nodded in acknowledgment.
Joanna was a minx who had a way of switching characters like adorning a new gown. It was a necessary talent when it came to survival in their business.
But Joanna and their fellow spies weren’t Wellington’s first operatives of espionage. Wolf had come from the Battle of Salamanca mere weeks after Wellington’s cunning Scotsman Colquhoun Grant had been captured and taken to Bayonne. He’d left the keen-eyed Scot Andrew Leith-Hay and nobleman Charles Cocks to accompany Wellington and his army to the Castile at Burgos.
Wolf bowed his head slightly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“A reunion of sorts, Monsieur,” she purred. “It has been a long time, no? But first, you look weary. What can I serve you?”
Joanna knew very well that Wolf wanted information on his brother, Kearney. Hadn’t that been what Wellington had promised him? His services had been successfully acquired because of that promise. Though Wolf enjoyed serving his country without complaint, he had already waited four years to find out where his brother was. And after what Wolf had endured in Salamanca, he expected payment for services rendered.
“Give me a beer,” he said.
Joanna turned around and reached for the large barrel positioned behind her as Wolf leaned his elbows on the counter. To serve Wellington, he’d turned his back on Captain Franco Charve in a tavern similar to this one. The cut had cost him plenty, including Franco himself, the man who’d plucked him out of the mud, the father figure Wolf had been denied during his murky childhood. The little he could recall—images of his elusive brother and the haunting guilt that plagued him—filled him with dread.
In the meantime, he had nothing to show for his involvement with Wellington or the Legion.
The scuffling and grunts grew louder, making Wolf curious. He peered over his shoulder at the crowd that was encircling someone in their midst, his leather overcoat straining as he moved.
“You heard me. Stay . . . back!” the voice shouted again.
Wolf’s sluggish heartbeat began to race as concern washed over him. He straightened, a tingling weight building in his chest.
He narrowed his eyes and cut them to the corner where the voice had originated from. His instincts called him out, and his nerve endings blazed to life as he tensed for a fight. This time, there was no mistaking the fear he heard in the voice or the slight feminine tone that was prickling his senses. A boy, perhaps? Or . . .
Bollocks! 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. “What is happening over there is none of your concern. We have more important matters to discuss. Hart—”
“Can take care of himself,” Wolf said. The man was an earl, and his homes, medieval Hartland Abbey in Devon, Glanmire House in Cork, and Elliot House in Hampstead, were veritable strongholds. Hartland had titled peers, plus Captain Alexander, Major Bannerman, Michael Devlin, and Colin Hoskins to help the Legion uncover Typhon’s true identity. “Whatever he needs from me can wait.”
Restless now and completely ill at ease, Wolf turned around and headed toward the crowd of men while everyone else attempted to mind their own business. Thirst came second to the protective urges clamoring inside him. His instincts had never failed him before. And right now, he was sure the voice he’d heard wasn’t from a mere boy but a young woman who was but moments away from losing her life.
Wolf placed his cigar between his lips once more. He marched back the way he’d come, shoving his way through the derelict group, men clothed in shabby threads that appeared to have never seen water or soap. In their midst, he finally clearly observed the owner of the raspy voice. It seemed to be a small, disheveled boy, after all. The lad boasted a bloody lip and a swollen eye. He was chained to a wall, bracing himself against his attackers, knees bent, fists out in front of him, prepared to take on the horde.
A filthy mop of hair half covered the boy’s face as he glared through the strands. Wolf narrowed his eyes on the captive, studying him carefully. Regardless of whether the child was incredibly brave or terribly unwise, Wolf was almost certain this boy was not who he appeared to be. A lot of care seemed to have been taken to alter the stranger’s physical shape, but the filth couldn’t completely hide the facial bone structure that made him revert to his earlier belief that he was looking at a young woman, who for some reason was masquerading as a boy. But who was she? And how had she gotten here?
Chains rattled as she moved, the sound horrifyingly familiar as flashes of his childhood assaulted him. A spoon clanking on a tin plate. Iron bars that barred his view and prevented escape. Staccato footsteps on the floorboards and wicked laughter announcing his captor’s approach.
Damn. He’d seen what happened to captured boys who couldn’t hold their own against a group of well-oiled cutthroats. He’d lived it. In fact, he’d been one of the few lucky enough to survive the docks in Bristol. But this girl wasn’t Wolf. She faced brutal odds. These men were hardened by malcontent and misdeeds, and they punished first and asked questions later. Corsairs like these either turned boys into men or issued a slow and painful death to those who opposed them.
Violence certainly didn’t favor the weak. Not in Saint-Malo, a citadel that bred pirates and privateers and some of the mightiest and most valiant sea dogs that ever sailed. Even so, the bloodthirsty claw-cat fought her captors. But she was in a precarious situation: 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.
Corsairs didn’t relax diplomatic practices for anyone, including female captives, unless it benefited them monetarily. They also had long memories. Malouines were willing to do anything for entertainment and profit, which meant he’d have to be a savvy barterer and offer them something they’d be hardpressed to get on their own—figuerados. The cigars originated from Portugal, and it just so happened that the entire region was steeped in war. He took his figuerado out of his mouth, stared at it, then growled, cursing his rotten luck.
His stare cut to the girl. Her wild desperation and courage was a rare find. Her curly hair was tied up in a handkerchief, her slender nose bloodied, and her mouth swollen. Her leather coat was too large for her frame and hung off her shoulders, the sleeves folded up at the ends to reveal clenched fists chained at the wrist.
Wolf’s senses heightened, and he growled low in his throat. “What’s going on here?” he asked a man to his right, barely controlling his temper. “What’s this boy done?”
“Slave boy,” the man spat. “Kicked that man there in the cock.” He pointed rudely to two men. One limped, balls in hand, protesting loudly to the other who sat calmly at a table. “He won’t be rutting for days, I wager.” He arrowed his finger at another man. “And he sullied that one’s grog. Been cowering in the corner like a rat ever since.”
“Cowering?” Wolf scrutinized the girl’s bloody knuckles. “I see a little rat baring its claws.”
“Not right in the head, that one. He shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds him.”
“Depends on the hand.” 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 identity slip.
He clenched his fists, struggling to control the violent impulses coiling inside him. This wasn’t England. He was a foreigner on French soil during a time of war. Losing his temper would only draw attention to himself, Joanna, and the girl.
He took a deep breath to curb his rising fury as another man goaded his captive into swiping at air. Dark circles discolored the skin beneath her eyes. Sod it, she looked as if she hadn’t eaten a good meal in at least a fortnight, and she smelled as if she hadn’t bathed in twice as long. He wasn’t sure she’d even been given liberty to relieve herself.
“Thirsty?” a grizzled man asked her. He laughed and upended his tankard over her head. “This should cool you off.”
“You . . .” She tried to hobble away, but with her chained ankles, she couldn’t escape the ale that sloshed over her. She slipped on the floorboards and fell. “Oomph!”
“Assez!” A man missing several teeth broke away from the crowd and approached the girl as she struggled to stand. “Enough,” he shouted again.
“Diable!” Regaining her footing, she glared at the man who’d bathed her in ale.
Her attacker turned his back. “You will learn not to steal my scraps, batârd, or you’ll never eat again.”
“Watch out, Cuvier!” someone shouted.
She wasted no time and leaped onto Cuvier, catching him by surprise, and pulled the chains dangling from her wrists taut around his throat. “You threw them to me!”
There was a distinct inflection in her voice that indicated French wasn’t her native language. Bollocks. A foreigner, then. How far from home was she? She could be from anywhere in the world, 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 that he had business of his own to attend to with Joanna or that he might finally receive the information he sought about his brother. Ignoring an Englishwoman’s welfare simply wasn’t the right thing to do. Hell, it wasn’t his nature.
Cuvier tried to fling her off. When she wouldn’t budge and his eyes started to bulge, he bit her hand. She let go. He threw her down, gasping for air. “I’ll watch you dance over hot coals for this!” he shouted.
Cuvier staggered, gasping for breath. Supported by his men, he lunged forward. Wolf stuck out his foot and sent the man sprawling into a group of card-playing gamblers, who’d been trying to ignore the ruckus.
“Watch what you are doing, Diable blanc!” a man shouted to an artful swindler who grabbed his earnings and leaped to his feet with unusual speed.
“Mon Dieu!” The devil raised his booty above the heads of the other men and then turned to glare at Wolf. “You owe me, Monsieur.”
Men scrambled around the crafty sharker, but the gambler’s attention never wavered from Wolf. His fiery stare promised there would come a time when he’d collect his due.
Get in line. Wolf glared back, unaffected. He puffed on his cigar and then shifted his attention to the girl.
As if sensing his eyes on her, the girl 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, the noise in the tavern quieted. His lungs squeezed, and alarm shot through him, the blood in his veins burning.
Dauntless, the little heathen didn’t plan to back down. Like a bird fighting against the wind, she was determined to rebel against these pirates, including him, until she revealed her identity, or worse, breathed her last breath. Stubbornness would only get a person so far.
He understood her desperation to be free and 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 she’d never have a chance to accomplish unless she gained her freedom.
That wouldn’t be easy, though. French corsairs were royalty in Saint-Malo. They’d been given the run of the place due to the many prizes seized by privateers and pirates in Napoleon’s name, helping to fund the despot’s quest for power and dominion.
Wolf removed the cigar from his mouth and slanted a glance at the well-dressed man seated among the others nearby. He wasn’t anyone notable that Wolf could recall, but his clothing, comportment, and the way the men around him responded to his requests proved he wielded authority. As the other men threw scraps at the girl, taunting her, the leader chuckled, and Wolf had enough. Making up his mind to interfere, he plugged the cigar between his lips and crossed his arms over his chest to gain better access to the blades 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 you mercy.”
“Ha!” She thrust up her chained hands. “You don’t have a merciful bone in your body.”
Several men burst out laughing at Cuvier’s expense.
“You’re an animal,” Cuvier said, “that needs to be caged.”
“So you can strut about like you’re my master?” she spat.
Wolf grew more impressed with her tenacity by the minute.
“Your jailor.” Cuvier cackled. He clenched his fists, breathing heavily, and a look of retribution flickered in his eyes.
“Combien?” Wolf shouted, wanting to put an end to their sport. When he didn’t get a response, he took his cigar out of his mouth and repeated his request more loudly. “How much?”
Cuvier spun around and spotted Wolf standing in the crowd. “This one is not for sale.”
“Every man has a price,” Wolf argued. He ignored Cuvier, choosing instead to address the disgruntled man enthroned at the table like an emperor surrounded by his devoted court.
Joanna rounded the bar and walked to the man’s table, swinging her hips to and fro and garnering attention. She frowned at Wolf, then bent low and whispered something in the dictator’s ear.
“Is that true?” he asked. At her nod, the man grinned and fixed his attention on Wolf. “Interested in that one, are you?”
“I’m shorthanded,” Wolf admitted with a shrug.
Cuvier advanced. “You 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.”
“He’s resourceful.” Surviving what she’d been through while maintaining a disguise was a fete in and of itself. “A skill I can use on my ship.”
Robillard nodded and then leaned forward, eyeing Wolf curiously. “Come, Capitaine. You and I both know this boy is not fit to sail. Why so interested in him, eh?”
“I happen to be in the market for a cabin boy.” He took his time placing his cigar back in his mouth.
Chains rattled as the girl struggled against her captors and openly glowered at him. Alarm flickered in her eyes.
“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 intention. 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 he could disappear.
Joanna whispered something else in Robillard’s ear.
“Is that so?” Robillard asked. He put his arm around the barmaid’s waist. “You’re a naughty wench, ma chérie. This boy will not be better off aboard the Sea Wolf.” He considered Wolf thoughtfully. “You just told me its capitaine is a beast.”
“Beast or no,” Joanna said in character, smiling, “what do we care if he takes the boy, mon chéri? We will have more time to enjoy other pursuits, oui?”
Robillard considered her words 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—”
“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 a pull from his cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke into Cuvier’s face, making it momentarily fade from view. “I have ways of dealing with unruly boys.”
“You will regret this,” Cuvier said.
“Untie him,” Wolf ordered, thinking the very same thing. But he couldn’t allow her to continue to suffer, not when the girl reminded him of the boy he’d once been.
“We have not settled on a price, Capitaine,” Robillard said calmly, raising his palm.
Joanna moved behind Robillard and slid her hands down his shoulders, molding her body enticingly to his. She whispered in his ear once more.
Robillard’s response was instantaneous. His eyes widened, and his head snapped up. “Do you make a habit of buying inexperienced boys?” he asked.
“That depends,” Wolf said.
“On what, if I may be so bold, Capitaine?”
“On whether or not my current cabin boy has outlived his usefulness.”
Laughter rose about them as Robillard’s men caught Wolf’s meaning.
“Aha!” Cuvier burst out laughing to boisterous applause. “Out of the kettle and into the fire, eh, boys?”
Robillard raised his hand again, halting their merriment. “So the rumors are true.”
“Rumors have their purpose,” Wolf said. “To frighten men and weaken opposition.
I will do almost anything to keep anyone from suffering the way I was forced to suffer.
“You avoid the answer, Capitaine.”
“And you are wasting my time. Are you interested in getting rid of the boy or not?”
Robillard considered him carefully, and Joanna grinned. The tavern quieted, save for the sound of chairs scrapping against the floorboards as sailors, prostitutes, and gamblers waited expectantly for Robillard’s next words.
Finally, he raised his hand. The nonverbal order set his men into action.
“Stay back.” Her gaze frantically latched on to Wolf’s. “Let me go,” she pleaded.
Every muscle in his body primed for action as he watched the men roughly unlock her chains and then loosen them from her wrists and ankles. Her shackles noisily fell to the floor. She widened her stance and swayed on her bruised feet. She momentarily appeared vulnerable, folding in on herself as she rubbed the tender flesh left exposed on her slender ankles.
Robillard snapped his fingers. “So we are clear, Capitaine, I do not want to see this boy’s face again.”
The corsair’s men shoved her to the ground in front of Wolf. He ignored his impulse to offer her a hand as she scrambled back to her feet. If he showed any measure of compassion, he’d 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.”