"I'm not a whore," Clara said, intent on ensuring there had not been a misunderstanding.
Madame Guerier smiled. "We're not the despicable creatures you believe us," she said. "Don't forget that you are here, in my house, under my protection—out of the goodness of this whore's heart."
Clara felt chided, realizing that she had insulted the woman and her profession. "I'm sorry. I just didn't want there to be any misunderstandings."
Madame Guerier narrowed her eyes slightly, then walked past, her head held regally. Clara rubbed her eyes when the woman had left and stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. The door had no lock, but it was a cheery room with yellow silks on the walls. She certainly hadn't made friends, Clara told herself. From start to finish, this whole venture was a disaster, but she had a room for the night and there was a chair she could use to bar the door. Likely, she would be safe in here for now—as safe as she was going to get in this town.
With a ragged exhale, she walked over to the small window and looked out onto the dark structures below. Tortuga Bay. How had she ended up here? What was this challenge and how should she be expected to compete in it? Maybe she should just find a way to return to England as soon as possible, put this entire debacle behind her.
Sighing, she sat down on the bed, feeling absolutely despondent. This was not where she belonged. She'd hoped she had found a place for herself, but this was just outlandish. How could she have been so foolish? Not that there was anything waiting for her back in England.
Chapter 5:
* * *
Bright sunshine stung Clara’s eyes. For a moment, she had no idea where she was, waking to an unfamiliar room, which admittedly looked nice in the morning light. Then it dawned on her that she was currently residing in a whorehouse, staying there after her father had taken one look at her and then waved her away dismissively. Anger rushed through her, overtaking the hunger clawing in her belly.
How dared he just dismiss her like that? And then there was this stupid challenge, which was absolutely ridiculous.
She heard movement outside, people walking along the hall. Getting out of bed, she pulled on her wool dress and moved over to the small window. The street was still outside, except for the wandering donkey that she'd seen last night. It obviously wasn't tied and came and went as it pleased.
Coming here had been a huge mistake—one she would have to rectify today. But who could she ask for help? Tuber answered practically none of her questions. She doubted he would help. Perhaps Madame Guerier, but Clara had done a good job offending her last night.
She sat down on the bed, but no one came. After a while, she considered that perhaps no one was coming and she would have to find her own way. With a squeak, the door cracked open and Clara peeked outside, unsure what to expect in an establishment like this. All was quiet. There was no one to see in the hall, so Clara left her room and silently walked down the stairs.
The lush parlor they had entered last night was empty, smelling of rum and smoke. Clara felt uncomfortable, knowing what kind of establishment this was, although on the surface, it seemed much more civilized than the tavern she had seen.
A girl dressed only in a nightgown and a silk robe walked past her without saying a word, through the parlor and out a door on the far side. Clara didn't know what to do, so she followed, carefully opening the door. Voices were heard down a set of stairs, which led to a kitchen, where she found girls sitting around a table, drinking pungent-smelling beverages.
"And here is our guest," Madame Guerier said. Clara blushed at suddenly being the center of attention. The woman looked different now, softer. Her blond hair was down and she sat with a shawl around her shoulders. Clara smiled, feeling unkind in having offended this woman who had offered her a room and protection the previous night. "I trust you slept well?"
"It seems my mind still misses the sea and I could still feel it when I lay down."
"That's normal," the woman said. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
"I suppose I could try," Clara said. She’d heard of coffee, sold in coffee houses in every European city, but she’d never had any.
"Take a seat, then." Madame Guerier spoke matter-of-factly, not with kindness, which wasn't perhaps unsurprising considering Clara had disparaged her whole profession and the business she had built here.
"I am sorry if I was out of sorts yesterday. It was all a little overwhelming and I was perhaps less grateful than I should have been."
Madame Guerier nodded and poured Clara a cup of steaming dark liquid from the silver service, pushing the cup across the table to her. "I can imagine it was a trying day."
Clara's shoulders sank. "A grave misstep would be a more accurate description. I have no interest in this challenge and only wish to return to England."
"That would be tricky," Mrs. Guerier said and Clara's shoulders sank further in disappointed. That was not what Clara wanted to hear. "There are rarely any ships here that sail to England. Only naval ships from British ports regularly sail across the Atlantic the vast majority of the time, but pirates aren't, on the whole, welcome in English ports."
"There must be some way I can get there," Clara beseeched. Madame Guerier considered her and the other women got up and left, having finished their beverages. "I am sorry if I disparaged your profession last night. I had not intended on being offensive, but I was at the end of my tether."
Madame Guerier ran her ring finger along the bottom of her chin, considering her further. "You father is a hard man—he always has been. But he will die before long." An uncomfortable feeling ran through Clara. She only had a short time to know her father, even if there was a large part of her that wanted to turn back and forget this had ever happened. "He is never going to be a man for soft feelings, let alone soft words. This is as much as he'll probably ever give you—consideration and a chance to compete for his fortune."
"A chance that serves nothing as I am comprehensively unable to compete. I've hardly even been on a ship, let alone been at the helm of one. How can I possibly compete? If he truly wanted me to win this, he wouldn't have saddled me with a convent education."
Madame Guerier snorted. "He is more interested in you than he seems. I think perhaps he wants you to fail."
"Clearly. I have none of the skills to do any of this, let alone able to take on a bunch of experienced and ruthless pirates."
"Admittedly they are a nasty bunch. Perhaps he feels he did his fatherly duty if he gave you a chance, fully expecting you to turn tail and run away."
Clara felt herself bristle at the statement. Realistically she had no option; she just didn't like being referred to as weak. As for doing his duty, it was so far below standard it was almost hilarious. "So he brought me this entire way so I could fail. What a completely horrible thing to do."
Madame Guerier smiled. "It’s not out of character. There is nothing soft or generous about Guildford. I think perhaps he wants to see you fail as he wants to see your mother's offspring fail."
"His offspring, too," Clara stated, wondering at the strange relationship that seemed to have existed between her parents. All of a sudden her life came with this whole history attached—a history she'd had no idea of a short while ago. It seemed a bit surreal, as though it didn't quite pertain to her.
“That's not to say you have to do this alone."
"I don't know anyone here."
"Let's just say that there are some who would be happy to ensure that things don't progress how Guildford expects them to. Sally," Madame Guerier called. A woman’s head appeared through the doorway. "Is Lieutenant Havencourt still upstairs?"
"I believe so," the girl said.
"Could you ask him to come down here?" The girl disappeared. "If you are willing, we might be able to give your father a run for his money." Clara eyed Madame Guerier suspiciously, then tried the thick, black beverage in her cup, getting assaulted by an explosion of pungent bitterness. This was all the rage across Europe? She couldn’t understan
d it. "The skill you lack can be found." Clara frowned. This wasn't the quick return to England she was hoping to discuss. "I wouldn't put it past Guildford to keep you weak in some vain attempt to prove something to your mother."
"My mother is dead."
"And I suspect he wishes to erode her memory, and that includes discrediting you."
Anger rose in Clara. She was the pawn in some game she had never agreed to be a part of. More importantly, her father was treating her like a pawn in some revenge fantasy.
A man appeared, wearing a British naval uniform, his light-brown hair loose, flowing around his shoulders. "You require my service, Madame Guerier," he said in the crisp, perpetually bored tones that could only be gentry. Clara looked him over, wondering what he'd done to land himself in a place like this. His keeping of his uniform suggested he wasn't embracing the piracy lifestyle to full extent.
"This is Guildford's daughter," Madame Guerier said. "Guildford has issued a challenge for his estate upon his death."
"I heard," the man said, leaning back and placing his wrist on the table. "I was there when he decreed it."
Clara hadn't noticed him in the tavern, but then she had been distracted, shocked and confused at the time.
"I take it you do not wish to participate," Madame Guerier said, her voice almost becoming a purr.
The man gave her a glowering look like she should know better than to ask.
"Guildford has hidden Clara here in a convent for all of her life and now he's giving her a chance to compete for his estate. Naturally, she lacks many of the necessary skills." The man glowered deeper. "We need a teacher."
Now he raised his eyebrows. "And you think I would teach her. I have no desire to play Guildford's games."
"Guildford wants her to fail."
He stared at Madame Guerier for a long while. He wasn't exactly jumping at the chance. Shifting his eyes, he studied Clara while the silence stretched. "You should just go home," he said.
"Probably," Clara conceded. "But then I don't really have a home to go to." She hated conceding it, but it was true.
"Go anywhere but here."
"You're probably right," Clara said, ready to forgo this whole madcap adventure. There was no chance of her winning this, so what did she care if this stupid man, who was supposed to be her father, wanted to disparage the memory of a mother she had never known of. These people meant nothing to her. Unfortunately, neither did any other. But something went against the grain—the expectation that she would fail and complying with someone's dismissal of her. On the whole, this man was probably right: she should just move on, seek a better place.
"I'll do it," the man suddenly said and grinned. "Fuck the bastard."
Madame Guerier clapped her hands with pleasure and excitement. "And I hope it burns like the pox."
Somehow this was all very funny and the laughter was contagious. It was strange. As there was no reason to do this, there was also no reason not to. These people wanted to help her be contrary, which she'd never experienced before. And she'd never had accomplices either. It was novel being part of a group with a mission—one to disrupt and countermand. From what she'd seen and heard, she had no doubt her father deserved it. "Then let us do this," she said, not sure if she was completely sane agreeing to this, but nothing since she'd left the convent had been sane, and she would never in a thousand years prefer the convent. Insanity it was then. Why not? She had nothing better to do.
Chapter 6:
* * *
Christian stretched the sleep out of his muscles, noting the body lying next to him. With a groan, he turned and got up, walking barefoot across the bare floor boards to the shutters keeping the daylight out. He threw the shutters open and the naked girl on the bed moaned with the light flooding the room, her wheat blond curls bouncing as she turned her face away.
He admired her body for a moment, then turned his gaze back outside. Leaning on the side of the window, he considered the events that had unfolded last night. The world was about to change—and for the better. This town and its riches were up for grabs and he couldn't wait. Excitement coursed through him. This was the opportunity he'd been wishing for and it was delivered to him right on cue.
Running his fingers over his cheeks, he noted the growth, feeling scruffy. He normally didn't mind, but with a hangover, it didn't help. Unfortunately, his cutthroat was on his ship, leaving only his dagger. He hated shaving with it, but not enough to make his way out to the ship just for a shave.
Finding soap on the dresser, he lathered and spread it over his chin and neck, dragging the blade across with a rasping sound. The sun was bright as it was most mornings, but the town was still. It usually was this time of day.
"We have a lot to do today," a male voice said quietly down below on the street, with heavy steps on the wooden planks that ran the length of the town. That was the cultured voice that couldn't belong to anyone other than Lieutenant Havencourt, their resident disgraced gentry. Now what was Havencourt doing up this time of day?
"I'm ready," said a softer, feminine voice.
Christian leaned over and looked down on the street, seeing the lieutenant and Guildford's daughter walking briskly past. This early, they were definitely up to something. Christian watched them continue down the street and around the corner.
Now those were two people he hadn't expected seeing together. More interesting was what he'd heard last night. Guildford's girl had just been grabbed out of a convent in England. A convent girl in a place like this. It was almost ironic, although he could see Havencourt being prey to his unfortunate instincts and try to protect an innocent. If he had any sense, he would be sneaking her out of here, which was probably what they were up to. One contestant down—not that she had been much of a threat. Havencourt would be more of an issue, but Christian knew the man would never try to win Tortuga—still too traumatized by his exile from his beloved navy. All the better for Christian.
Leaving coin on the dresser, he left, seeking a meal to clear away the remnants of the previous rum-soaked night. He wondered if things had changed now, if the town had turned on itself. Competition was normally kept controlled between the captains, but those restraints were off now. Guildford's warning ran through his head—"watch your back."
Christian bought himself some smoked fish and bread, paying for an ale. He walked down to the docks and listened to the quiet of the town in the morning. Ships were anchored in the harbor but very little moved other than the gentle lapping of the water. No one would leave now until this contest was over, which meant everyone was stuck here, intent on trouble and diversion. He smiled. It was going to be an interesting couple of weeks and the entire future depended on the outcome of this challenge.
Finishing the last of his smoked fish, he heard the unmistakable sound of metal striking metal, faint but consistent. There was fighting somewhere and it was much too early for a drunken brawl, but maybe someone was taking early steps to eliminate the competition.
Christian followed the sound, which led away from the town, down the beach. Curiosity drove him forward, until he heard the clinking sound of sabers colliding without intent.
"Quarte," a man said. "That's better." Another clink sounded through the lush bush. "Again."
Silently walking through the vegetation at the edge of the beach, Christian sought the source of the noise.
"Ouch," a soft, feminine voice said and Christian stopped and snorted, too quiet to draw the attention of the combatants. It was clear what was happening—Havencourt was teaching the girl sword skills. Positioning himself, he saw them, both with sabers, the girl trying to anticipate Havencourt's ridiculously slow strikes.
She had forgone the drab wool dress and was now wearing brown breeches made for a boy and a linen shirt. She was trying desperately hard, but was utterly useless with a sword. He doubted she'd ever held a sword before, and Havencourt, the fool, was trying to teach her. The idiot was making an attempt to turn her into a pirate in the space of a we
ek. Christian felt like laughing, but he had no interest in giving himself away at this point. Instead, shaking his head, he returned to the beach.
This did signify that the girl wasn't bowing out just yet, and with Havencourt at her side, it made up for some of her glaring shortcomings. Havencourt could sail, he could fight, and for some reason, he was now motivated in this challenge. For what reason, Christian didn't know.
*
Tortuga Bay was buzzing with gossip, like a bunch of old women. Men were taking bets on who would take part and who would win.
Christian sat down with his boatswain at the tavern, nursing the first of the night's rum cups. Looking around, he watched the bunch of degenerates going about their usual business—drinking and whoring. Many had taken the slow days in port and most were making poor use of it, drinking from the hour of waking. Christian had done his celebrating the previous night—now he felt a bit more circumspect.
Most of the men here were idiots, here because they could not manage to make a living at home. A few came for the riches, while some had other reasons, like the man he watched entering the tavern. Havencourt walked to the bar, purchasing a rum and taking his usual seat in the corner. Christian had never known a man who sulked so much. Havencourt sat in his corner, reading, drinking and generally feeling sorry for himself—believing he was better than the assembled company. Perhaps he was, but he also didn't make the best of the situation, which was nothing but a wasted opportunity in Christian's eyes.
"And what are your plans, Havencourt?" Christian asked as the former naval lieutenant walked past. "Rumor has it you have taken on a new charge."
"Really? What rumor? This is news to me."
"Is it? I thought lying went against your moral code—being all noble, as you are."
A Pirate's Ruse Page 3