Series: Playful Brides #7
Genres: Historical Romance
Source: ARC, NetGalley
Also in this series: No Other Duke but You
Also by this author: No Other Duke but You
The rules of engagement were never so scandalous. . .
A rumored pirate and the scurrilous black sheep of his well-to- do family, Cade Cavendish relishes his world of rebellion, deception, and seduction. Nothing and no one can hold him to be the duty-bound, honorable man he is expected to be. But when an unexpected run-in at his twin brother's estate with a ravishing, raven-haired maid leads her to believe he's actually a viscount, Cade's renegade life is thrown wildly off-kilter. And even though a case of mistaken identity can be quickly set to rights, matters of the heart are quite different...
Miss Danielle LaCrosse is startled to learn that the handsome gentleman who radiates sin and has the devil in his eyes is not her employer the Viscount, but rather his infamous brother. A former heiress, orphaned and left penniless, Danielle has more than a few secrets of her own. Cade may be skilled at coaxing even the most hidden desires out of Danielle but can he earn her trust--and win her heart--as they embark on an adventure to confront a dangerous enemy from both of their pasts . . . and uncover the identity of the so-called Black Fox along the way?
Never Trust a Pirate is part of the Regency-set Playful Brides series by Valerie Bowman
Spies, thieves, and lady’s maids! The characters of this story are very interesting and deep! Danielle is desperate to get a job as a Lady’s Maid in London so she can afford her mother’s care. The problem is her French decent. Even though the war with France is over, discrimination still exists!
Danielle is a very interesting character! She has a sad backstory that will tug at your heart. From that sad story though she has developed into a very capable person. While working for Lady Cavendish is not her ultimate goal, she is a chameleon and able to adapt. She even makes friends, which is a first for her (and totally adorable!) Cade Cavendish is Lord Cavendish’s brother and lives in the house as well. He is quite rakish and charming, but Danielle refuses to fall for it. She is, after all, investigating him. But, they do begin to build a bit of relationship when suddenly Danielle must leave. This leads to her and Cade being in a very interesting position and forced to work together. There are so many spy secrets that you will never quite figure out if anyone is really who they say they are and I loved that aspect of the story. Overall, the story is fast paced and campy! If you like characters that are not at all what society expects them to be, women who are tough and spunky, and men who are devilishly charming you will enjoy Never Trust a Pirate!
- POV: 3rd
- Tears: no
- Trope: secret identity
- Triggers: none
- Series/Standalone: stand alone within an interconnected series
- Cliffhanger: no
- HEA: View Spoiler »yes « Hide Spoiler
From Never Trust a Pirate:
London Harbor, July 1817
Only three steps. Only three steps separated him from the map. It was there, laying on
the rickety wooden table in the captain’s stateroom aboard a ship aptly named Le
Secret Francais. The only sound in the cramped space was his own breathing. Sweat
beaded on his brow. He’d come this far. Braved the murky, cold water, swam out to
the ship moored at the London docks. Climbed aboard silent as a wraith, dressed all in
black. Wrung out his clothing to keep it from dripping so there wouldn’t be a trail.
Managed to steal into the captain’s quarters as the man slept, and now, now only three
steps remained between him and the priceless map.
One water droplet fell to the wooden plank floor like a hammer against steel. The
sound of his breath echoed to a crescendo. The blood pounding in his head became a
distracting whirring noise.
One step forward. The ball of his foot ground onto the plank. Stealth and silence.
Always. The calling cards of the best thief in London.
The captain stirred slightly in his bunk and began to snore.
He froze. One leather-clad foot arrested on the wooden plank. A pistol rested on two
nails directly above the captain’s bunk. If the man awoke, he might shoot first at any
noise. The captain well knew the value of the treasure he carried.
He counted to ten. Once. Twice. He had long since mastered the art of keeping footing
on a ship. He waited until his heartbeats became steady again before taking the next
step. A slight creak in the wood floor. A hint of movement from the captain. Another
endless wait. Impatience was a roiling knot inside his belly.
Out of the shadows now, he stood only one step away from the table bolted to the
floor. The moon shone through the window above the captain’s bed, shedding light on
the man’s balding head. The map lay spread out, anchored by pins in the four corners.
He would have to remove those pins. Ripping the paper would be too noisy.
Another interminable wait as the captain turned away from him in his sleep. His
He glanced over at the bunk. The pistol shone in the moonlight. One hard swallow. He
never carried a pistol. Too loud. Pistols brought the crew, the wharf police, and
anyone else interested in such activity. The only weapon he carried was a knife,
tucked in the back of his breeches. A weapon of stealth.
Another count to ten before taking the final step. There was no time for an in-depth
study of the map now, but a quick glance revealed the destination. The island of St.
Helena, off the western coast of Africa, circled in bold scrawl. The map of the route
planned for Bonaparte’s next escape. That bastard in the bed had been planning it.
All ten fingers itched to snatch the paper and run, but he forced himself to take a deep,
silent breath. Carefully, he dislodged the first pin at the top right corner. It popped out
easily. The top of the map rolled toward the center, making a slight flapping sound.
Breath held, he glanced toward the captain again. No movement.
He stuck the pin back into the table to keep it from rolling, then his hand darted to the
next pin at the bottom right corner. It also popped out easily. He quickly stuck it back
into the wood. With two sides free, he carefully rolled the map toward the center.
Reaching up to the top, he grasped the third pin. No movement. It was lodged deeply
into the wood. Must pull harder. With one black-gloved hand, he clasped the pin
between a thumb and two fingers, pulling upward with as much strength as he dared.
His own breath in his ear was the only sound … that and the water lapping at the sides
of the ship.
The pin finally gave way. He pressed a hand to the top of the map, to keep the freed
top left corner from curling and making a noise. His chest and torso flattened against
the map and the table, he pressed the third pin back into the wood.
Click. An unmistakable sound. One he had heard too often before. Another hard
swallow. Damn it. He’d been so preoccupied with keeping quiet, he hadn’t realized
the captain’s snores had subsided.
Half-splayed across the table, he contemplated his options. The door was ten paces to
the left, the open window five paces to the right. Would he fit through the window?
It’d be a hell of a time to learn the answer was no.
“Step away from zee map, if you don’t want a bullet through your back.” The
captain’s voice was harsh and angry.
He slowly rose from his position hunched over the map, arms braced upright at right
angles near his head to show the captain he had no weapon. “Ye wouldn’t shoot an
unarmed man, now would ye, Cap’n?”
“I’d shoot a thief without thinking twice,” the captain replied with a sneer, nearly
spitting the word thief.
He glanced down at the map. Studying it in case he was forced to leave without it. He
had been in worse situations, more times than he could count. He considered the knife
in the back of his breeches hidden beneath his shirt. It would be simple, easy and
quick to snake it out and whip it into the bastard’s throat. But a voice in his head
reminded him … justice must be served in proper course.
“Turn around,” the captain ordered. “Slowly.”
“Why?” he asked, trying to garner some precious time.
“Because I want to see zee face of zee man who would steal my secrets.”
He began his turn. Slowly. So slowly and so quietly that he could have sworn he heard
a drop of sweat from his forehead hit the wooden plank of the floor. He finally stood
facing the older man.
“Êtes-vous le Renard Noir?” the captain asked.
“Pourquoi veux tu savoir?”
Visible in the light of the moon, the captain narrowed his eyes. “Ah, perfect French?
Why do I find zat difficult to believe from an obvious Englishman?”
“Who else would want zis map?”
His fingers ached to choke the bastard. He might not be able to kill him, but he could
wound the scoundrel. Nothing wrong with a wound. He whipped his hand behind his
back, grabbed the knife, and hurled it at the captain. It hit the arm that held the pistol.
The captain howled. The pistol fired. Smoke filled the cabin with its acrid stench. He
ripped the map and fourth pin from the table and ran to the door.
Steps sounded on the planks above the captain’s cabin. In the pitch black belowdecks,
he forced himself to wait in the shadows under the stairs until the first group of
rescuers filed down the steps into the captain’s cabin. He flattened the map’s scroll
and folded it into a six-inch square.
“He’s escaped, you idiots! Find him before he jumps from the ship!” the captain
yelled in French.
The group dutifully filed back up to spread across the decks. The captain came
running out, clutching his injured arm, blood seeping between his fingers, crimson
dripping down his nightshirt. He made his way up the stairs and ran off across the
Springing from the shadows, he raced back into the empty cabin. He flew over to the
window, said a brief prayer to fit through the tight space, hoisted up to the ledge, and
pushed his upper body through. He ripped off his black tricorn, stuck the folded map
to his head, and pulled down the hat as firmly as possible.
A rope swung outside the captain’s window two feet to the right. Thank God for small
favors. He lunged at it and grabbed it. Noiselessly, he lowered himself down the rope,
bracing both feet against the hull to rappel toward the water. Lowering quietly, he
winked back at the figurehead of a saucy French woman carved beneath the captain’s
cabin. As soon as he made it into the water, he let go of the rope and swam like a
mackerel fleeing a shark toward the shore, careful to keep his head out of the foul-
smelling drink. He counted on the black of night and the murky Thames to hide him
from the searchers on the ship.
As he covered the distance between the French ship and the shore, he could hear the
Frenchmen yelling and running about. He dared a glance back. Every lantern on the
ship appeared to have been lit and the crew was scurrying about like a bevy of ants on
an infiltrated hill.
He swam to the darkest spot on the far end of the docks, around the bend from sight of
the French ship, and pulled himself ashore beneath a creaky dock using only his
forearms. Exhausted, he rolled onto his back and lay breathing heavily in the pitch-
black night. One hand went up to clap the top of his tricorn and a wide smile spread
across his face.
He’d done it. He’d escaped from a French ship with the map detailing the planned
route to rescue Napoleon from St. Helena. Of course he had. He was the Black Fox.