A Pirate's Ruse

by Camille Oster

  Guildford opened the box and considered the brass uniform buttons. He dropped the one he inspected back into the box and waved it away.

  Clara moved away as one of the other parties came forward to present their loot, but the most annoying, frustrating, not to mention underhanded and cheating pirate stepped in her way. He had an irritating habit of doing that.

  "Could have invited quite a few mariners into your confidence to get those buttons. A good two dozen, I would say by the number. Would make a girl sore, wouldn't it?"

  Her hand itched to slap his face, knowing he wanted to provoke her. It was the entire purpose for coming over here, stepping in her way. "And every single one of them kissed better than you," she said flatly as if this conversation was boring her. With force, she pushed past him, yet again encountering his solid form that night, but he yielded. Although she was sure a despicable smile would grace his face if she cared to look, which she definitely did not.

  At that point, she wasn't sure she wanted anything more than to bury his face in the ground, cry out that without a doubt, she'd beaten him. If nothing else, she wanted to decimate him. That would prove rather embarrassing for him in this company, she imagined.

  Chapter 12:

  * * *

  Christian lay in bed in his quarters, staring at the ceiling and feeling listless. He'd won yesterday's challenge. One down, two to go. There weren't that many of them left now, just him, Wainsess, Talbot and the girl. Obviously, the girl wasn't much of a challenge, but then she had walked right into Port Royal's supply stores and taken what she’d needed, plain as day. Who would guess her less than honorable intentions by the look of her? In that dress, she looked every inch the convent girl, innocence dripping off her.

  And he'd kissed her. Her lips had been soft and she tasted incredibly sweet. And she’d had absolutely no idea what to do. Her soft body had been pressed to his and he'd seen nothing but pure shock in her eyes. Could people really be that innocent?

  Closing his eyes, Christian ran his hand across his abdomen, lamenting another day with nothing to do. He couldn't handle just sitting around. Admittedly, there was drinking that could be done, but he felt too restless even for that. The driving need to move forward refused to allow him rest—even as he had already come so far. But it wasn't enough—nothing was secure.

  “Make something of yourself” his mother had said to him again and again, until the day she’d stopped and asked him to run away, refusing to let him touch her. Plague fevers had hit her in their tiny one-room home in one of Genoa's tenement slums. "Please run, Christiano," she pleaded. "Don't come closer."

  He had crouched two feet away from the straw pallet where she’d lain dying, pleading for him to run. He had nowhere to go, but soon her pleading and suffering were so desperate he couldn't refuse her, running as far as he could. No one wanted yet another orphan, another mouth to feed in the plague-ravished city, where mercy and kindness were in short supply.

  Eventually he had found a post as a keel boy on a ship, buried down in the keel, endlessly scooping water out of the dank, cold space, growing increasingly ill in the icy darkness. He would probably die down there and no one would notice until water rose too high. He would die down there, he’d concluded, and that was all the good he’d been considered for.

  He’d refused. He'd promised his mother to do more than this. Crawling out of the confined space, he’d made it up on deck the next time they had been in port and deserted his post. It turned out to be London—the cold, vile city with no use for an emaciated orphan.

  Stealing food had been his mainstay. He’d rarely traveled away from the docks, where the world's goods came and went. There had been food to steal, but he would have hanged if they’d caught him. He’d shared a forgotten cupola with an abandoned crow's nest and had developed a deep hacking cough with the city's foul, cold air.

  Eventually he'd met a Mr. Harper, a wreck of a man, who had led a depraved life according to his own telling, informing Christian of all the riches in the Caribbean for the discerning man strong enough to take them. These stories had circled Christian's mind while the other boys—dock rats as they were called—died like flies, or like their namesake rodents, from which they were slightly bigger, but had the same intentions. Winter had been approaching and he’d known his cough spelled bad times ahead for him. He wouldn't have survived another winter, and stowed away on a merchant ship headed for Bermuda.

  Now here he was, the captain of his own ship, had riches, too, and more out there for him to take—as much as he wanted. They chased him, but he didn't mind. According to them, he didn't even deserve food, even as a child, so he expected no mercy from them. He would never have anything other than what he stole. They would never give him a place in this world other than the one he took.

  Winning Tortuga Bay would make him wealthy beyond reproach. He would never want for anything, earning more than he could ever need. He would not rest until he was untouchable—too strong to be taken down by anyone, and everything he'd done so far had been for building the skills necessary to succeed. He would succeed or he would die trying. There was no other choice.

  Along came this girl, having grown up cared for and guarded by her convent, here to take this opportunity away from him, as if she'd woken up one day and decided to be a pirate. He knew it wasn't quite that simple, but he bristled at the thought of her anyway—her softness and guilelessness. She would never survive here, particularly the minute Guildford died. She didn't have what it took.

  Letting the boredom get to him, he walked out on deck, shirtless and barefoot, and surveyed the harbor. Her ship was a mile or so away, sitting calmly on the water, but he knew she wasn't there—ensconced in the whorehouse as she was. She had real issues with being called a whore and he had homed in on that flaw in her defenses immediately.

  She was so easy to make sport of, but she hadn't run off in a huff, he admitted, and he gave her credit for that. He didn't quite know what to do with her and would wait to see what this next challenge would be before making any decisions. Wainsess had a fast ship, but lacked finesse otherwise, tending to bludgeoning anything that got in his way. Talbot was wily, but he was ultimately cowardly, fearing his own men more than anything else. He would be additionally paranoid right now, likely fearing every shadow in case it stuck a knife in his back. Not without cause; his men hated him and it was the perfect time for a mutiny. That fear had driven Talbot to hire the weakest of men for his crew, which would hurt him now.

  *

  Christian made his way into the tavern, men getting out of his way. He wasn't known for being a rabid dog, but he was respected enough that people didn’t want to be on his wrong side. Everyone expected the second challenge to be announced that night.

  "Gin," he said when he reached the bar.

  "No gin," the bar-wench said. "Just rum."

  Christian sighed. "Rum, then." He preferred gin, having gotten a taste for the drink that had come in to London from Holland. It was excellent at chasing the cold away, but the taste for it lingered, even in this warm climate. Its popularity was growing in England, but there was rarely any to be found here. One day, he would come across a haul of the drink on a merchant ship and that would be a good day, but it hadn't happened yet.

  Taking his drink, he sat down with his crew, watching the atmosphere of the tavern. It was jovial on the surface, but undercurrents ran through the room. The losing pirates from the first challenge were unhappy, and the surviving pirates were nervous, as was every bastard who had made bets on the outcome.

  A bar-wench leaned over the table, giving him a view of her amble bosom as she cleared empty bottles away, flicking him a meaningful look through flirtatious eyes. Seems the girl wanted to spread her legs tonight, Christian thought with a smile, but other images flooded his mind, of other lips—sweet and innocent. Suddenly he craved the taste of her, remember the heady urge that had bitten deep inside him. Closing his eyes, he tried to clear the thoughts that beckoned more pow
erfully than the bar-wench before him.

  Getting up, he walked away from the table toward the open window at the side, which overlooked the harbor and all the ships there. A few were missing, he recognized—those that had lost and didn't want to stay and see who won. He wouldn't stay either if he lost.

  "Keeping an eye on your ship," someone said as Christian leaned on the window sill. Talbot the Lily-livered. He could well imagine the man going purple with offense if he knew the term that some applied to him.

  "She won't sail without me."

  "You sound sure of that."

  "I trust my crew."

  "It's perhaps other crews you should worry about."

  "Blood would flow," Christian warned, eyeing the man who was trying to unnerve him. He didn't get worried about Talbot's petty concerns. "But believe me, they will seek easier prey." He eyed Talbot meaningfully, who took the prediction with a tightly pursed mouth. Served the bastard right for trying to stir trouble.

  The tavern silenced and Christian knew something was happening even before turning around. Guildford was standing on the elevated platform, looking down on the gathered crowd in his black and silver jacket, which matched his hair well.

  Farther to the left were Havencourt and the girl. She stood nervously with a serious expression, pinching her lower lip between her slender fingers. Havencourt looked down on her and whispered something in her ear, which made her smile. Christian homed in on what he was seeing—a relationship that had grown much closer than he'd considered.

  "Now," Guildford said, standing slightly uncomfortably, as if there was some niggling pain somewhere in his body. "The second challenge. There are now four teams left and it will again be cut in half at the end of this challenge, leaving two for the third challenge. Simple enough for you lot to understand. So the remaining challenges. There is a chest on Pina Island. It shouldn't take you long to find it, but obviously it's never going to be that easy. The chest takes four keys to open, and our captains will all have a key each. How you get the keys is up to you, but the one who gathers all the keys wins the second challenge."

  The tavern exploded in chatter and Christian looked around. The girl had a green complexion and worriedly looking up to Havencourt for direction. Talbot looked equally green, as if he expected an ambush right on the spot. In some way, it was unbelievable that the man had managed to take his own ship, but he was underhanded and merciless when fear didn't get the better of him. Wainsess looked unperturbed, but then he always did.

  So this was the game. They were pitched against each other, fighting to gather keys. Only the strongest would win this challenge. Christian laughed. This was his—no matter what it took, he would win this challenge. Talbot would worry himself to death, maybe even be willing to hand his key over.

  Tuber handed out a key to Guildford's daughter, then with a smile, one by one threw the rest out to their respective captains. "Behave, you lot," he said, knowing full well that this challenge required anything but. The stakes had just risen and Christian needed to think.

  Havencourt swept the girl out of the tavern, probably knowing she would be everyone's first target. Maybe Christian would leave her for the others to worry about, and take them while they were plotting against her, distracted and open for ambush.

  This was going to be fun. He couldn't wait.

  Chapter 13:

  * * *

  Sitting on her bed with her knees tucked up, Clara considered what she'd committed herself to. The stakes had risen with this second challenge. Not only were they competing, but they were pitched against each other—directly. There were three men out there who wanted to steal that key off her. She turned her head and looked at the iron key, sitting on the small table by her bed, next to the candle lighting her small room.

  A woman down the hall was noisily enjoying her companion for the night, which wasn't making Clara feel less uncomfortable. Men were coming to steal that key off her. Although that was not as disturbing as the thought of Christian Rossi coming after her.

  Grabbing the key, which had a large ring attached to its base, she turned it over in her palm. Whoever got all the keys would win the challenge. She wasn't safe, but then it was the key they were after. Would anyone be so bold as to break into Madame Guerier’s establishment to take it? There was one pirate she could think of. He had already made it clear that he would manhandle her to get what he wanted, including kisses. She flared with embarrassment in the dark of her room.

  There was nothing stopping him from doing it again—pinning her to a wall while he took what he wanted from her. He was probably waiting outside for her to come out. Or he could sneak in the window.

  She considered whether she would concede the challenge, but bile burned in her belly at the thought—refusing to let him bully her out of this challenge. It was not right with the world, when men like him got what they wanted by leveraging their strength. And he'd stolen from her—kissed her. He just took anything he felt like.

  Turning the key over again, she vowed: not this time. He could pin her to a wall, but she was not giving him this key. She had to hide it somewhere, where no one but her knew where it was. It ensured that he would not go too far, or he would never win the challenge.

  Having made up her mind, she blew out the candle and surveyed the street below for a long time. Nothing moved out there, so she undid the clasp for the window and slowly opened it. Any fool could search her room, or the ship. She had to place it somewhere no one would look.

  Carefully, she climbed out the window, high above the boardwalk and sought leverage to push herself up on the roof. This might be a brilliant idea or utterly foolish. Using her arms, she pulled herself up and over the roof's edge, where she could walk up the tarred planks and along to where the kitchen chimney still spewed black smoke.

  Searching for a place to put the key, she conceded that it couldn't be where seen, or where birds would be attracted to it and carry it away. The best place was in the chimney itself, but it would be a dirty business placing it in there. Running her hand along, she felt along the sooty inner edge of the chimney, finding a nail. Perfect. She hooked the key on it and withdrew her blackened hand, which would frankly be suspicious if anyone saw her.

  Getting back in was even more cumbersome and she had to blindly let her feet find some leverage to let herself down. She was just lucky that it didn't give, finally making her way in through the window again. Her hand and arm were black and she spent a good half hour scrubbing them in her washing bowl.

  It didn't matter now if someone broke into her room—there was no key to retrieve. She still wouldn't sleep well, even as she braced her chair against the door knob, stopping anyone with intentions of getting into this room through the door.

  *

  Clumsily wiping hair out of her mouth, Clara woke with a start. The sun was shining and everything seemed much brighter than the day before. Lieutenant Havencourt would come this morning and they would strategize. Maybe he was already downstairs.

  Bounding down the stairs, she found both Madame Guerier and Havencourt in deep discussion. They noted her presence and Madame Guerier invited her to take a cup of coffee. "Cook will start breakfast in a minute."

  "What think you of this new challenge?" the lieutenant asked.

  "I think things have gotten harder. These pirates are coming after me now."

  "Do you want to withdraw?"

  The most logical part of her mind said 'of course she should withdraw', but she would be withdrawing out of fear, a knowledge that would follow her around for the rest of her life. She would be withdrawing from Christian Rossi and his bullying. He would win and that just couldn't be borne. "No," she said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "We do not withdraw. I may lose, have my key stripped from me at the earliest opportunity, but I won't withdraw." She really couldn't live with herself if she did.

  "Alright then."

  "What shall you do?" Madame Guerier asked.

  "We stay here or take to the sh
ip," Havencourt said. "If we take to the ship, we will engage with someone."

  Clara clasped her hands together. "Engage as in naval battle?"

  "No one will want to risk their ships by using their guns. Well, maybe. It would be unconscionable to do so. Most likely, they will try to board, and we will fight. There will be a victor." He sat back and tapped the small silver spoon on the table as if he was considering how to proceed. "It is, after all, the purpose of this challenge. Taking a ship is a crucial skill. Perhaps even defending one."

  "How would our crew fare?"

  "There's no telling. As I mentioned, some of them are very experienced, others are not."

  "So we chase or wait."

  "Being the one boarded has its options. We are fighting on our turf, which allows certain tactics—defensive tactics." The lieutenant was obviously well-versed in these tactics.

  "Tell me."

  *

  Clara and Lieutenant Havencourt made it out to their ship without incident. She half expected someone to ambush them, but no one did. Only their ship was still in the harbor, which suggested the others had sailed out.

  They could just run, but that wouldn't bring the challenge closer to ending. They had agreed that they would engage. The question was who would come. If she was completely honest with herself, the question was if who would come, Christian, or someone else. She went back and forth on which she preferred. On one hand, she wanted to put off seeing him again, on the other, it was inevitable that they face each other.

  The wind was a little stronger today as they set sail, making their way out of the bay into open water. According to the lieutenant, the others would likely be along the coast of the island and they decided to sail south to have the advantage of not having the sun in their eyes. It was just a matter of waiting for someone to take them on.